Afterlife business

NAVEL GAZER
By ALEXANDRA WONG

What nurses, funeral directors and a coffee-shop owner taught me about professionalism.

Did somebody just insult your mother?”

“Close.”

Mr Yap didn’t need to be a mind-reader to tell I was hopping mad. I barked out Hokkien mee to his bewildered staff — I was usually all smiles — before focusing fully on him. “She insulted my profession!”

Taking a sip from my green tea, I duly launched into a tirade. The offending encounter had taken place at a media event, where by way of introduction, an award-winning book author had said, “Oh, you’re a lifestyle writer, eh? The easy beat.”

Suave: Chow Yun Fat in A Better Tomorrow. Funeral directors look every bit as dapper in their three-piece suits as the actor, after they have done their day’s work.

“Oh. That’s a bad thing?” Mr Yap furrowed his brows. “Sorry, ah. I boh tak chek (Hokkien for “Haven’t had much education”).”

“Yes,” I ground out the word. “It implies that what we do has less merit than her work.”

Mr Yap nodded diffidently, knowing better than to talk cold logic at times like these. Instead, he pointed to the cover of the magazine I had deposited on the table along with my press kit and handbag.

“A magazine about millionaires?”

“I have an interview in there with some hotshot investor,” I said distractedly. I had picked it up from the publisher’s office after the media event.

“Ah, these days millionaires are a dime a dozen,” he said, to my surprise. “Consultants. Salesmen. Gurus. Go to any MLM company, and you can find hundreds of people in the millionaire club. Do you know that a nurse in Dubai can earn RM42K a month? ”

“Wah, no wonder my mother’s friends are clamouring to sign up their daughters for nursing courses,” I chuckled, my new nemesis temporarily forgotten.

This is why I enjoy talking to Mr Yap. He always offers new perspectives.

“Wealth is relative, you know? In fact, if I had accepted a job offer from Japan, I could very well have been a millionaire myself . . .” he trailed off.

“Really? To do what?”

“You know those guys who dress up the dead and make them pretty before they’re buried?”

“An encoffiner?” I hazarded.

He nodded, raising his eye–brows, probably surprised that I knew such an esoteric fact.

Truth be told, I had no idea such a profession even existed until a friend talked me into watching the highly acclaimed Oscar-win­ning movie Departures. This quietly powerful Japanese film had shaken me to the depths of my being.

“Just last weekend, I watched a Japanese movie about this very subject,” I explained.

“So what did you learn?”

“Hmm. Well, first, I never imagined that preparing somebody for the afterlife was such a high art, demanding both skill and com­passion. And who would have thought that the afterlife business is so lucrative?”

“It makes sense, if you think about it. This job comes with high pressure. Nurses, encoffiners ... have you any idea of the trials and tribulations they face daily? Every day, you have to deal with sick people and look at dead people.

“You think all dead people are pretty? What if the corpse had been through a bad accident? His jaw may have split into two. A bloody wound exposed, and your job is to pack it back into its proper place like cement before it enters the box . . .”

“Mr Yap!” I shrieked, pointing at my leftover Hokkien mee. “I don’t think I can finish my meal now.” Then, more seriously, “You’re right, though. In the show, the protagonist couldn’t even bear to tell his wife because of the social stigma.”

“You could say the same about the entire undertaking business. One of my friends resisted for a long time before he finally resigned himself to it.”

“What changed his mind?”

“He married a girl whose mother happened to sell coffins for a living. Naturally, she tried to persuade him to join the trade. In case you didn’t know, coffin selling is a sure-win business. The coffin-makers only bill you for every casket sold. No debts. Minimum overheads. At first, my friend tried running a restaurant, but it didn’t do well, so he ended up helping his mother-in-law. When he realised how lucrative the undertaking business was, he even persuaded me to join him.”

He paused to let it all sink in, then continued.

“Have you ever seen the modern lam mor loe (funeral director)? While conducting the ceremonial rites, they don the ornate traditional robes. Once they peel off those robes, they’re visions in dapper three-piece suits like Mark Kor (Chow Yun Fatt’s iconic character in A Better Tomorrow). Lately, I heard he invested in an Estima to ferry his bodyguards. Bodyguards, imagine that!”

I suspected Mr Yap was taking some liberties but kept my thoughts to myself. Instead, I nodded encouragingly. Always good to learn new things.

“It’s big money,” he said emphatically. “Provided you have a good network of contacts. Like all businesses, the business of after-death management is all about networking. Every link in the chain has been pau (bought over).”

“Meaning?” I furrowed my brows questioningly.

“Let me give you an example. When my friend’s father passed away, the nurse immediately phoned the undertaker. By the time he reached home, they were already waiting at his gate!”

“So efficient!” I exclaimed.

He nodded sagely. “Don’t think only white-collar workers need to be professional,” he said with a wink. “Whatever our profession, we must be efficient and organised. And respect everybody. You never know whose help you will need one day. Cik yip moe fun kwai chin (In a profession there is no distinction between high-class and low-class).”

I eyed Mr Yap with a mix of amusement and admiration. If anyone could spin Zen gold out of straw, it was Mr Yap. So what if he boh tak cek? He had more prescience, foresight and wisdom than some “highly educated” people I knew. My thoughts turned towards this afternoon’s unpleasant encounter.

As if reading my mind, he chirped, “Leng lui, focus on things and people that are truly worth your time. Don’t let siew yan (mean-spirited people) ruin your day. Weren’t you telling me the other day that you have a mountain of assignments waiting for you?”

I reflected on my unfinished articles. Charting the legacies of the country’s first premier. Interviewing independent book shop owners. Profiling 18 Malaysian women who had made extraordinary contributions to the community.

I’d stick with the easy beat anytime.

In the meantime, there was one new development that required my attention.

“Say, Mr Yap,” I began hopefully. “Do you still keep in touch with your trenchcoat-wearing, Estima-driving undertaker friend?”

Alexandra Wong (bunnysprints.blogspot.com) says, once a writer, always a writer.