Before I start, I want to say that you may feel the text a bit up and down – mood wise. This is because I’ve spent a few days over this (partially because it’s a long post) because this is still very emotional to me. It’s my recollection. It’s my memory. You may find that this post may be at one time and not another. This is mostly down to my choice of posting this. And all I ask is that you respect my decision if I do decide to take this down.

I was in Bath on Sept. 4th (The City, I’m honestly not that unclean, I just have showers the Chinese way: in the evening), and during the car trip home, I was wondering if I should post this or not, it’s also been slightly haunting me (I do take a few days over some posts). It’s something that’s very personal to me, but blogs are meant to be rather personal to start with, but this might be one of those too personal things. I’m very conflicted over this. This may flicker back and forth between being posted and not, and all I ask you to do is respect my decision.
But I decided to post this. I need to talk to somebody about this, my family probably isn’t the best place to start, as it’s more likely going to open up wounds than help me. And it’s here, the perfect stranger, I don’t know you, you don’t know me.

But it as only as I was staring out over the night’s sky, I notice that there were no stars in the sky. A few weeks ago I went to see Romeo and Juliet, as performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company in the theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon (admittedly, the fighting bits did look more like a dance off to me, but it’s not something that bothered the audience, except me). It’s not your typical romance story, but it’s intimate at times: A pair of star crossed lovers (the night) take their life (funeral). Strange that it lead onto that, but I’d rather it didn’t. It’s most likely due to the fact the third anniversary is approaching, but I’m not quite sure if I’m trying to tell myself something or otherwise.

I still remember the evening the news broke. My cousin (who is a good hand with computers – related on the other side of my family) was round sorting our computer, giving it a format and the like. My Godfather/Uncle phoned (which is odd, because he never phones here, it’s mostly Auntie (Mum’s sister) that phones here) and asks for my mum.

I obviously passed on the call to my mum. Later I went down, meeting my dad on my way downstairs, I asked him what the call was about, and the only answer was “It’s bad news”. Him being useless with that answer, I decided to ask my mum. When I got to her, she’d broken down and was crying. I asked her what’s wrong, and she managed to blurt out “Kung Kung [Hakka for grandfather, depending on your romanisation as well] is dead”

I don’t remember much after that, only crying, the first time in a long time (which I think I’m entitled to do so)

It was a half term holiday, I had 1 week off, the news came pretty midweekish (A Tuesday I think). By the Friday, we were leaving for Mauritius, I’d had a friend of mine (he lived nearby) drop a letter to the school explaining the circumstances. They didn’t argue about it, and accepted that it happened, and they also gave me another day due to jetlag (or compassionate leave, I’m not quite sure, but I’m not the one to argue, it was an authorised absence, and that’s all I need to know)

We flew out on the Thursday, arriving on the Friday morning. It was my family and my uncle (the eldest and only son) with his wife on the same flight.

We arrive in Mauritius in the morning, and we were picked up by my uncle/godfather at the airport in his pickup. We were dropped off at his house. The family left, leaving me and my cousin at the house, I decided not to go, I was tired and they told me to get some sleep. I couldn’t sleep, it was day, the sun was shining and it was far too hot.

Nothing much happened for the next few days (2 if I remember correctly), except for the day before the funeral. Paper money (gold and silver paper coins) had been bought, to burn beforehand. I remember we spent a while working out how to burn the money, until we eventually decided to burn it in a metal bowl. Chinese tradition: we were giving him money to spend in the afterlife.
And then came the time, the day. Showtime, if you want to call it that.

I remember I was the last to get up, well, woken up, about 9am. I had something to eat (I was forced to), cleaned myself up, and got dressed and we took both cars (my uncle/auntie owns – her Merc and his pickup) to what used to be my Grandmother’s shop (her house is behind where the shop is). We weren’t the first to arrive, there were already people there. In the end, quite a lot of people turned up for the funeral.

The body hadn’t been released yet. I went out to the front, where the main entrance of the shop was/is. I needed some air. I stood, basking in the sunlight. It was the only comfort I felt that day.

It was still early, couldn’t have been past 11am.

The Hakka community is a pretty close knit group in Mauritius, and quite a lot of people were aware of anything that happens (The country is roughly the size of London). That proved unfortunate for me, however. Since I’ve been born and raised in the UK, nobody was quite aware of who I was. Most of the people knew my cousin, who was born and raised in Mauritius, and people did know he was a grandson, son of my mum’s younger sister. If my uncle’s children had been there, I would not have been the only one in that situation, but they didn’t come, for reasons I don’t know, nor do I want to know. Eventually, the general whispers started, my (Mauritian) Creole is pretty good, it was my first language when I was younger, English was roughly my third, and I overheard quite a few of the whispers, namely the most common one being, [translated] “He’s [my mother]’s son”. I supposed that could be expected.

My mum came round to me a short while afterwards with my uncle’s wife, she asked me if I wanted to see the body. She asked me because she thought it might upset me or distress me, and I wouldn’t have said no, regardless of any reason. She and my auntie took me to into the shop, and let me see the body: he looked at ease, at rest. I stood and stared for a while, just staring. I think I can say with hindsight, that the fact hadn’t sunk in yet, and it still hadn’t, not yet. I still needed time, but I didn’t have time.

If I liked it or not, the funeral was going to start soon.

I went into the house and sat down. My auntie (uncle’s wife) came to me, and saw I was upset. She tried to comfort me. I appreciated the effort, but I didn’t feel comforted, but I lied.
We were gathered, all the family standing side by side by the body, while the Priest began conducting the funeral. I say Priest, it was a Catholic Funeral. You could call it a Catholic Funeral with Chinese accents, you could call it a Chinese funeral under Catholic traditions, I’d call it a Sino-Catholic funeral. The funeral was conducted in French, the hymns in French too. During the service, the direct family were allowed to kiss his forehead. When it came to me, I moved away. I couldn’t. It had finally sunk in. I was crying. I was still only a child. I was only 12. I couldn’t move. It finally sunk in, and it was the wrong time. I didn’t go through and kiss his forehead. I couldn’t, and I regret it to this day.

Only half the funeral was over. The body had to be taken to the tomb.

The system is slightly different in Mauritius than it is in the UK. You must buy a plot of land in the cemetery and then have a tomb constructed for you. The tombs can vary in size, and some can hold from 2 or 3 to 10.

As the body was placed into the coffin and the coffin prepared to be sealed, my grandmother and her children were preparing the coffin. They were putting plastic bags into the coffin, containing clothes and some other things, again, Chinese Tradition, but with a small twist: we didn’t burn them. I believe the ash of the money that was burnt was put into the coffin.

The coffin was sealed, and put into the Hearse. The direct family (his wife [my grandmother] and his children [my uncle, my mother, and the two younger daughters, my aunties]) went in the Merc, which followed the Hearse. I followed with my father, uncle/godfather and my cousin, behind the Merc. As we left, a firecracker was lit. Again, Chinese Tradition, to ward off the evil spirits, or so I think, may have a different meaning, but it’s the one I’ve always learnt it as.

We arrived later at the cemetery some time later. Sometime around 12. The coffin was placed in front of the tomb, with us [my family] directly in front of the coffin, people to our left and right. The Priest performed the final act of the ceremony: Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes, Spirit to Spirit. The coffin was placed into the tomb, at which point we are meant to turn away until the tomb is sealed. (The Tombs are made from concrete, with a cover at the front, usually the name of the family engraved into it, also made of concrete, therefore it is heavy and will require cement to seal. It is also Chinese tradition that we are not meant to see the coffin being buried

My and I cousin were told to leave just before the end. I’m not sure if this is Chinese, or just customary, but my cousin and I were given a large bag containing a coin or 2 wrapped in red paper. Similar red colour to the one as a Foung Pow (you may recognize it as lai see in Cantonese, ang pow in Min or hóng bāo / 红包 in Mandarin. It’s one of those Hakka things again), which I think was used to replicate a foung pow instead, considering the scale of the people, I doubt we had enough envelopes to put a coins in.

We were given the job of handing out the coins to everyone as they left, while they shook the hands of the family. Some people went to my cousin and shook his hand, saying the same as they said to the family, my family. Nobody came to me except my cousins (on my dad’s side of the family). It could be because word had spread my Creole wasn’t all too good, or they were still wondering who the child was. I frankly don’t know, or care anymore. It annoys me, but not enough to pick a deal out of it.

There was no wake. I would presume you could count as the bit before the service as the wake if you like. I don’t think the Chinese are too fond of wakes. So it was only us left in the cemetery. I took a little foung pow, and my auntie [uncle's wife] took a few for her children who couldn’t make it. There were still a lot leftover.

We gave the leftover money to the beggars at the cemetery. Again, things are different in Mauritius. There are beggars that pretty much earn a living in the cemetery, making their money by washing graves.

And so I come towards the end of the longest post I’m most likely to ever do on my blog. This is my memory of my grandfather’s funeral. My first hand recollection.

The funeral was over. We now had no business in the cemetery. We got into the car and left. The last thing I remember from this memory is me in the car, looking out the window as we drove away, and muttering under my breath:

Goodbye, Grandfather. Rest in Peace.