Author: Gina Sim
When I reflect on my childhood, one of the most vivid and tender memories that emerges is of my signature hairstyle—two French braids, expertly braided each morning by my grandmother’s loving hands. From the time I was seven until I turned twelve, this simple ritual became a cherished part of my daily life. It was more than just a hairstyle; it was a quiet act of love, a moment shared between my grandmother and me.
Every school morning, my grandma would gently divide my hair into two neat sections. Her hands, steady and practiced, would weave each braid with precision, her touch firm but never rough. The faint scent of her talcum powder would envelop me—a sweet, powdery fragrance that continues to remind me, even today, of the warm, comforting presence of the past.
Each morning, while my parents were away at work, my grandma would quietly come to our house. She would watch over my two brothers and me, ensuring we were fed and dressed for school. After school, she would greet us with warm meals.
Her presence was understated, yet impactful. She was a petite Catholic woman, always dressed in her traditional kebaya nyonya. With her elegant sarong, floral kebaya, and large purple gem necklace, she carried herself with an understated grace. The delicate gold kerongsang (brooch) she wore would glint softly in the light. To me, her traditional style seemed timeless, unaffected by the world’s pace. My grandma was someone who could weather any storm with resilience, warmth, and in her own time.
One of her many gifts was her cooking. Among her specialties was a curry made with sweet jackfruit—an absolute favourite of all her grandchildren, because it was sweet rather than spicy. But it was during Chinese New Year that her culinary talents truly shone. Her home would transform into a haven of tradition and love as she spent hours in the kitchen, surrounded by multiple charcoal pots, preparing festive treats by hand. Love letters, rolled paper-thin, buttery pineapple tarts filled with fresh pineapple, and Kuih Bahulu beautifully arranged in plastic tubs for all her family and neighbors.
Her pineapple tarts were nothing short of legendary. The crusts were firm and tart, giving way to a generous golden pineapple filling that we enjoyed with Fanta orange. To this day, I’ve never been able to find that taste of pineapple tart, replicated to Grandma’s perfection—the flavor remains unmatched in my memory, a taste so divine it feels almost sacred.
Even though my grandmother is no longer here, I feel her love lives on in me—in the way I braid my daughter’s hair now, in the meals I cook for those I care about, and in the traditions I hold close so that I can pass them on to my daughter and her children in the future—a reminder that some bonds are so profound they transcend even time itself.