It all started when my Grandma was cremated. Her ashes came home in an ornate red urn that Father placed on the living room coffee table, and my Grandpa began to speak to her. “Wife, what will happen to our ashes when I die?” Grandpa murmured, staring at the silent urn. “Who will care for our spirits? Andrew or Benny or Carol?”
My mother caught me staring and told me to give Grandpa his privacy. But eight-year-old me had never seen anyone talk to ghosts before, and it fascinated me to no end. Later on, I asked Father about it.
“Old people like Grandpa can see into the spirit realm,” said Father. “They can speak to the spirits and hear their replies, because they are about to join them soon.”
In hindsight, I can see why Grandma came up with this idea. She used to tell stories about her life in China before she and Grandpa escaped to Malaysia, and I watched her struggle to recall names of relatives whom I would never know.
On the Chinese New Year after her death, Grandpa called a family meeting in the living room. I perched on the old sofa and looked around.
Father, Mother, and my elder sister Eunice were there. Auntie Carol sat on the piano seat with her husband Leo. Cousin Jaclyn was dozing in her lap, only three years old. The twins—babies then—were sleeping in their cot. Seated on the sofa were Uncle Benny and his wife Sheryl. They had no children yet; their son Daniel would be born a year later.
“Pa?” said Father. “Did you want to tell us something?”
“Yes, yes,” said Grandpa, shaking his head. “Your Ma was talking to me. Hold on, I’m telling them!” he snapped at the air.
I enjoyed the look on Auntie Carol and Uncle Benny’s faces. Apparently, they too had limited experience watching old men speak to ghosts.
“When I die, one of you has to keep this urn,” said Grandpa. “You must make sure your children keep it too, and their children after them. It’s very important.”
“Why?” said Father.
“Your Ma is in the spirit world now, and she tells me that spirits vanish from this world if their ashes are scattered or if people forget them.” In between sentences, Grandpa seemed to be listening to someone speaking in his ear. “Nowadays, people no longer remember their ancestors. Your Ma doesn’t want to disappear, so she’s willing to do anything to remain alive in memory.”
Uncle Benny shrugged. “So... does she want a family tree, or a photo album?”
“Your Ma has a better idea,” said Grandpa.
Everyone listened.
“She wants to make herself useful in the spiritual realm!” said Grandpa. “Ancestral spirits—like your Ma now—can help a household to drive away demons and welcome friendly spirits like the Prosperity God, but they can only protect the house they live in. Your Ma will protect the house of whoever keeps her ashes.”
Everyone stared.
“I’ve never heard of that myth,” said Auntie Carol. “It isn’t literal, is it?”
Father stepped in. “Pa, you can’t talk nonsense. Are you sure—”
Grandpa held up a hand, staring off into space, listening.
“Your Ma says let Carol keep the urn for a year. See how often you find things that you lose, and how seldom your children get sick, and how much fortune comes to you. Try and see.”
Uncle Benny burst out laughing at the expression on Auntie Carol’s face.
“Humour him!” he said. “Best case scenario, it’ll actually work, and then I’ll like to have my turn as well. Worst case scenario, we let Andrew put it back on the coffee table!”
Father shook his head and sighed. But I was thoroughly fascinated, and I kept hounding my parents for news until long after Auntie Carol had taken the urn back to Johor.
“How’s the urn? Is there any news?”
Father grunted and always said no. But one day her phone call came while we were eating dinner. Father accidentally pressed speakerphone, and Auntie Carol’s high-pitched voice blasted through.
“Gor, I’m not kidding, it’s wonderf—”
Father switched off speakerphone and stormed upstairs, whispering into the phone.
I looked at Mother. “That’s news, right?”
Mother shrugged. “Carol sometimes gets too excited.”
Excitement can only last so long. True supernatural spiritual protection, however, could last three years without showing signs of stopping. In that time, Cousin Jaclyn’s asthma improved greatly, the house kept itself clean, lost things were instantly found, the sickly twins never fell sick, and when Uncle Leo fell in the shower, he miraculously avoided getting injured, and cockroaches abandoned the house, and the termite problem resolved itself, and—and—
When I was twelve, we had the same meeting again in Grandpa’s house, on the third night of Chinese New Year. Now the red urn contained both of my grandparents’ ashes, and now all three siblings staked their claim on it.
“Carol had it for long enough,” said Uncle Benny. “It’s my turn now.”
“You won’t like it,” said Auntie Carol with a gleam in her eye. “It’s hard work putting out offerings for Ma. She likes a fruit every month, and she likes the smell of joss sticks. If you don’t put them out, she gets pouty and won’t help.”
“How do you know all that? How does she even eat the fruit?”
“Why should I tell you? You won’t believe me!”
Uncle Benny wasn’t deterred. “My turn to take Ma and Pa’s ashes home. You can have it back in three years’ time.”
“What about me?” demanded Father. “I’m the only one here in Selangor. I took care of Pa and Ma until their passing. I deserve to have the urn!”
Mother, Auntie Sheryl, and Uncle Leo played with the children in the kitchen while the three siblings argued. Auntie Carol’s twin boys and Daniel were learning hide-and-seek, Cousin Jaclyn was searching for snacks and Eunice was on her phone texting some guy. I snuck out and watched the drama from the staircase.
“Three years each,” said Uncle Benny. “Then it’s fair.”
“Alright,” said Father. “I’ll take first.”
“The hell you will!”
“Don’t argue, you’ll have your turn.”
“You’ll have your turn!”
It was Chinese New Year, the season for gambling.
“One game of Chor Dai Di,” said Father. “Winner takes it.”
“For one year only,” countered Uncle Benny quickly. “If you want it again, you’ll have to play for it next year.”
“Are you seriously playing cards for Pa and Ma’s ashes?” cried Auntie Carol. “Then I want to play too!”
“Deal!” said Father. “Eugene, bring the poker cards!”
I jumped up. This was too good to miss.
It was a fast game. Father was a great player, and he had exceptionally good cards—an ace and two twos, including the two of spades. He slapped down his last card with a giant mocking grin, and Uncle Benny threw down his hand reluctantly.
“Next year, Gor,” he said. “Next year.”
“I’ll be waiting,” said Father, still grinning.
Whatever doubt we might have had about Grandma’s supernatural help was dispelled over the next twelve months. The rat that we had been trying to trap for years was caught in March. Dust disappeared overnight, and Mother was so grateful that she left a little extra fruit for Grandma. I don’t know if Grandpa was helping with the housework, but he didn’t complain through the medium. The medium shook his head after conducting his ritual.
“I have to say, the fengshui must be very good here,” he said. “The spirits seem to be very happy and contented.”
In September, Eunice swore up and down that she heard Grandpa talking in her dream. She found the spot where the tree branch behind our house was ready to break, and Father cut it down. We lighted joss sticks and thanked Grandpa. And Father called Uncle Benny and Auntie Carol to brag about it.
When the next year arrived, Uncle Benny had one objection.
“No Chor Dai Di! I get to choose the game this time!”
“You’ll just choose a game you’re good at!” protested Auntie Carol.
“Precisely!”
Auntie Sheryl solved it for us. “After today, choose a game for next year,” she said. “Then you can practice until next year if you want. Write down a bunch of games and draw one for the next year, so it’s fair.”
Uncle Benny chose carrom, a game that he was certain to win with his strong and accurate fingers. Father brought out the old board while grumbling that Benny should just take the urn and spare them the shame of being soundly defeated. Indeed, Uncle Benny brought home the urn that year. A cobra entered their Sabah house in June, and Grandpa woke Auntie Sheryl up in a dream that sent her running downstairs in time to ward the snake away from Daniel’s bedroom.
“Good for them,” said Father when we received the news. “And here we are, with a new roof leak that we can’t find. I’ve got to win next year. Chess is the game.”
All three were bad at chess, so there didn’t seem to be a clear advantage. But when the next year rolled around, it was Auntie Carol who wore a big grin.
“Jaclyn will play for me.”
“That’s not how it works!” cried Uncle Benny.
“She lives in my house, and Pa and Ma are her ancestors too. She has every right to represent us.”
It turned out that Jaclyn had joined her school’s chess club and learned a few nifty tricks. Those tricks were enough to beat Uncle Benny and Father flat, leaving the two men muttering about losing to an eight-year-old. Of course, Jaclyn turned out to be a genius and went on to win state level competitions in later years, which led to the debate about restricting her participation in the Generation Game Night—which was what we had begun to call it.
Father was ecstatic when Chor Dai Di was drawn for the next year, but he ended up losing to Uncle Benny. But he wouldn’t back down so easily.
“Let’s change it,” he said. “Each household is allowed two players. Knockout system.”
And so when I was sixteen years old, I played Chinese chess against Uncle Benny and Auntie Carol and beat them both. I ultimately lost to that infuriating genius Jaclyn, who had achieved mastery over both types of chess. Father consoled me and together we vowed to win back that urn.
“Sometimes I fear you’re all getting too invested,” said Mother, laughing.
Uncle Benny, Auntie Carol and Father insisted that the rivalry was necessary. Later that night the three of them stayed up past midnight, drinking beer on the porch and talking about old times. I still recall those memories fondly, sitting and listening to them. I would enjoy reminiscing with my sister Eunice decades later in the same manner.
As Uncle Leo herded his three kids to bed that night, he stopped in his tracks.
“Is that—”
“What?” I said, glancing around the empty living room.
“No, nothing,” said Uncle Leo, his eyes following something across the room.
Six months later, we got a call. Uncle Leo had passed away in a car accident. We drove to Johor for the funeral, and Uncle Benny flew over from Sabah. He didn’t say anything, but as we were leaving, I noticed the red urn tucked away under one of her curtains. I pointed it out to Father, who told me to keep it hush.
“Family looks out for one another,” he said. “When hardships come, it’s time to put away all rivalry.”
We didn’t play the game for the next two years.
When I was nineteen, Auntie Carol brought the red urn back and placed it on the coffee table. Everyone stared at her.
“Thanks for everything,” Auntie Carol said. “What’s the game this year?”
Eunice reached into the lottery box. “Chess,” she read.
So Jaclyn won it back for one more year.
I could go on and on, telling you what happened year after year, as all of us grew up and had families of our own. When Eunice married and moved out, she demanded a place in the game. She was especially good at Monopoly, but the game took so long that we removed it from the games list after one try.
“That’s not fair!” cried Eunice.
“You made us play for four hours,” said Uncle Benny, whose beard was starting to show tinges of grey. “The rules need revamping now and again.”
Father snorted. “Yeah, you’d only agree if it’s in your favour!” He ducked a cushion thrown by Uncle Benny.
One time, a few years later, I was in the midst of an Old Maid game with Eunice to win the red urn when I looked over to the next table and saw Jaclyn was battling her twin brothers Jonathan and Jansen for Uncle Leo’s emerald-green urn. I heard that Uncle Leo had managed to become a good friend of the Prosperity God or something—Auntie Carol struck gold in her business and made a good profit.
Father noticed me watching. “Keep your eyes on your cards!” He lowered his voice. “Someday you’ll be doing that too. Best get used to it.”
I nodded.
When the time came, I placed Father’s bright blue urn next to Mother’s purple one. I had my own home in Perak and a beautiful wife and kids of my own. I sold the Klang house, and Uncle Benny and Auntie Sheryl quietly insisted that I have the red urn for one year. That’s what my family does—we look out for one another, even from the afterlife.
Of course, when fireworks and lion dances came again, I brought out both urns, placed them on the table and glared at Eunice over the backgammon board.
“It is on,” I said.
“Bring it,” growled Eunice. “Mother would love to live with me.”
That year I lost, but the following year I won Mother, Father, and the red urn, because I was by far the best in the family at mahjong. That was a lucky year. I never forgot to leave fruits, offerings, joss sticks and whatever else my ancestors wanted. Every time the medium came, he shook his head and commented on the healthy spiritual environment.
“Must be good fengshui,” he said.
One time, Eunice’s nineteen-year-old daughter beat me at checkers. Turned out that she had been going for classes, so I started learning Chinese chess tips from one of my old school friends. There was no Cousin Jaclyn competing for my parents’ urns, so my hard work paid off and I defeated my niece honourably in the next round. But I still lost Father’s urn to my eldest son that year—I think he was twenty-five or twenty-six then. He must have been secretly taking classes too.
Years came and went, and many weddings and funerals. Game after game after game—and lucky house after lucky house enjoyed the blessings of ancestors. My first grandchild could recite all their names by age six.
“Ho Lian Fook is Great-great-grandpa! Tan Siew Choon is Great-great-grandma! Andrew Ho Chen Wei is Great-grandpa! Annie Lim Shu Xian is Great-grandma!”
“And why are they relevant?” I prompted.
“Great-great-grandpa was a plumber, so he checks the house for leaks! Great-grandpa was an accountant, so he attracts money spirits! Great-grandma—”
And I would listen, and nod, and remind them.
“We’ll win them back this year, alright? Then we can see their beautiful urns, with their nice photo albums, and we can remember that they are always watching out for us, okay? Now, let’s play some chess. Your Grand-aunt Jaclyn is getting old, you may stand a chance to beat her.”
I was competitive, I admit. But so was Eunice, and her children, and mine, and the rest of the family. More and more people meant more players fighting for the red urn and every other urn that came along. Year after year, I played hard, congratulated the winners and sat looking at the blue and purple urns in meditative silence.
And now, I sit in my wheelchair on the stage and wait.
Before me are scores of people from all ages, here to celebrate the third night of Chinese New Year. I see my children and my grandchildren and great-grandchildren mixing together with the descendants of my sister Eunice and Jaclyn and the twins and Daniel. I am 102 years old, and I am the last of my generation.
The hall is filled with tables set for a wide range of board and card games. The Chor Dai Di and mahjong tables are clearly meant for the elders—the youngsters have steadily moved away from the “past generation” games, preferring their new-fangled holographic card games that I don’t understand. Someone has set up a whiteboard in the corner for tallying marks.
Eunice’s balding son pushes my wheelchair to the podium.
I see the bell. I see all the living who are gathered, and then I look closer.
Grandpa and Grandma are there, smiling, holding hands. Father and Mother, Uncle Benny and Auntie Sheryl, Auntie Carol and Uncle Leo, my sister Eunice and her husband and Jaclyn and the twins and Daniel and their spouses are flitting around the hall, talking, laughing, arguing about who will win the giant Uno and Blackjack competitions, or who is better at fighting off malevolent spirits or entertaining the wandering prosperity spirits.
“It’s 8pm, Uncle. We can start now.” Everyone is waiting for me.
I take one last look beside me on the stage. Lined up in a row are urns of every colour, shape, and size, each one labelled and decorated beautifully to last through the ages. I smile, reach out my shaky hand to the bell, and declare in my loudest voice:
“Let the Generation Game Night—BEGIN!”