A case of mistaken identity

I don’t know how old we were, my sisters and I, when this Nyonya lady came calling one day. At that time I didn’t know she was a Nyonya. Much later I recognized her as one by her dressing. The Kebaya outfit and the embroidery top of sheer material.

Little did we know she was trouble. She was tracking down the thieves of her rambutans. She was told that one of the thieves was a girl. Somehow, she came to my house when she heard of the young daughters of the house. At that time my other sister was still living with us.

My mother called us out and we stood near her and stared at the Kebaya-clad lady in bafflement. She explained her reason for the visit.

We stood there like criminals while she gave us a look over. Then she pointed her finger at my youngest sister. Before she could finish telling that the girl was about my sister’s size and height, my mother had already started giving her swinging blows after giving her disgusted looks.

No, my mother wasn’t the kind who came to the defense of her children. She didn’t even bother to question my sister. She was the judge and jury, all rolled into one. It happened all the time, she would judge the person guilty just because somebody said so or she felt it, without getting down to the truth.

I was freeze-framed. Had the lady pointed at me, I would have been at the receiving end of such humiliation. The complete stranger was no longer in the picture while my mother was beating my sister. When it was all over I couldn’t remember when she left.

However, the next day she came with a bunch of rambutans, very apologetic as my poor sister wasn’t the culprit. The rambutans were sweet and succulent. No wonder she had made such a fuss over her missing rambutans. Such was the price that my sister had to pay in order that we could have a taste of them.