Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 149

The New Tales of Old Shanghai
Discovery Bay International School, Sullivan, Hannah -12
“T
hey never!” Grandma exclaims, clasping a frail hand over her downturned mouth. Looking up from my
scatter of dolls, I notice the sizeable newspaper rattling in my Grandma’s grasp.
“What happened Grandma,” I say, “Did someone come to harm?”
Lost for words, Grandma slowly points at the article which had caused her such a fright. I strain my eyes to see what
it could possibly be: ‘ Shanghai temple of 200 years to finally be taken down and replaced with 7/11 store in 1960.’
Exasperated, I groan, “Grandma it's just a temple. Besides, we could do with a few more 7/11 stores around here!”
Why would an old temple like that matter anyways? It’s not like Shanghai as I know it will come to an end due to
this.
“No, Miss Bella Rosa Yeung! It is not just a temple ! It is a holy place to Buddhists like myself. It is a sight where I
would go as a child to look on with awe. It is also where your father and your Uncle Dan went as children on
weekends. And…” She halts. A few awkward seconds pass before a small droplet strolls down her crinkled skin, like
that of morning dew on an autumn leaf. She gently touches a bent finger to her heart, then raises her head to look at
me. “And it is the place your Grandfather was buried last August.”
Gasping, I feel my eyes pool with tears. I loved my Grandfather more than words could express. Last year when he
had died of heart failure, my Grandma and I shared equal pains in our aching hearts. Mentioning his name always
claws at the unhealed scars, drawing fresh blood - fresh pain.
“Grandma… I - I'm so sorry. What can we possibly do to stop this from happening? I stutter, my voice a mouse’s
squeak. Grandma shakes her head at me.
“Before we know it, old Shanghai will be long gone; replaced by flashy buildings and expensive shopping malls,”
The old woman mutters, “It’s up to your generation to do something about it.”
With a determined look on my face, I nod my head. No one will stop me from saving Grandfather's legacy…
*****
“Excuse me Mister?” I holler, pushing my hands uncomfortably hard against my cheeks to project my voice. The
streets of Shanghai are bustling with hurried men and women dressed top to toe in expensive finery. Several signs
dangle from tall apartment blocks, flashing advertisements in bright, neon colours. Occasionally, the odd
food-delivery-bike is parked at a corner, wafting the delicious aromas of noodles, sweet potato and dumplings to
the eager crowd. I see all these sights of new things, big things, bright things; but seldom do I see the ancient
wonders my Grandma has become so fond of.
I remember my fifth birthday with my family as if it was yesterday: Mama and Papa woke me in the early hours
when the sun was still stubbornly lying in bed. They softly sang to me as I stretched my tired limbs and scratched my
sun-kissed cheeks. Soon after, they fastened me in the back seat of the car and hinted for me to drift off during our
long ride. This I did, and by the time I awoke again, my father was pulling our small black car into my Grandparents’
gravelly driveway. The dear old lady stood at the door, her limp grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. In a navy blue,