Page 57 - 2021 English Magazine - Final

one or the other until finally, someone found him dead in a hotel room.

Here, the old woman stopped for breath, and one of the children spoke again. “Why did he die?” The old
woman looked at the boy with fathomless, depthless eyes. “That is up to you. Perhaps he crossed the wrong
written by Natalie Chan Jia Yiing
people. Perhaps he owed money to bad people. Now, be quiet and listen.”

The children sat around the fire, waiting for the old woman to come. Every night, she would sit, gazing into the
fire with unseeing eyes as she spun story after story effortlessly. The children had no homes, no mothers to “And there was a girl. She was a good girl, an obedient child - more than a parent could ever wish for. She
turn to; and so, they clung onto the one piece of childhood they could all remember: stories. The old woman wanted nothing more than to please them; to make them happy, and so she worked and studied day and
hobbled over and knelt before the fire, her gnarled hands folded neatly in her lap. Opening her mouth with night, blinking blearily at her textbooks as she aced test after test. Her teachers praised her and raved about
a raspy breath, she began. her, telling her that if she kept it up, she could do anything; be anything she wanted to be.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. “But the girl didn’t know much. She went on studying, getting her degrees, then working job after job, typing
They both lived in contentment, and they had ev- aimlessly on a keyboard or reporting endlessly during meetings. She worked and worked, until one day, her
erything they needed. They were not alike - two parents brought her to see a doctor. ‘Catatonic,’ he said, frowning at her as she looked at him tiredly. Finally,
entirely different beings, but funnily enough, their one of her co-workers found her dead at her desk. She was buried near her childhood home, and no one knew
stories ended in the same way.” what happened to her parents - they simply disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the faint memories of
“Do they get married and fall in love, grandma- the villagers and the now-empty house that they once resided in.”
ma?” One of the children asked, raising her eyes to
look at the old woman. The old woman chuckled.
“No, child. This is not a foolish, idealistic love sto- A few of the children looked horri-
ry. Now listen.” fied, for they knew the power of sto-
ries, having grown up on them. “All the
“The boy knew exactly what he wanted: to be

rich. He wanted to be one of those millionaires stories are true,” said the old woman,
on Santa Fe, drinking and gambling and enjoying scrutinising them from under her wire-
the rest of his life in opulence. Some might call it rimmed glasses. One of the older chil-
hedonism, but to him, it was simply a quest for dren raised a timid hand. “Grandma-
ma, what’s the point of the story, then?
comfort and contentment. He was not all bad, ei-
ther, for he wanted to be a philanthropist; to be They both die, and their dreams never
something good in a world of evil. come true.”
“He told anyone who would listen: I want to be The old woman looked down at her
rich. He would murmur it to himself all the time, hands, then at the campfire as she
spoke. “It warns us about the perils of
and soon, it became his own mantra; his own war
chant. He imagined himself basking in the warm ambition without diligence, and the
afternoon sun on the terrace of his mansion with danger of being diligent without pos-
countless servants at his beck and call. ‘I want to sessing any ambition. A man may have
be rich,’he whispered, as he greedily collected red ambition, but if he does not work
packets during Chinese New Year, taking not just towards it, he will never move forward. As a wise man once said, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget

to live.”The old woman stood, leaning heavily on a cane that one of the children brought her. “At the same
his own but his younger brothers’ and sisters’ share too. ”I want to be rich,’ he murmured as he went to bed, time, a man may know how to work hard, but without ambition; without purpose, he will simply work himself
counting the stack of money over and over before tucking it under his pillow. ‘I want to be rich,’ he mumbled, to death. A life without purpose is not a life worth living. Bear that in mind, children, when you leave this place
as he spent his days in casinos and clubs spending his money, thinking that he would eventually earn back and go forth into the world.” She blinked wearily at them. “Remember that.”
everything that was rightfully his. ‘I want to be rich,’ he murmured as he played game after game,
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