Tiger-man

by Suria Tei

I was ten when my mother told me a story
about a tiger who disguised as a man
and climbed up the house of an old woman.
The tiger-man poured a sack of soybeans
on to the aluminium roof
and they dropped pat-pat-pattering
like a monsoon downpour.
‘It’s raining,’ the tiger-man shouted,
‘Go and collect your washing!’
He held open the empty sack
and waited for the old woman
to step out of the house.

My mother stopped talking and
looked out of the window.
There was no rain that day,
the sky clear and blue,
just like it had been the day before
at Grandmother’s funeral.
Sunshine fell onto my mother’s face
just like it had been the day before, too;
so are her eyes: gathering moisture, glinting.

I never knew what happened
to the tiger-man or the old woman.

Many years later, I would hear
the pat-pat-pattering of soybeans
when the tiger-man climbed up
to the roof of the hospital ward
where my mother had been lying,
where she would slip out of her bed
and walk towards the tiger-man
waiting at the door
with an empty sack.