MY aunt, Teh Hui Yong – my late father’s elder sister – turns 75 this year. In the 1990s, we lived in the same neighbourhood. As a child, I always saw her as a joyful woman, smiling warmly whenever we met. Her home was my refuge whenever I was caned by my mother.
Only when I grew older did I begin to understand the hardship behind her smile.
Born into poverty, she married young and became a mother of six. Her husband was largely absent in his responsibilities, and she struggled alone to raise her children.
In 1987, at the age of 37, she secured a canteen business at a Chinese primary school in Sungai Besar, Selangor. Living in nearby Sabak Bernam, she moved into the school hostel with her youngest son, then four years old.
With only a bicycle, she made daily trips to the wet market to buy bananas for her fried banana stall. Her son would perch on the crossbar as she balanced bunches of bananas on the pillion seat and handlebars.
At night, she would count her modest earnings on an old lounge chair while gently cradling her son to sleep.
Two years later, she stopped her canteen business in Sungai Besar because her son had to start kindergarten, and she returned to Sabak Bernam, where she rented a stall selling asam laksa and pisang goreng. Not long after, she won another school canteen tender in town, which she managed for nine years with hired help and support from her children.
Her quiet resilience and love remain an inspiration to me.
In the school canteen, my aunt sold a variety of food – curry noodles, laksa, mee jawa, lor mee, plain soup noodles (one type per day), nasi lemak, chicken rice, and fried bee hoon. She also offered sweets, snacks, drinks, and fritters like fried bananas, sweet potatoes, and cucur udang. The students had ample choices, but the preparation behind the scenes was tough.
To support the government’s Bantuan (assistance) scheme, she prepared free breakfasts for selected students, with a different menu daily. Roti canai was compulsory at least once a week, which she bought from a stall. Though she had no motorbike licence, she risked riding one to collect them early – saving on delivery and ensuring everything was ready by recess.
On Sundays, she’d prep ingredients at the canteen. One afternoon, after packing lunch in tiffin carriers for her children, she cycled home through a narrow alley with them. Suddenly, she felt a strike on her back – her bicycle halted abruptly. A chill ran through her. Wrapped around the back wheel was a long albino Burmese python. She and her children retreated as it freed itself and slithered away.
Running the canteen marked a turning point. She earned enough to meet her children’s needs, though they were considerate and rarely demanding. Every Chinese New Year, she took a bus to Teluk Intan to buy them new clothes.
Her life was full of ups and downs, but she took them on the chin and weathered every storm. Today, she lives peacefully in retirement with her grown-up children in Singapore – a life well earned.
I am happy to see her current state and until today, I still love listening to her stories – the stories of her hardship that she has been telling with a grin.
