The lyrics were simple, nothing like the polished English version. It went: “Leh jit gao si, huai sim si… Leh jit gao si, huai sim si… Gung hee leh, gung hee leh… Leh jit gao si, huai sim si…”
Her grandson, Jun Wei, was a modern boy. He spoke English in school, Mandarin with his friends, and could only understand Ah Ma’s Teochew when she said things like “Jiak png buay?” (Have you eaten rice yet?). happy birthday song in teochew
Ah Ma smiled politely, but Jun Wei saw it—a flicker of distance in her eyes. She was a guest at her own party, listening to a foreign song. The lyrics were simple, nothing like the polished
Tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks, but she was smiling—a real smile, not the polite one from before. She started to sing along, her ancient voice cracking but true. “Leh jit gao si, huai sim si…” Jun Wei didn’t know the words. But he knew the tune. He hummed along, off-key, holding her hand. His father, a stoic man who never cried, wiped his eyes with a napkin. Ah Ma smiled politely, but Jun Wei saw
It wasn't flowery. It wasn't global. It was the sound of a fishing village, of hardworking people who said “I love you” by asking if you’d eaten.
Today was her birthday. The family gathered in the stuffy living room, a store-bought cake with too much cream sitting on the plastic tablecloth. Jun Wei’s father cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s sing.”
They didn’t finish the English song. Instead, they let the old cassette player loop the Teochew birthday song three times. When it ended, Ah Ma took a deep breath and said, “Jiak png!” (Let’s eat rice.)