SS Quah's Anything Goes: Chinese festival

Showing posts with label Chinese festival. Show all posts

Tuesday, 7 April 2026

A time of remembrance

Cheng Beng (清明) is over for us this year. We finished it last week, spread over two visits. The first was on Monday at Sungai Lembu on the mainland, the second on Friday on the island. The mainland trip was for my father-in-law, who died four years ago. That Nirvana site, I must say, is very well kept. Clean, orderly, almost too neat in a way. There were attendants arranging tables, making sure everything was in place. Very convenient.

A few days later we went to the older graves, my two sets of grandparents at Batu Lanchang and Wat Pimbang On. These are out in the open, exposed to sun and rain, so timing mattered a lot. There was a time we used to leave at six in the morning, reaching Batu Lanchang around 6.45am, the cemetery cloaked in darkness but other people were already out and about to perform their own Cheng Beng obligations. In the past decade we eased that a bit, leaving at 6.30am and arriving around 7.15am, just as the sun nudged above the trees. This year we went even later. Left the house at seven, got there about 7.45am. The morning helped us out: a bit overcast, so the heat didn’t come down too hard.

From Batu Lanchang we crossed over to Wat Pimbang On, a Siamese cemetery that looked more chaotic and less organised. Somehow, I felt that many people have already abandoned the place. Untidy and unkempt with overgrown grass, vegetation all around. Even under the canopy of trees, we could feel the day catching up with us. The sun's rays were cutting through the humidity. After that, our final stop was the Triple Wisdom Temple, where we paid respects to the memorial tablets of my parents and aunt. A quieter ending, it was indoors but no less meaningful.

I remember as a child in the late 1950s or early 1960s, when we were still living at Seang Tek Road, Cheng Beng meant booking a trishaw pedlar from down the road to take my grandmother, my mother and me to the Batu Gantong cemetery. At six o’clock sharp, the trishaw would arrive and wait for us. Then came the slow, unhurried ride through York Road and Batu Gantong Road. Along the way we passed huge angsana trees, their small yellow flowers falling constantly around us and carpeting the road. After all these years, I can still remember the cool morning breeze and that feeling of calm and serenity.

Every year going through this Cheng Beng process, I find myself thinking about the alternate name people like to use, Tomb-Sweeping Day. It’s not wrong, but it never quite right either. Yes, we clear the lallang, clean the headstones and tidy up the place. That part is visible and easy to describe. But there's more to Cheng Beng because the sweeping is only incidental. It’s just something that needs to be done before anything else can happen. To call the whole day by that one act feels like missing the point. It turns something that has taken shape over centuries into a simple task, almost like a chore to be checked off.

Cheng Beng itself means “clear and bright”. It began as a marker in the yearly Chinese lunisolar cycle. As far back as the Zhōu Dynasty 周朝 (1046–256 BC), people were already observing the seasons through solar terms, paying attention to the small changes in light, air, growth and renewal. Cheng Beng marked the time when the sky cleared, the air sharpened and the earth began to stir again after the stillness of winter. It wasn’t a festival in the beginning, just a moment in nature.

But alongside that, there was always this deep-rooted practice of remembering those who came before. In the Zhōu world, burial grounds were under official care. Remembering wasn’t optional, it was part of maintaining continuity. By the Warring States period 戰國時代 (475–221 BC), these practices had been adopted by ordinary families. People began visiting graves, bringing offerings, acknowledging that their lives were part of something longer, something that didn’t begin or end with them. By the time of the Táng Dynasty 唐朝 (618–907 AD), with Confucian values firmly in place, filial piety became something the state actively encouraged. Cheng Beng became the natural time for these acts of remembrance.

So when we reduce it to “tomb sweeping”, something feels out of place. The clearing of grass and the washing of stone are just preparations. What's more important are the quieter moments that come after. The offer of food and fruits, the lighting of the joss sticks, calling the names of the forefathers, standing there for a while without saying much but having a quiet conversation with them in the mind, then the burning of paper offerings before leaving. Every time, it feels like we are continuing a process that has always been there.

There’s no festivity in it, and I don’t think there is meant to be. Just a kind of stillness, even when the sun is already up and the day is getting warm. Families gathering, not out of obligation alone but because something in the rhythm of the year brings them back. And in that space, between the living and the remembered, the connection doesn’t feel distant at all.

Sunday, 29 March 2026

Cataract routine

It’s been almost two weeks since the cataract operation on my left eye. I’ve already gone back twice for follow-up sessions with the surgeon and, according to him, everything is progressing well. So far, I haven’t experienced any of the warning signs he mentioned earlier, no pain, no discharge, nothing out of the ordinary, so that in itself is already something to be thankful for. There’s one more follow-up scheduled towards the end of next month, just to make sure everything continues on track.

So how do I feel with this artificial lens sitting inside the eye? From the very first day, the difference was quite striking. Vision suddenly became very bright and very clear. Almost too clear, if that makes sense. The best way I can describe it is with the Penang Hokkien expression, Cheng Beng. It's the same term used for this time of the year when we Chinese make our way to the cemeteries to spring clean the graves of our ancestors and especially, to remember and fulfil our duties to those that came before us. Cheng and Beng, clear and bright. That same sense of clarity in the air, as if everything has been washed clean. That’s exactly how things look now. Colours appear more vivid, whites look whiter and there’s a certain crispness to everything that I don’t remember having for quite some time.

But of course, it’s not all perfectly balanced yet. The left eye is now long-sighted, while the right eye is still short-sighted. So when I look at something, the left eye sees it sharp and clear, while the right eye comes in slightly behind, blurred and struggling to catch up. It’s a strange sensation, like the two eyes are not quite in agreement with each other. At times I find myself unconsciously favouring the left eye, letting it take the lead.

I suppose this is part of the adjustment period. The brain probably needs time to sort things out and decide how to combine the two different images into something workable. For now, I just carry on as usual, reading, moving about, letting the eyes and the mind slowly get used to this new arrangement. How long that will take, I really don’t know. But at least for now, things are heading in the right direction, and that’s good enough for me.

Of course, there are all the little routines that now come with it. Whenever I’m outdoors in the daytime, I have to wear sunglasses. “Protect your eyes from the ultraviolet light,” the surgeon warned. For how long, I asked. “As long as necessary,” he said. I suppose that means quite indefinitely.

At night, I have to put on an eye shield before going to bed. It’s quite a ritual, sticking it on with surgical tape. For afternoon naps, it’s much simpler, just the sunglasses will do. Both are really there to stop me from accidentally touching or rubbing the eye when I’m not fully aware of what I’m doing.

Then there are the eye drops. Three different types, several times a day. And this, not counting my glaucoma eyedrops too! By now I’ve more or less settled into the routine. Life goes on. I’ve even resumed driving, although with the difference in vision between the two eyes, I do have to be more careful and alert. Night driving I’ve not attempted yet, leaving that to my wife for the time being.

On the hygiene side, showering is not a problem, although I’ve avoided shampooing my hair these past two weeks. Instead, I give the scalp a good wipe with a damp cloth. Surprisingly refreshing. The eyelid too gets a daily clean with damp cotton puffs, just to remove any accumulated dirt. But that’s as far as I go when it comes to getting water near the eye.

As for food, the surgeon more or less dismissed any need for restrictions. But my wife, after listening to various well-meaning friends, has taken a different view. So for now, anything involving prawns, shrimp, hehbee or belachan is off the menu. Pantang for three weeks, she decided. Thus, no Hokkien mee, no char koay teow. She is the "She Who Must Be Obeyed", as the character Rumpole in Rumpole of the Bailey would say of his wife. Woe is me.

As a postscript, perhaps I should say that inevitably, in the longer term, I shall need another operation on the right eye to balance up my vision. That is something for another day. For now, I’ll just let things settle and take it as it comes.

#chengbeng

Thursday, 19 March 2026

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 3

Reading back over what I wrote in Part 1 and Part 2, I realise that I’ve been mentioning all these Nyonya koay rather casually, as though everyone would know what they are. In Penang half a century ago, that might well have been the case. In those days the names were simply part of everyday kitchen talk, especially around Chinese New Year when trays of koay would appear one after another from the steamer or oven.

A typical array of Penang Nyonya koay available commercially today:
(outer ring) serimuka, koay bengkar ubikayu, koay lapeh;
(middle ring) koay bengkar, koay tatai; (inner ring) koay talam

A household like my maternal grandmother’s could easily produce 15 or 20 varieties over several days. Some were meant for the altar, some for visiting relatives and friends, and some simply for the family to enjoy between meals.

Today, a number of these koay can still be found in Penang, though more often at market stalls or specialty shops rather than in home kitchens. Others have quietly slipped out of common memory. So for the benefit of younger readers and perhaps to refresh the memories of older ones, here is a short glossary of the koay I have mentioned, and more!

Note: Traditionalists like the Malacca peranakans will insist on using gula malacca when the recipe calls for it but the more pragmatic Penang Nyonyas generally substitute it with brown sugar.

Glossary

Huat Koay – Small steamed rice cakes that crack at the top when cooked. The split crown is taken as a sign of prosperity and good fortune.

Tnee Koay – Sticky brown Chinese New Year cake made from glutinous rice flour and brown sugar. Traditionally steamed for hours, sometimes overnight. Will gradually harden over weeks if left untouched. To be enjoyed, the hardened tnee koay is sliced thinly and either steamed and coated with freshly grated coconut, or fried with egg and batter.

Ang Koo – Red tortoise-shaped glutinous rice cake filled with sweet mung bean paste. The tortoise symbolises longevity, although there can be other shapes as well, notably the Chinese gold bar and the peach.

Koay Kochnee – Banana-leaf parcels of glutinous rice dough filled with sweet grated coconut cooked in brown sugar, then steamed until fragrant.

Koay Kochnee Santan – A variation of the koay kochnee where each banana-leaf parcel is steamed with coconut milk that sets into a soft, jelly-like santan coating around the dumpling.

Koay Bengkah – A baked cake of rice flour and coconut, often coloured purple with the bunga telang or yam, with a lightly caramelised golden top. Usually cut into squares or diamonds.

Koay Bengkah Ubikayu – A separate cassava-based version made from grated tapioca (ubi kayu) mixed with santan and sugar, baked until the surface turns golden and the interior remains moist and slightly fibrous.

Koay Talam – Two-layered steamed kueh consisting of a pandan-flavoured base and a soft coconut custard top.

Pulot Tatai – Blue-coloured glutinous rice tinted with the bunga telang and steamed with coconut milk, then pressed into diamond shapes. Often eaten with kaya.

Serimuka – A glutinous rice base topped with a thick pandan custard layer, steamed carefully so the two layers remain distinct.

Koay Lapeh – Nine-layered steamed cake, alternating pink and white layers with a top layer of red, where each layer is added and steamed in succession. Children like to peel the layers apart before eating.

Koay Kosui – Small brown sugar steamed cakes with a soft, slightly springy texture, typically topped with freshly grated coconut.

Pulot Enti – Small banana-leaf parcels of steamed glutinous rice topped with grated coconut cooked in brown sugar.

Koay Tayap – Thin green pandan crepes folded around grated coconut cooked with brown sugar. Very rarely seen is the white crepe version filled with freshly grated coconut and white sugar.

Apong Bokkua – Soft fermented rice pancakes served with a syrup made from coconut milk and brown sugar. The Malays name this serabai or apom berkuah.

Onde-Onde – Small glutinous rice balls filled with brown sugar syrup and coated with grated coconut.

Koay Balu – Small sponge cakes baked in brass moulds over charcoal, crisp on the outside and soft inside.

Koay Ee – Small glutinous rice balls usually served in sweet ginger syrup. More commonly seen during the Tang Chek or Winter Solstice festival but still remembered in some festive kitchens.

Koay Bangkit – Light, airy coconut cookies made from tapioca flour and coconut milk, pressed into small moulds and baked until crumbly.

Koay Kapek – Chinese New Year love letters! Thin coconut wafers made by pouring a light batter onto a heated brass mould over charcoal, then folded or rolled quickly while still hot. The process requires two people working together, one baking and the other folding or rolling.

Pineapple Tarts – Short pastry filled with thick pineapple jam; the pineapple symbolises the arrival of prosperity.

Peanut Cookie – Crumbly cookies made from finely ground roasted peanuts, flour and sugar, brushed with egg glaze before baking. Sandy texture and strong peanut aroma, they are common in Penang homes.

Wednesday, 11 March 2026

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 2

When Part 1 ended, my maternal grandmother's kitchen had quietened down after the midnight steaming of tnee koay, the trays of huat koay and ang koo lined up, and I had been safely sent outside to avoid “spoiling” the delicate process. That was only the beginning. A full Penang Nyonya Chinese New Year table in the 1950s and 1960s was never just a few signature koay; it was a display of 15 to 20 varieties, some now almost forgotten.

Among them were pulot tatai, glutinous rice coloured by the clitoria flower, then steamed with coconut milk and cut into squares before eaten with kaya; serimuka, with a glutinous rice base and pandan custard top; and koay lapeh, the colourful dual-coloured, nine-layered steamed koay that children loved to peel apart layer by layer. The koay kosui, small steamed koay topped generously with grated coconut, was also common. Alongside them would be koay kochnee which was glutinous rice dumplings filled with sweet coconut and brown sugar, carefully wrapped in banana leaf before steaming so that the fragrance of the leaf infused the dough. Koay tayap, thin pandan crepes filled with grated coconut, would often make an appearance. Even apong bokkua or the onde-onde, small glutinous rice balls with molten brown sugar, might appear if there was time.

Preparing these required taboo rituals to be strictly observed. A child like me would always be sent outside the kitchen while the more delicate koay was steamed. A dropped utensil was considered a sign to pause and restart to avoid “offending” the koay; and in one instance, a steamer lid had to be lifted clockwise, never counter=clockwise, to encourage proper rising. No one knew precisely why, but the rules were fastidiously followed.

The koay for visitors often included pineapple tarts, peanut cookies, koay bangkit and small baked items like koay balu. These were sweet, delicate and required careful handling, especially with the coconut-based varieties, which could dry or curdle if steamed too long or stirred too roughly.

By the end of the preparation, trays would cover every flat surface in the kitchen and hallway. The aromas of pandan, coconut, sugar and toasted flour mixed into a festive perfume. Only then would my grandmother allow herself a small rest, knowing that the household was ready for the 15 days of Chinese New Year visits, offerings at the altar and the family gatherings.

It is tempting to think of these koay simply as food, but they were more than that. They carried memory, patience, skill and the quiet discipline of the kitchen. The taboos, the careful layering, the repeated steaming and pressing were all part of the dance of the festival, handed down over decades. Even as supermarkets and shops now offer quick substitutes, there is something in the deliberate care of those old kitchens that cannot be replicated.

When I see a tray of huat koay or a slice of koay talam, I can almost hear my grandmother's exhortations: “Don’t quarrel while steaming,” “Don’t taste until it’s ready,” “Move the tray carefully.” These are not just rules but echoes of a household that measured time, care and love through the preparation of food. In those days, Chinese New Year was as much about ritual, patience and attention to small details as it was about celebration. And that, more than anything, is what I remember most vividly.

There'll be a Part 3 to this story, in which I shall give a glossary of the Nyonya koay that I know.

Monday, 9 March 2026

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 1

In the days of old leading up to Chinese New Year, my maternal grandmother would turn our kitchen into a small koay workshop. We were all staying in Seang Tek Road then. My mother and her sister worked beside their mother, measuring rice flour, grating coconuts and occasionally squeezing out the santan, and cutting banana leaves into neat pieces. I was normally chased out of the kitchen. The warning was always the same: don’t open your mouth and say anything, or the koay might not turn out properly.

Some of their work took place late at night. I remember especially the steaming of the tnee koay, which would start well past my 10 o'clock bedtime. By morning, the koay would be ready, all warm, sticky and with a faint golden surface sheen.

This was long before there were supermarkets in Penang. In those days, a Nyonya household made all its festival koay at home. For several days, the kitchen became a small workshop of rice flour, coconut milk, brown sugar and banana leaves, with trays of freshly baked or steamed koay appearing one after another on the wooden table.

Some of the koay were unmistakably associated with the Chinese New Year. One of the most prominent was the huat koay, which are steamed pink rice cakes that cracked open at the top like blossoming flowers. This name carried the hopeful meaning of prosperity and every family wanted them to rise well in the steamer. If the huat koay split neatly into four petals, it was taken as a sign of good fortune for the coming year.

Another was the tnee koay, the sticky brown Chinese New Year koay made from glutinous rice flour and sugar. I remember vividly how the steaming would start before midnight. The open kitchen was warm with the rising steam. By morning, the tnee koay would be ready, all warm and sticky with a golden hue on the surface and releasing a deep caramel fragrance.

And then there were the red tortoise-shaped ang koo, moulded from glutinous rice dough tinted a bright, auspicious red and filled with sweet mung bean paste. Pressed into carved wooden moulds before steaming, they bore the patterned shell of a tortoise which was a symbol of longevity.

But the New Year table was never limited to just these three. My grandmother’s repertoire extended far beyond them, reflecting generations of Nyonya culinary tradition. There was koay kochnee, a coconut-rich glutinous rice koay, sometimes made richer still, set in santan; koay bengkah ubikayu, a baked tapioca koay with a golden crust; and koay talam, the familiar two-layered pandan-and-coconut custard koay.

Preparing all these koay required not just skill but adherence to a set of kitchen taboos. When making huat koay, quarrels and arguments were strictly forbidden. Sharp words, my grandmother would say, would stop the koay from opening. With tnee koay, the batter had to be stirred steadily and without interruption. Children were sent outside or quietly watched. I was always barred from the kitchen while the steaming went on. Even lifting the steamer lid had its own rules: clockwise only, never counter-clockwise, to encourage proper rising. Sweeping the kitchen, tasting the batter too early, or sudden noises were all said to disturb the delicate rhythm of the koay.

By the time Chinese New Year arrived, the kitchen shelves would be lined with trays and covered plates. Some of the koay were destined for the household altars, others for visiting relatives. The adults had the quiet satisfaction of seeing all those trays filled with perfectly formed, fragrant and colourful koay, making the long preparations worthwhile.

Today, many of these koay can still be found in Penang, though increasingly in markets and specialty stalls rather than home kitchens. The old processes of grating the coconuts and layering the batter, and the quiet discipline in the kitchen have disappeared into memory. But the smell of freshly steamed huat koay or the sight of a tray of glossy ang koo can still take me back, almost instantly, to that busy kitchen in Seang Tek Road and to the care that went into every piece.

There is more to tell about the koay for visitors, the full spread of the festive table and some of the rarer Nyonya treats now almost forgotten. That, and a few more of the curious taboos that surrounded them. I'll explore them in Part 2.

Wednesday, 4 March 2026

Over in the blink of an eye

And just like that, Chinese New Year is over. All 15 days of it, gone in the twinkling of an eye.

Strange, considering the run-up lasted almost two months for me. The on-and-off spring cleaning, waking early to buy fruits for deity and ancestral worship, stocking up on fresh food for the long stretch of cooking ahead. And of course, preparing for the reunion dinner.

It’s not as though we don’t sit down regularly with my son and daughter. We do. But the Chinese New Year reunion dinner carries a different significance. A whole day is spent in preparation -- washing, chopping, simmering, tasting -- until evening comes and we finally sit down together to enjoy what we’ve made with our own hands. Usually roast chicken, garlic prawns, jiu hoo char, too tor soup. Sometimes a steamboat dinner, but not this year. The food tastes better for the effort.

Once that dinner is over, my annual pre-CNY duties begin. I gum strips of red paper carefully around each fruit, one by one, before arranging them neatly on plates for offering. Then come the gold-stamped worship papers, folded into paper ingots and lotus flowers. These will be burnt after the worship to Soo Kong, our house deity, and the Tnee Kong to welcome in the New Year. By the time everything is done, prayers said, incense offered, and suddenly it is usually close to 2am before we turn in.

The first day of Chinese New Year is vegetarian for us, from breakfast through to dinner. A tradition that has stayed, even as other habits have loosened over the years. We make our way to Bandar Tasek Mutiara to visit my mother-in-law, now the most senior member of the family since my parents and my aunt are no longer with us. Time does its quiet accounting. Generations shift almost without announcement.

Apart from that, we keep things simple. On the sixth day, when we are out visiting the Kuan Imm Teng and the Triple Wisdom Temple on the island, we drop by a long-time family friend’s home more out of habit than obligation. Otherwise, we stay home and wait for visitors, mostly relatives, the house filling and emptying in waves.

And then, before we quite realise it, Chap Goh Meh is upon us. On this day, I make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong, where my Kongsi makes its annual worship to the deities. Our principal deity is Tai Tay Yah, though Tua Pek Kong and Lo Chiah Kong are also prominent in the front hall. In the inner chamber are the Chow Moo Kong and Tay Choo Kong, along with the ancestral tablets. Once the noon worship is completed and the members have dispersed, I make my quiet way to Poh Hock Seah in Armenian Street to pay my respects to the resident Tua Pek Kong there. This is something I’ve done each year since my retirement.

So now, with the 15 days over, the mandarin oranges finished and the unused angpow packets put away, all that remain are the various unfinished Chinese New Year cookies. The red banner above the main doorway comes down, and the house returns to its ordinary rhythm. Two months of preparation. Fifteen days of observance. And it all passes as it always does.

Wednesday, 25 February 2026

Jade Emperor birthday celebration

The noisy half of the Chinese New Year celebrations is over. It ended with last night's worship of the Tnee Kong Seh, the Jade Emperor's birthday, by the Hokkien community in Malaysia, with the largest scale in Penang.

The moment the clock struck 11 o'clock at night, I could hear fireworks booming all around me and firecrackers erupting throughout the neighbourhood. Then they eased off, but did not stop, after about half an hour, only to go off again with greater intensity at midnight. It was only closer to two o'clock that the noise stopped completely around my house. Yup, this happens every year during Chinese New Year.

Two of my neighbours set up their traditional makeshift altars at the front of their houses and loaded them with all sorts of offerings. By comparison, mine was very modest, making use of only the available space to the small Jade Emperor's permanent altar that's fixed to the wall. There is a long story behind why my family celebrates on such a small scale. As I've written about it before, I won't elaborate again.

But lately, I've noticed that I have tried to pile more things onto the altar. Previously it was only a bunch of pisang raja. Last night the offerings were oranges, a dragon fruit and a pineapple, plus the traditional huat kueh and ang koo kueh. It made for a very congested altar.

The huat kueh, or prosperity cake, is easily recognised by its cracked top, usually split into two or three lobes. That crack is not a flaw. It is the whole point of the huat kueh. The cracks symbolise smiling or blooming, a sign of expanding fortune. When buying huat kueh, I would always search for one that has bloomed nicely with clear cracks on the surface. Last Chinese New Year eve, I actually rejected the huat kueh from one of the market stalls. Theirs hadn’t risen at all. In fact, they were sunken, with pockmarks on the surface instead of proper cracks. My grandmother would have said they must have violated some pantang rule, which was why their huat kueh sank instead of rose. How could the vendor put those out for sale, knowing nobody would touch them?

Anyway, the word huat itself is the Hokkien word for prosper, as in the familiar phrase “huat ah”. The cakes are usually pink, since that is the colour of happiness.

The ang koo kueh, literally red tortoise cake, is a small sticky rice cake filled with sweet mung bean or peanut paste and pressed into a mould with a tortoise shell pattern. The red colour represents prosperity and happiness. The tortoise symbolises longevity, strength and endurance. By offering this to the Jade Emperor, devotees pray for long life for their family and blessings for the year ahead.

We have also resorted to burning more paper offerings. I spent the last two days folding kim chuah into small paper gold ingots. I had also bought some ready-folded ones from vendors in the market. Once the worship was completed, these paper ingots were taken outside the house to be burnt. But not before my son and I let off two strings of firecrackers of our own to add to the community's noise level. All in good fun, once a year. And with good neighbourliness in mind, not wanting to contribute to ash pollution, I make sure that the burnt paper is swept away or washed off afterwards.

My final comment on the Tnee Kong Seh is this: the actual date for the Jade Emperor's birthday is the ninth day of Chinese New Year. From the way people worship, with all the fireworks and firecrackers, some think mistakenly that it falls on the eighth day, to be celebrated just before midnight. It does not. The worship starts from 11pm on the eighth day because according to the Chinese calendar, the ninth day begins at that hour.

Monday, 16 February 2026

Keong hee huat chye

This, a caricature of our Ooi Lor or reunion dinner, for a change.....

Sunday, 15 February 2026

Chinese New Year preparations

Since last Friday I’ve been waking at 5.30am to go marketing for Chinese New Year. It’s something I’ve done for years; it's become a ritual, almost a discipline. I thought I was being particularly kiasu this time, but when I reached the Kampong Baru market at 6.30am, the place was already in full swing. Clearly I wasn't the only one who believed that the early bird would get the freshest ikan and kay.

The vegetable section is always the most frenetic. Shoppers hover, point, select, reject. Poultry and seafood are not far behind, with fish still glistening on crushed ice and chickens being weighed and chopped with alarming efficiency. The fruit stalls do brisk business too, oranges and pomelos stacked in careful pyramids. Even the dried goods section is packed. Mushrooms, scallops, lily bulbs, waxed sausages, all essential for the festive kitchen.

It is chaotic in a way that only wet markets can be. Shoulders brush. Plastic bags swing. Everyone stretches forward to have their purchases totalled. The vendors perform mental arithmetic at astonishing speed. A few notes exchanged, sometimes an e-wallet beep, and the transaction is done. By 8am, the serious marketing is over until the next morning when we all return to repeat the exercise. From there it is a short cross to the adjacent food court for a quick, warm breakfast before driving home. This Chinese New Year marketing routine is tiring, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Back home, spring-cleaning has taken up the better part of the past few weeks. We tackled the house bit by bit, day by day. I would say we are 99 percent done, though there is always that mysterious remaining one percent that reveals itself at the last minute. Every room has been attended to. Walls wiped, ceiling and wall fans cleaned, cupboards emptied, tables and chairs dusted. Pots, pans and plates removed, washed, dried and returned orderly to their shelves. Curtains and sofa covers changed. Even the car porch has been cleared of fallen leaves and broken twigs, the floor scrubbed hard to rid it of moss and grime. The whole works.

Yesterday was set aside for the ancestral prayers. The evening before, I laid out the table. Yesterday morning came the formal invitation to my departed grandparents, my parents and my aunt to partake of the offerings of fruits, mee koo, huat kueh and assorted Chinese New Year cookies. One must not forget the unseen pair of door guardians; they too have to be informed to let the spirits into the house, otherwise the divination coins can be stubborn. Thankfully, there was no difficulty this year. I tossed the two coins and they landed one head and one tail at the first attempt, a clear sign that the invitation had been accepted.

After that came the other duties: putting up the New Year door sashes, wiping down the altar, tidying the joss urns. And then my own small ritual of bathing the image of Kuan Imm with perfumed water, done slowly and with some care.

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. There will still be last-minute chores like washing the cars, mopping the floors, resetting the timer switches, checking that everything is in order. Such work is never truly finished. The kitchen will be busy with preparations for the reunion dinner, the Ooi Lor. My daughter is already home from Kuala Lumpur, and my son will return tomorrow. We plan to eat at about 7pm, unhurried.

After dinner, there will be the decorating of fruits with red paper strips, the folding of auspicious paper offerings to be burned at midnight. All must be completed by about 11.30pm. If my son has managed to secure a string of firecrackers, we might light them too. By the time the Year of the Horse is ushered in and the last embers fade, it will probably be close to 2am before we finally turn in.

And then, just like that, another year begins.

Friday, 16 January 2026

The sun

On one hand, there is Pongal. On the other, there is Lì Chūn (立春), or Jip Chūn as we Penang Hokkien folk call it. Two festivals from different cultures, thousands of miles apart, yet bound by the same denominator: the Sun. Let me elaborate.

Every year without fail, the Sun traces the same invisible journey across the sky. It never rushes, never hesitates. It advances by roughly one degree a day, completing its 360-degree journey in a little over 365 days. Long before calendars, clocks or even written history, farmers in India and China learned independently to read this slow walk of light. Out of that observation were born Pongal and Li Chun.

In the Tamil world, the crucial moment for Pongal comes when the Sun reaches a particular point in its yearly path, one that later Indian astronomy would call Makara Saṅkrānti, coinciding with the Sun’s entry into the zodiac segment known as Capricorn. It almost always falls on the 14th of January, though in 2026 it occurs on the 15th. That is why Pongal is so steady on the calendar while most other Indian festivals drift with the Moon. Pongal does not wait for a lunar phase. It looks straight at the Sun.

For people whose lives were shaped by the soil, this marked the turning point of winter. The Sun, which had been sinking lower in the sky since June, reached its lowest point at the December solstice. By Makara Saṅkrānti, it had already gathered enough strength to begin its northward climb. The days would lengthen. The earth would stir. And so the milk was boiled, the rice sweetened and the Sun thanked for returning.

China mapped the same solar journey, but instead of zodiac signs it divided the circle into 24 equal segments, each fifteen degrees wide, known as the solar terms. They are not festivals in the modern sense but seasonal markers with names such as Lesser Cold, Greater Cold, Coming of Spring, Rain Water, Awakening of Worms and et cetera.

When Pongal arrives in mid-January, the Chinese calendar is passing from the Lesser Cold (小寒) solar term to the Greater Cold (大寒). The deepest chill of winter usually comes around the 20th of January. While the Tamil farmer senses the Sun turning homeward, the Chinese farmer feels winter tightening its grip. They are reading the same sky, only from different angles.

Forty-five solar degrees later, the Sun reaches 315 degrees. The Chinese name for this moment is Li Chun, the Coming of Spring. It usually falls around the fourth of February, when frost may still linger in northern China. Yet in Chinese metaphysics, this is the true start of the new year. A child born before Li Chun belongs to the old zodiac animal even if Chinese New Year has already been celebrated. The Moon may start the festivities, but it is the Sun that shifts destiny.

Seen together, the story becomes seamless. After the solstice, the Sun begins its slow return northward. Around the 14th of January, Tamil homes boil rice in new pots and cry out “Pongal, Pongal!” Around the 20th, Chinese almanacs mark the depth of winter. And around the fourth of February, it's Li Chun. Spring has begun, not in temperature, but in truth.

Pongal does not correspond to Chinese New Year. It corresponds to the Sun itself, just as Li Chun does. They are not parallel festivals but points along the same solar year, fixed by the geometry of the heavens. What appears to be cultural difference is really perspective: the Tamils give thanks for the Sun’s return while the Chinese declare that spring has begun.

Every January and February, unnoticed by most of us, the Sun retells this story of celestial degrees — 270°, 300° and 315° — and two civilisations, thousands of miles apart, continue to mark its passage in their own way.

Monday, 22 December 2025

Li Chun (立春), 2026

Every year, Lì Chūn (立春), or Jip Chūn (also known as the Coming of Spring, one of many other descriptions) as it is called in Penang Hokkien, sneaks in quietly. In 2026, it falls on 4 February at 4.02am ~~5.02am~~, while most people are still asleep. By the time the sun comes up, spring will have already started. At least, according to the old Chinese way of reckoning.

Back then, farmers didn’t wait to feel the warmth before preparing their fields. They do so because the calendar told them it was time. In many homes, the rice bucket gets topped up at Lì Chūn, which is not superstition but a simple gesture. Food, like time, moves in cycles. Sometimes abundance starts with the smallest act.

It is also worth remembering that, in older reckoning, Lì Chūn was once regarded as the beginning of the year itself. Before Chinese New Year became the social and festive turning point, the solar cycle held greater authority. Even today, systems like Bāzì still count the year from Lì Chūn, which is a reminder that the calendar we celebrate and the calendar the heavens follow are very seldom in sync.

So at 4.02am ~~5.02am~~ on 04 February 2026, nothing dramatic will happen in my life. But I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing every year: filling my rice bucket to the brim and sticking a fresh chūn (春) character on its side. It’s a small, habitual act done without ceremony and always by myself. By that measure, before the firecrackers of Chinese New Year sound on the 17th of February, the new year will already have begun for me.

I've been writing consistently about Jip Chun in this blog since Year 2007 and if anyone wants to find the historical dates and time, the information is all here:

Li Chun, 2025
Li Chun, 2024
Li Chun, 2023
Li Chun, 2022
Li Chun, 2021
Li Chun, 2020
Li Chun, 2019
Li Chun, 2018
Li Chun, 2017
Li Chun, 2016
Li Chun, 2015
Li Chun, 2014
Li Chun, 2013
Li Chun, 2012
Li Chun, 2011
Li Chun, 2010
Li Chun, 2009
Li Chun, 2008
Li Chun, 2007

Sunday, 21 December 2025

Tang Chik (冬至)

I spent this morning down at the Swee Cheok Tong, offering worship to our Kongsi deities in observance of Tang Chik (冬至), the Winter Solstice. I had assumed it would fall tomorrow, on the 22nd of December, but the calendar told me otherwise. As I drove into the city, the signs were already there: other Chinese clan houses along the way had their doors open as different communities carried out their own rituals.

Tang Chik marks the winter solstice, the point in the year when the day is shortest and the night longest. In traditional Chinese society, this was no ordinary date. In agrarian times, farmers would lay down their tools and return home, recognising that the agricultural year had reached a pause. Families gathered not to mark an ending, but a turning. Of course, we are no longer farmers here in the nanyang, but the significance of the day remains the same. The eating of koay ee symbolised the idea of growing a year older, not necessarily wiser, but certainly marked by time.

Unlike many traditional festivals tied to the lunar calendar, Tang Chik is governed by astronomy. It occurs when the sun reaches a specific point in its apparent path across the sky, the moment when Earth’s axial tilt places the sun at its lowest position in the Northern Hemisphere. This astronomical alignment produces the longest night of the year. In Chinese cosmology, Tang Chik is one of the 24 Solar Terms, fixed not by human convention but by the movement of the heavens.

This year, in 2025, the winter solstice occurs on the 21st of December, with the precise astronomical moment falling at 15:03 GMT. Converted to Malaysian time, which is eight hours ahead, this places the solstice at 11:03pm on the night of the 21st. On the surface, this would seem to justify observing Tang Chik on that same date.

However, I would argue that this conclusion is not entirely consistent with traditional Chinese timekeeping. In the classical Chinese luni-solar system, the transition from one day to the next does not occur at midnight, but at 11pm. Time is divided into twelve two-hour segments, each beginning on an odd hour. The hour which runs from 11pm to 1am marks the start of a new day.

Viewed through this traditional framework, a solstice occurring at 11:03pm would already fall into the following day. By that reckoning, the moment of Tang Chik in Malaysia actually belongs to the 22nd of December rather than the 21st. From a strictly astronomical standpoint, both interpretations may appear reasonable. Yet within the logic of traditional Chinese calendrical thinking, celebrating Tang Chik on the 22nd would be entirely consistent.

Because the Earth’s orbit and axial tilt follow a predictable rhythm, the winter solstice falls on nearly the same date each year, usually between the 21st and 22nd of December, and occasionally on the 23rd. This consistency is why Tang Chik remains one of the rare traditional observances that aligns neatly with the Gregorian calendar. The other, of course, is Cheng Beng.

Standing in the clan house this morning, surrounded by incense and the familiar faces of the Kongsi members, it struck me that Tang Chik is less about marking a moment in time than acknowledging a shift. The longest night has passed. The days will lengthen again, slowly and almost imperceptibly at first, but the turning has already begun.

Thursday, 13 November 2025

Red packet design

I was rummaging through my clothes drawer recently and came across an old angpow — a red packet my mother had given me one Chinese New Year in the early 1980s, certainly before 1985. Back then, this design felt as modern as things could get. Businesses, including Ban Hin Lee Bank, were still rather traditional in their outlook, and the angpow rarely strayed from its standard four-by-two-inch size. It wasn’t until the turn of the millennium that banks began experimenting with bolder designs and shapes. Since then, the humble red packet has evolved into something of a collector’s item, as financial institutions compete to outdo one another in creativity and style.

Monday, 6 October 2025

Mooncake festival

Today is the 15th day of the Chinese eighth lunar month, the Mid-Autumn Festival or Mooncake Festival is in full swing with worship sessions by the clanhouses this morning all over George Town. As usual, I had to make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong for our own worship of the Kongsi's deities and ancestral memorial tablets.

The Mooncake Festival is one of the most important occasions for Malaysia’s Chinese community. Falling on the full moon of the eighth lunar month, usually in September or early October like today, it marks a time of reunion and thanksgiving. The roundness of the moon and of the mooncake both symbolise harmony and completeness, reminders of family togetherness that have endured through generations.

The mooncake itself remains the heart of the celebration. The traditional baked kind, with its thin golden crust and lotus seed or red bean filling, sometimes hiding a salted duck egg yolk like a small sun inside, still carries a quiet dignity. But Malaysia being what it is, we’ve never been content to stop there. Over time, the flavours have multiplied: pandan, green tea, coffee, even the durian snow skin mooncake with its soft, chewy skin and aroma. No matter the variety, mooncakes are meant to be cut and shared, ideally with a pot of Chinese tea to temper their sweetness. A ritual of togetherness as much as of taste.

When I was small and still staying in the Seang Tek Road house, my grandparents observed the festival with their own quiet devotion. Around 8.30 at night, the excitement would mount. Once the moon had risen bright and round, we would go upstairs to the back terrace on the first floor. There, they would lay out a simple altar comprising a joss-stick urn, a pair of candle holders, a few mooncakes and fruits, and always the ang kong piah, those animal-shaped pastries that fascinated children far more than the mooncakes ever did.

Unlike the proper mooncakes, the ang kong piah had no filling at all but just a solid lump of baked dough that stuck to the teeth when eaten, but that was part of their charm. Most were shaped like piglets, though occasionally there'd be a fish or some other animal shape among them. What truly delighted me was the packaging. A little dough piglet snug inside a tiny plastic cage, bright and colourful, like a toy pen you could carry around afterwards.

If the weather was fine, the full moon would shine above us, bathing the terrace in its soft glow. My grandmother would murmur their prayers to the Moon Goddess, Chang’e, while we stared up at the sky, wondering if we might actually see her, until Apollo 11 changed everything. Nevertheless, those were simple nights, unhurried and filled with quiet wonder. These were the kind of moments that remain forever. Even now, whenever I catch sight of the full moon at Mid-Autumn, I can still picture that terrace at Seang Tek Road, the smell of incense curling in the air, and the small cages on the table bathed in the moonlight, all reminders of a gentler time and of family.

Saturday, 15 February 2025

Yin and yang of Chinese temples

Over the Chinese New Year period, I had the occasion to visit several temples, the most important being the Kong Hock Keong, or Kuan Imm Temple, in Pitt Street. It’s always packed during the first few days of the festive season. This year, my family tried visiting on the first of this month, already the fourth day of Chinese New Year, but we were thwarted by road closures in the inner heritage zone, no thanks to the annual CNY beohooi (miaohui, 廟會) celebrations. Traffic was being diverted everywhere except into Pitt Street, also known as the Street of Harmony. But no worries—we made it there eventually. albeit a few days later. On Chap Goh Meh, after my worship session at the Swee Cheok Tong, I did what I always do: walked to Armenian Street to offer prayers at the Poh Hock Seah, the most prominent Tua Pek Kong Temple in the city.

A few days ago, after visiting these and other temples—both on the island and the mainland, including my neighbourhood Tua Pek Kong temple just around the corner—I started wondering: in Chinese geomancy, or hongsui (fengshui, 風水), are temples considered yin or yang places? I guess it depends on the temple’s design and the deities worshipped.

Generally, temples are yang. They’re lively places where people gather to pray, make offerings and perform rituals—all activities that generate strong yang energy. Many temples have open courtyards, bright colours like red and gold, and strong lighting, which only amplify that yang presence. There’s also a deep connection to the Heavens—Taoist and Buddhist temples, in particular, are often built to align with celestial forces, which are naturally yang.

But there’s a darker side too. Yin energy tends to linger in more secluded areas, especially memorial halls dedicated to the dead. Some temples have dark corners or even underground spaces, dimly lit and decorated accordingly, where ghoulish deities of the netherworld—like Tua Yah Pek and Jee Yah Pek—are worshipped. These spaces, being enclosed and shadowy, naturally accumulate yin energy. Then there are temples hidden deep in forests, perched on mountains or sitting right next to cemeteries, with hardly any human activity—places that definitely lean more towards yin.

That said, I’d say most Chinese temples in Penang are predominantly yang, though they aim to strike a balance between yin and yang for spiritual harmony.

As an addendum to the above story, I must emphasise that the Tua Pek Kong (大伯公) and Tua Yah Pek (大爺伯) are completely different deities with distinct roles in Chinese folk religion.

Tua Pek Kong is a widely revered Earth Deity, often considered a guardian of communities, businesses and the general well-being of people. He is associated with prosperity, protection and landownership. Many temples and shrines are dedicated to him, such as the Poh Hock Seah in Armenian Street.

On the other hand, Tua Yah Pek is one of the Underworld Guardians, alongside Jee Yah Pek (二爺伯). He works under the King of Hell (Phor Tor Ong or Tai Su Yah, 大士爺) and is responsible for guiding and escorting spirits of the deceased to the afterlife. His counterpart, Jee Yah Pek is often depicted in white robes, while Tua Yah Pek is in black. Both grotesque figures, if I'm not mistaken, spot long tongues that reach down to the waist or knees.

Essentially, Tua Pek Kong is a benevolent deity associated with prosperity and protection, while Tua Yah Pek is a fearsome underworld enforcer responsible for the dead.