2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 36

I couldn't linger in purple paradise because I had to take care of more important business.

I had to shop.

Not for myself though. Not for the sake of the Thai economy either. I had to shop for a present for grandma.

It's not that I like to leave everything to the last minute. It's just that I really have an aversion to shopping, compound that with the haggling and the math, shopping should be avoided like rush hour traffic. So I want to be extremely efficient with it. I want to zip through it like a zip-liner on a zip-line. I decided the most efficient and effective way to shop is to schedule all the shopping on one day – the day before I leave Bali.

On this momentous day, I arrived at the Ubud market bright and early, ready to do some damage (to my wallet), only to have the mind-blowing experience of discovering the eternally bustling market had – vanished; leaving behind a large open space, and un-erected blue tarps.

I grabbed hold of a pedestrian and demanded what's going on. He beamed at me, "Oh very big celebration. Very fun! Our New Years. Kind of like Christmas. Everyone go home to eat and drink with family. Not to worry. Market will open again tomorrow." Then he hurried along leaving me on the curb, in frozen stupor.

I watched the desolate empty space where the market ought to have been, as though watching my Perfect Plan dissolve into Mission Impossible like a puddle of melted ice castle. For 12 hours, I trekked up and down the fabulously named Monkey Forest Road and all its vicinity, scavenging for open shops like a starving orphan. In flip flops. Sweating rivers. When the hot sun turned into cold moonlight, my legs had also turned to mush. I had to hire "transport" – a guy on a motorbike – to take me home. Even though I was only ten minutes away, I couldn't walk any longer.

But the marathon did pay off. I bought shirts, shorts, scarves, dresses, woven bamboo tableware, Balinese beer shirts for my nephew, who's only one year old, adorable mini-crocheted dresses for my niece, funky beach shorts for my cousin and uncle, pretty things for Angela and my cousin's wife, but I'm most proud of the present I picked out for Aunt – a black and white silk dress that is as cool to wear in the summer as it is slimming to look at.

If you asked aunt, "What would you like to have as a present?" She'll probably say, "Don't get me anything, I don't need anything." But if you got her a present anyway, she'll be pleased.  Similarly, aunt's always harping about practicality, and I would have gotten her a rice cooker or salt and pepper shakers if I hadn't happened to notice one thing. I noticed that even though she'll never admit it, she cares about looking pretty. Like the brilliant pipa player who arrives with the instrument half-concealing her face, yet whose sentiments are revealed in just the first few plucks of string, aunt is shy about admitting to desire for beauty. It's particularly hard to admit when "Hard Work, Plain Living" is such a cherished ideal and deeply ingrained practice from the Cultural Revolution. But aunt cares about fashion and style. She will, for example, sport modern inventions such as – leggings. Which I'd never seen on my mother. This is why I got her a dress. I think she will like it. Secretly.

But finding a present for grandma was just not happening. Originally I had my eyes on a delightful elephant teaset of blue-green celadon. Elephants are symbols of Wisdom – represented in the form of Ganesh, one of the most popular gods in the Hindu religion's pantheon. But the pottery store was insensitively closed. So I kept looking. By the end of the evening, I still didn't find her anything. I had hoped the Bali airport might carry a lovely selection of gifts, but it's so small it's a miracle it even had a lounge. If I don't find anything here in Bangkok, I would have to go home empty handed. It's kind of ridiculous that I got presents for everyone, EXCEPT for grandma. While I comforted myself with the thought that it's ok if I don't bring her anything, she doesn't expect anything, my feet led me almost of their own accord to every store in the airport. At the end of the shopping tour, I'd practically given up any hope of finding a gift for grandma. I retraced my steps to look for a place to rest, but the very moment I stepped by a jewelry display, a sparkle caught my eye.

It was a small pendant of Jing Tai Lan, or "blue of the Jing Tai era". It's an ancient and complex technique for decorating jewelry and ceramics with enamel. Jing Tai emperor who ruled during the Ming Dynasty (in the 15th century), was very interested in bronze-casting techniques, and created the cobalt blue that appealed to the oriental aesthetic. Hence the name "Jing Tai Blue". Europeans call it Chinese cloisonné. The word cloison comes to us from the French, meaning, compartments. Craftsmen begin with forming a lattice design with ultra-fine gold wires, thinner than a strand of hair, and then filling the compartments with enamel glaze. The gold outlines remain visible in the finished pieces.

The pendant in the glass display case wasn't a brilliant blue. It had a metal core like a tiny puffed up pillow. Fine gold filigrees formed the delicate silhouette of petals, and filling each cloison was enamel glaze of pale pink. Together, the pink petals, rimmed in gold, took up the shape of a blossoming lotus.

At last, I had found grandma's gift.

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When I'd finally arrived home in midafternoon, pulling gifts out of the bag like Santa Clause, aunt and grandma buzzed around and examined each item with pleasured curiosity. Aunt gave me a fashion show of her new dress, complete with leggings. Grandma chided, fake stern, "You got gifts for everyone but yourself. You lived in China for two months and still don't have a decent dress. Go buy yourself a nice dress."

Angela came by to take me shopping (I now have to shop for people in Canada). Ever since she came to grandma's 90th birthday banquet, bearing a large bouquet of red roses and two LIVE golden turtles – auspicious symbols of longevity, my family has been smitten with her. They love everything about her: the way she looks, the way she speaks, the way she carries herself, the ingenuity of the golden turtles. To my family, she's the charming pixie, and I'm the crude exhibitionist.

I didn't mind it though. I was so proud of her as though her social success were my own. I liked showing her off to the family. I think of her as my conjoined twin. When people say she's wonderful, they are saying I'm wonderful. And hence some kind redeeming feature for my lack of etiquette and common sense.

We invited her in for tea and conversation between her and grandma and aunt flowed as naturally as the breeze. All I had to do was sit back and admire her ease with people; free to enjoy the lilting sound of chatter.     

When Angela stepped into the loo, aunt gushed to grandma, "She's so quick on her feet. Such a sweet and smart little girl!" Just as grandma and I both were nodding enthusiastically, aunt added, "How come you're so slow when you talk? Like you're always half a beat behind?"

A silence followed. As we all held our breath and considered that comment for a second.

Then I blinked, dumbly.

Am I slow? I'm slow? It had never occurred to me the pace of my speech is slow. Is she suggesting I'm slow, in that way? As in, she's insulting my intelligence?! I didn't know what to say. All I could think was, wow I'm really slow at coming up with an answer...

Thankfully, grandma was thinking faster than I was. "She's lived in Canada all these years, of course she's not going to be as fast as Angela. Angela grew up in China. You can't compare them."

Aunt looked at grandma suspiciously, unconvinced as to my right for slow speech.

I sighed. Even with the silk dress and the dish washing, aunt cannot be bribed.

Later in the car, I recounted the incident to Angela with frustrated gestures. She smiled and said to me, "Inside everyone's heart, there's a ruler, against which you will be measured. Every ruler is different. Most rulers don't matter."