As per her Chinese New Year ritual, Bao, my grandmother, invites her Mahjong buddies to the house. Every year there will be people of different races, ages; all from various chance meetings in her many Mahjong sessions. “Happy Chinese New Year!” I shout. Bao smiles and thrusts a red packet into my hands. “For the Mahjong game.” Before I can ask why she is teaching me a 200 year old game, she quips “I’m introducing you to a very important teacher of life. Haven’t I told you about the Mahjong test?” I shake my head. “Your mother was very popular, she had many admirers! I made sure every single one of them played Mahjong with me. It’s a window to a person’s true character - especially when the stakes are high.” I have no clue what Bao is talking about as my only exposure to Mahjong is a scene in the movie Crazy Rich Asians.

East

The man seated at the East corner, whom I simply refer to in my head as “East”, sports a red shirt, and what seems to be a pair of red undies peeking out from the top of his white jeans. His broken English is accompanied with wild hand gestures, clumsily knocking things over. East has counted his money three times before heading into the loo, then washed his hands clean. Bao tells me that is part of his ritual prior to **every game.

So far, East has thrown three different patterned tiles already. First he threw “Three Bamboo”. In the next turn he threw a “Seven Coin”, and now he is throwing a “Five Character”. As I am seated upstream from East, and holding a number of varied “Dragons” and “Winds”, Bao tells me to get rid of the Suits. Could he be reacting to what I throw?

In swimming, I used to keep obsessing about others and how far ahead they were. When I did, I always lost focus and forgot how to swim. If I had started second guessing myself, I might even have thought certain swim caps brought me more luck than others. Right now I guess East is doing the same. If he keeps second guessing himself, his game will be in shambles, and I should stop thinking about what he’s doing before I too, lose my path.

At this point, East expresses his desire for a drink, while South picks up a persistent phone call. West goes out for a smoke, and I take this chance to use the bathroom upstairs. On my way up, I overhear South’s conversation on the phone.

South

BANG!!! Across the table from me South loses his cool. A tile slams, and flies across the table. South needs “Coin” tiles, but instead hangs on to “Bamboo” tiles. Turns out, that is exactly the patterned tile his downstream, West, needs. Bao explains to me South won’t win by holding on to those tiles. South cracks his knuckles, sitting with one foot on the chair and elbow across knee. He scowls in frustration, glancing at West and throwing another “Coin” tile. Is he sacrificing his own game to stop others from winning? I understand how you can win by not losing, but not why that would be a valid strategy.

Recently I learned in debate not to fear a rebuttal to make a point. Otherwise, I sacrifice a great argument that may never be rebutted.

So far, South’s emotions of fear and anger have been playing his game. The biggest victim here may not be just West, but the poor tiles constantly slammed onto the table surface.

 West

Her blonde hair and American accent are incongruent to her Mahjong peers. “Since my arrival, Mahjong has become an endless obsession.” West said. She seems at ease speaking to East and South despite the language barrier. Eyes trained on her tiles, West’s poker face conceals inner excitement. Bao tells me she is waiting for “Three Bamboo” or “Six Bamboo” to win the game. Little does she realise all but one are already out on the table.

Seeing this reminds me of meals at home, a family of five with two other “hungry ghost” siblings, where dinner is a survival of the fastest. If your eyes leave the table’s dishes, dinner will be plain rice with a dash of bitter sorriness.

Just when I think of warning West, East exclaims suddenly, “You see ‘Bamboo’ tile? Many out already!” West lifts her head, and laughs in embarrassment, East joining in. Soon everyone is laughing, and the moody competitiveness turns into all-around giggles. Winning does not seem so important anymore, and at last East throws West the last “Three Bamboo” tile, winning him smiles and praise from the table.

Except South.

 North

Even with Bao’s charitable funding, we are both absolutely bankrupt. I have not won any games, but Bao encourages me and continues to show me the way. I feel luck is on my side and I have a good hand. Bao reminds me to keep my expectations in check. “Luck is simply a belief; never get too high or low.” Even so, it is hard not to think about winning with one tile to go. At that very thought, as quickly as the wind changes, South gets a tile, and slams it on the table, flipping his entire deck. My face falls. I had come so close to winning. Bao interrupts my thoughts. “Without sacrifice and failure cannot come experience and wisdom. Play enough games, experience enough losses, and you will eventually win. Ready for the next round?”

By the end of the day, I have won twice, with every dollar paid to my three new Mahjong teachers. From these acquaintances I have discovered the solemn ritual of red undies, which will definitely be worn during exams. The “teacher of life” Bao introduced is an often overlooked invention, where game sessions turns into life lessons. Most of all, I’m grateful to Bao. She taught patiently, explaining the rules as I blundered through the game. I now better understand the scene from Crazy Rich Asians. Mahjong is not always about winning, it is also about the experience gained from losing, and letting go to move on.

 Bao

“Bye Bao! Thank you!” She says to me. My granddaughter leaves and my wallet is empty. Grumpy Guo, whom my granddaughter referred to as South, celebrates his victories, coin drawer teeming with money. Luckily, I have foreseen this and prepared a backup plan. Gathering my guests, I announce my desire to play another round of Mahjong. We raise the stakes. By the time night falls, my coin drawer overflows, and Old Huang has lost a bet on his underwear.

As I wave them off into the night, Claire gives me an extravagant double air kiss. Grumpy Guo is the last to leave, face tightening. He breaks down into tears, confessing his story. His girlfriend threatens to break up with him if he doesn’t get her a branded handbag he can’t afford. Generously, I insist on giving him my winnings, thrusting it into his grateful hands. I may have rescued him this time, but it looks like his Mahjong skills has to improve to afford his girlfriend!