It seemed to me that in this confluence of cultures, we had acquired one another’s superstitions without necessarily any of their comforts.

They had all my favorite kinds of kuih—the soft steamed nyonya cakes made of glutinous rice flour stuffed with palm sugar or shredded coconut. There were delicate rolled biscuits called love letters and pineapple tarts pressed out of rich pastry. Bowls of toasted watermelon seeds were passed around, along with fanned slices of mango and papaya.

I had seen some of the painted hell scrolls that depicted the gruesome fates awaiting sinners. There were people being boiled in oil or sawed in half by horse and ox-headed demons. Others were forced to climb mountains of knives or were pounded into powder by enormous mallets. Gossips had their tongues ripped out, hypocrites and tomb robbers were disemboweled. Unfilial children were frozen in ice. The worst was the lake of blood into which suicides and women who had died in childbirth or aborted their children were consigned.

My father’s withdrawal from the world meant that he had sought out no friends with sons and had arranged no match for me. For the first time I began to fully comprehend why Amah was continually angry with him on this subject. The contrast between the realization of his neglect and the fondness I had for my father was painful. I had few marriage prospects, and would be doomed to the half-life of spinsterhood. Without a husband, I would sink further into genteel poverty, bereft of even the comfort and respect of being a mother.

...my father said, “What, you don’t want to be a widow at almost eighteen? Spend your life in the Lim mansion wearing silk? But you probably wouldn’t be allowed any bright colors.” He broke into his melancholy smile. “Of course I didn’t accept. How would I dare? Though if you didn’t care for love or children, it might not be so bad. You would be housed and clothed all the days of your life.”

Despite my terror, I felt a slow burning in my stomach. Why should I be married to this autocratic buffoon, alive or dead?
“I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘I don’t think so.’ I don’t want to marry you!”
Lim Tian Ching’s eyes narrowed into slits. Despite my bold words, my heart quailed. “You don’t have a choice in this matter. I’ll ruin your father.”
“Then I’ll become a nun.”
“You don’t know the extent of my influence! I’ll haunt you; I’ll haunt your father; I’ll haunt that meddling amah of yours.” He was raging now. “The border officials are on my side, and they said I have a right to you!”
“Well, you are dead! Dead, dead, dead!” I shrieked.

What was happening out in the world of men? Had Tian Bai talked to his uncle again? What were we to do with our debts? How I wished I could go out and make inquiries by myself. If only I had a brother or a cousin to rely on. Despite the fact that my feet were not bound, I was confined to domestic quarters as though a rope tethered my ankle to our front door.

“The problem with the dead was that they all wanted someone to listen to them.”

“Estaba enfadada, desesperada, y ya no me importaba nada. Pero realmente no creo que mi intención fuera morir.”

“I was angry, desperate, and I didn't care about anything anymore. But I really don't think my intention was to die.”

“It seemed to me that in this confluence of cultures, we had acquired one another’s superstitions without necessarily any of their comforts.”

“The town of Malacca was very still, dreaming under the tropical sun of its past glories, when it was the pearl of port cities along the Straits.”

“The hours, days, and years that had bled away in his opium haze demanded a payment from my future.”

“[T]o marry the living to the dead was a rare and, indeed, dreadful occurrence.”