Kai Ling’s Tree

The pink flowers are blooming again. I get the news of the synchronized flowering in the

morning and feel a rush of elation, a burst of joy in my heart. I have been waiting for it

during the months of cold. When the flowering arrives, it tells time and speaks of

warmth.

No doubt there will be traditional family triads and large kin-groups making their way to

the grove now, armed with picnic baskets filled with celebratory foods and mats for

sitting. It will be a day of singing, laughter and contemplative admiration of the pink

flowers.

I open the door and lift my eyes to the silvery skies, seeing the glint of a shuttle in mid-

take off. The air is still chill and the scientists have promised that they would continue

working on the climate controls. But still the pink flowers promise a time of warm days

and intense work in the many micro-gardens. Then it will be shutdown again and we will

spend our lives in an anticipatory mood.

Wearing a long-sleeved plain blouse and a long green sarong, I walk to the grove. The

grove has been there long before I was born, planted by the pioneers and nurtured by

their descendents. I walk faster, stirred by longing – one of the pioneers was my ancestor,

a horticulturist by the name of Kai Ling. She was my maternal great grandmother with

the family name of Kang. One of the trees bears her imprint, a plaque dedicated to her.

She was buried under her tree as well.

I can already hear the sounds of music and off-key but sincere songs now. Many kin-

groups have brought their musical instruments: sitar, gamelan and pipa. I can see brightly

colored ladies, dressed in their clan finery, dancing under the pink trees, their hands

graceful arches.

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Ah, the pink trees. They are lush and abundant with the pink and white flowers. Their

common name is Trumpet Tree. Heralding the advent of the season of warmth. I look at

the bottom of the trees – already the flowers are falling, making concentric rings around

their mother trunks. Their lives – beautiful and vivid – are still tragically brief.

Another silver glint in the sky – another shuttle. It must be one of the temperature-control

shuttles, monitoring the situation. Neo-Temasek is not perfect. So is terra-forming Mars. I

can see Mars fighting to take back what is Hers day by day. I open the door to whispers

of red sand and sand granules every day and listen to the gentle dust storms in the nights.

I wonder how the pink trees manage the onslaught though. They are exiles like their

human counterparts.

Someone has popped a champagne bottle and there is a babble of cheers and some

laughter as the bubbly drink is shared in many glass goblets. I smile and wave at my

neighbors who offer me plates of sweet kueh – they are delicious! – and red date tea.

They have also noticed the falling of the flowers and the temperature-control shuttle.

Martha tsk-tsks about lazy scientists but her husband, Tsu, retorts back with a joke that

even scientists need their break. I soon bid my farewell and make my way to Kai Ling’s

Tree.

Kai Ling’s Tree is a little far-off from the rest of her sister trees, a middle-sized tree laden

with white trumpet flowers. There is a soft carpet of fallen flowers beneath the branches

still heavy with the blooms. I kneel down and clean her plaque with a piece of tissue. Her

name has been obscured by soil, probably scattered during one of the automated watering

sessions. I remember that this time is also Qing Ming, the time to remember the dead. I

have not brought any celebratory or offertory food, only myself.

I settle beneath the tree and simply observe the clusters of people happily celebrating

away. Their joy is infectious and I find myself smiling. For a moment, I regret choosing

the life of a single woman. I would have chosen a life in a triad and even being pregnant

and looking after my children would have seemed tempting. Yet the things I have chosen

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to do, the life paths I have taken, require a solitary existence. The nearest kin I have is

Kai Ling’s Tree. I think my maternal great grandmother would understand. She is a

scientist. I am only continuing her legacy.

There is a soft breeze, carrying with it a hint of Mars – the smell of desert soil and the

gritty feel of it. I find sand on my sarong and I dust it away. The breeze stir the flowers

and some of them start to fall, like soft white snow --

Suddenly the siren shatters everything. It is the dust-storm siren, blaring, unwelcome and

insistent. I can hear shouts of dismay. People begin to throw everything back into their

baskets, rolling the mats in a hurry. Martian dust storms are deadly, known to scour

everything in sight. All our houses are protected against such violence and all we can do

is to wait and wait indoors.

The breeze becomes a gust and more flowers fall, spinning down from the branches. I

look around and pink flowers are raining down on the anxious kin-groups and triads in a

silent and poignant cascade. After today’s dust storm and only today (because the pink

flowers only bloom once and just for a day), the trees will be bare once more.

I make my way amongst the running people. My neighbors. My friends. My colleagues.

All around us are the falling flowers, silently spinning, dancing in a voiceless, soundless

pirouette. I reach out and grab a handful. I will press them in my scrapbook and

remember them just as I remember Kai Ling every year.

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I can feel the first sand granules hit my skin. Martian dust storms hit fast and sting just as

quickly. She is indeed determined to take back what is Hers. I see my door, pity my

newly planted vegetable garden for a few seconds and slip indoors, closing the door

behind me. The vegetable garden should be able to weather the storm but still my heart

aches with a pang of sadness at the harshness of Mars.

Around me, doors are being slammed, windows are being shut. The storm is coming. The

pink flowers will be gone. I pour myself a cup of hot jasmine tea and find my hands

shaking, even after years of living in Neo-Temasek as a rightful citizen. Perhaps, deep

inside me, I rue the terra-forming scientists for their efforts. And in some degree, my

great grandmother.

Should I begrudge their dreams, their visions? They left an old Terra already too bloated

with problems. They settled down here and found their roots again. Just like Kai Ling.

Just like my clan.

I close my eyes but not my heart. All I can think about now is Kai Ling’s Tree.

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