Family bonding over mahjong
AS we slowly but surely resume our disrupted lives and pick up the pieces after having been subjected to the havoc of the coronavirus pandemic these last few months, it is time to not only count the losses but also to reflect on the positives that have emerged in the face of this crisis.
For me, one of these positives has been the chance to spend precious quality time with my family members.
We have always lived in a multi-generational home, which is an experience I treasure deeply. But for many years, we have had our own separate activities and groups of friends, and would come together only briefly each day over the dinner table.
Now, suddenly, we were thrust into one another’s company the whole day, every day, and had to find new ways to bond. And for my family, what better way to do so than to play mahjong.
This enforced respite from work and the usual social activities has turned out to be the perfect time for us to resurrect a fascinating game that at one point occupied centre stage in my family.
This was decades ago when I was a teenager and my grandparents were still alive.
Back then, my mum and grandparents were famous for their mahjong parties that lasted until the wee hours of the night, many times a week. I grew up amid the constant click-clacking of the mahjong tiles and screams of “pong!” “kong!” or “chee mor” when strategic moves were made.
I used to have verbal clashes with them over this as they would be making so much noise, I could not concentrate on my studies.
“How do you expect me to pass my O Levels when you guys are making such a din?” I would say angrily to them as I opened the door to my bedroom where I used to study.
They would quieten down for about 15 minutes, shushing one another to show me they were making an effort, and then uncontrollably return to their screaming and cackling.
Mahjong was a big thing to them. I just had to cope with studies on my own.
Exposed to the game day in, day out, it was natural that I would eventually gravitate to sitting behind either of my grandparents or my mother to watch what they were doing and pick up some strategy.
My mum had taught me the basics of the game when I was a five-year-old living in London but I was more interested then in piling the tiles up into a tall tower or making a house of tiles than learning how to play.
I never really understood the intricacies of the game until I was about 10 or 12. My mum was very academic about her mahjong and taught me how to be observant of what tiles were already on the table and to memorise those that each player was either throwing away or potentially collecting.
From watching, I learnt how to “build” the tiles into a high scoring limit hand or to play defensively to stop someone else from gaming. I also learnt to read people’s characters from the way they played. Some were fearless while others were tentative and timid.
My grandfather was a great poker player, but at mahjong, he wasn’t that good. He could hold his own against his former police colleagues and therefore played at the “intermediate table”, but that was the extent of his prowess.
My mother was the real mahjong talent. She played at the “advanced” table with the much better players, some of whom played in clubs and gambling dens. It was always fascinating to see how fast and furiously they played. It seemed like a choreographed art form.
Then it all stopped.
My grandparents, one by one, died and so did their friends.
My mother became a full-time grandmother, devoting her time to my son, who was born over 20 years ago.
Having to ferry him around – first to kindergarten, then to school, then to college and, now, to the army camp every day – meant she had no time to play anymore and her mahjong friends soon melted away.
I missed those happy times and often wondered if we would ever relive them again.
Who would have thought that a pandemic would draw our family together and reignite our passion for this wonderful game that has meant so much to me and my loved ones? – The Straits Times/asia News Network
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