A Different Sky by Meira Chand Page A

cloud of black smoke billowed out like fire from a belching dragon. Mr Ho’s nose twitched, he opened his eyes and groaned. Seeing that all momentum was gone, the two main agitators, professional men sent to work up the crowd, disappeared as innocuously as they had come. At their departure Mr Ho’s employees carried him out of the shed and back into the house.
    He was placed upon a rattan couch and cushions were stacked behind him. A servant brought water and first aid, and Mrs Ho bandaged her husband’s head with enough wadding to make a turban. Yoshiko poured jasmine tea into a tall mug and Mr Ho was persuaded to take a sip. Slowly, he revived and turned to Raj who sat nervously on the edge of a chair.
    â€˜My son Luke went to Ipoh yesterday. If he had been here he would have stood up to those ruffians. It is a sign of the times we now live in that such a thing could happen. I came to this place on the deck of a ship, just like my workers. In my village in China I tilled the land with my father, just as they did. At ten I left school to help my illiterate parents. I became a hawker selling vegetables my father grew and the oysters and crabs I collected each day.’ Mr Ho’s eyes grew moist and Mrs Ho begged him to put a stop to remembering.
    Yoshiko refilled the cups and offered Raj a plate of Ho biscuits. As she stood before him he caught her light flowery scent again and glanced up into her face. She nodded her head and gave a slight smile; he looked away quickly, disturbed by the fullness of her lips. Staring down at the assortment of crisply baked shapes, he chose one with a bright red centre. As he picked it up he remembered a packet of similar biscuits his father had bought from a salesman who came to his stall on the road into Naganagar, near Raj’s village in India. The stall sold rice and wheat, betel nut and gram, chillies, sherbet powder, nails andsoap, tin buckets, brooms and sugar; everyday things needed in the village. His father had done some favour for the salesman and in return was given the biscuits. The packet was wrapped in pink waxy paper and the biscuits inside were encrusted with ants. Raj and his sister Leila had brushed the insects from the pastry, savouring the sweet taste, chewing slowly. He saw again the crumbs about his sister’s lips and the red stain of the jam on her tongue.
    â€˜Everyone has come to this place with hope in his heart.’ Mr Ho sighed and sipped his tea.
    â€˜I too came here to Singapore on the deck of a ship, sun on my head all day. I was twelve years old,’ Raj remembered.
    â€˜We dreamed of a better place and followed that dream, and many have found it,’ Mr Ho nodded agreement.
    â€˜But you are such an educated man, a rich man.’ Raj was surprised when Mr Ho shook his head.
    â€˜When I arrived here I found a job in a biscuit factory. That is how I came to know about biscuits. One day I got into a fight and was left for dead. An English missionary, Reverend Luke Bartholomew, found me and nursed me back to health. He was a great man and took a liking to me and paid for me to go to a mission school here in Singapore. I studied hard and passed all the exams, and I converted also to Christianity for it was this faith that changed my life. Reverend Bartholomew gave me the name of Joseph when I was baptised. He persuaded his mission to send me to England for further study. I stayed there three years and learned many things.’ Mr Ho leaned back against the cushions, exhausted.
    â€˜He needs to sleep now,’ Mrs Ho said; she bustled forward, impatient for Raj to be gone.
    â€˜Come back and see me again. You are a good boy,’ Mr Ho mumbled sleepily as Raj stood up.
    His thirst quenched, Raj placed the tall metal glass on the counter in Manikam’s shop and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. In his mind the smell of burning biscuits lingered as he puzzled over Mr Ho and the many events of the afternoon. That