Winning Combination
“You’re what, in your third year now?”
I nodded, with busy hands washing the tiles in unison.
“Studying English literature right? Are you planning to become a teacher when you graduate?”
On that note, my hands paused for a brief moment while the rattling sound of tiles greeting each other continues to fill in. If the tiles were speed-dating, so were we on the mahjong table. An annual fanfare that leaves one with dreaded questions such as that which my auntie posed.
“Well, not really. I’ve not figured that out myself. But probably, I’d further my studies,” I replied as I offered a quick caricature of a smile. “Probably. Film studies.”
My hands were now working overtime to drown out the possibility of her pushing her winning tile to my face.
Too late.
My cousin seated across the table who stopped short of arranging her tiles interjected like a good business partner, “Wah, so you want to be a film director or something?”
As if on cue, my aunt rocked into laughter. I felt like I was in an interrogation scene with the Corleone family. If only Coppola could have met my family or been to the annual new year gathering.
Just great, I sighed into my beer, the dynamic duo. Should have stayed glued to the television instead. As the session goes on, so too does the calculations. Dreams dreamt long ago are tossed into the pile, as mothers and fathers try their luck at finding the winning combination. Adjustments were constantly made to increase their chances. Vicarious lives put on display. Possibilities traded away in the chatter. Of this, of that, of the future yet to come.
“No, but anyway, you’re studying business right?” I said, as I returned my cousin the tile she had been looking for.
My aunt nodded in approval while my cousin went on to talk about the myriad projects and internship opportunities that were laid out on the table for her. While she blabbered on, I looked to my aunt who was clearly beaming at her daughter, at her winning combination. My brother on the other hand was busy trading tiles, counting tiles and paying no heed to the white noise around him. One had to be mindful of what was being brought to the table.
“So what, you’re going to be a businessman?”
All we could hear now was the conversation between the hardboiled detective and the femme fatale playing in the background, offering to fill in as a fugue. My aunt, appalled by the reduction I offered, simply threw out her tile in mock disgust.
“Eh, hu!” My brother let out in an undisguised joy.
“Thanks auntie.”
That, he said in mock gratitude while he drank in the moment of triumph.
Clearly, my brother was the best player at the table.
