I learned to rid my face of any expression that may betray my emotions with years of training. I keep my voice impassive, monotonous which hints at no sign of what I feel within. Some say I have no emotions, others say I was born without a heart. All these I hear, I let those words sink within me…but my trained facial muscles depict the calm water surface, dispelling the turbulence beneath.

My job requires me to be aloof, distant and disinterested. It doesn’t allow me to shed tears nor jump for joy no matter what subject was presented to me. I believe, beneath my wrinkles and creased skin, that I have forgotten how to cry for somebody.

I am a letter writer.

It was lucrative business. All I needed was my trusty set of brushes, rice paper, ink, a wooden table and a stool, and my hands. I was blessed with a learned mind, and a flair for penning accurate accounts. I could read the papers, but many others I know couldn’t. So I became a tool of communication for others, a glimmer of hope for them to call upon their loved ones whom they have abandoned to work here, in Singapore.

My day begins at seven in the morning. I make a little breakfast, trudge to the central station and arrange my brushes on the table they have set aside for me. Eight o’clock arrives, and I settle on my stool.

All kinds of requests come by my way – penning letters to family members and loved ones, certificates, lease, notes and agreements. Sometimes they bring me letters and ask me to read it to them. All sorts of people come by my table, from samsui women to amahs, from coolies to the hawkers. Sometimes, even as they speak, they cry. I pen their feelings onto paper, blinking back tears that threaten to smudge my precise strokes. I put to words too much feelings of loneliness, loss, heartaches and endless pinings, all the while having to maintain my distant self, not being able to reach across and give them a reassuring pat on the shoulder. In those days, what could one do? Money was of utmost importance to survive – family and loved ones can come later.

Two days ago a lady approached me, head bowed. I couldn’t see her entire expression, but I noticed her fingers clenched tightly around a hankerchief. My heart sank – a letter of sorrow. She sat, spoke, and I wrote:

My dear Ah-Hua, it is with a heavy heart that I write to you. I have not heard from you since World War II ended, and I fear that you may not return to me. There is no hope in my life without you. Gone were the days of bounding through the streets with you, sharing a bowl of fishball noodles at a street stall after work, the occasional opera we watch, and the kisses we shared. I have no more will to live, especially after what I went through last night. I hate those dark alleyways I have to pass to get home, and I shudder to think my walk home tonight, that is, if I do decide that I shall live to see another day. I can’t live anymore, not after what that man did to me along these horrible alleyways, it is a wonder I could even walk home at all…

It was a suicide note, but I could do nothing to stop her.

There are happy moments when parents come to me for wedding couplets, blessings and marriage certificates to be written. With that I could afford the tiniest of smiles, a hint of pleasure, and a temporary moment of joy when I could forget all sorrow, despair and hopelessness.

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Letter writers could easily earned a decent income especially after the World War II, when people flocked to them to establish communication with their families in their homeland after years of isolation. This carried on in the early 1960s with the weak Chinese economy. People took comfort in writing to their loved ones back home and send food, clothing or money to them.

The number of letter writers dwindled in the 1970s and 1980s as the demand for these composers declined, with many of their customers having either passed away or become too old to maintain communication with their families. Also, with increasing literacy, these immigrants could also easily compose their own letters or rely on their literate offspring.