Threads of Midnight

Grandma Lian always swore that black brought only sorrow.

“Funeral color,” she’d mutter, pushing the ebony scarf to the back of the cupboard whenever Mei tried to wear it. Traditions, she’d say, kept the family safe, just as they had in her Hakka village, long before planes and phones stitched continents together.

But tonight, planes and phones had done exactly that. Mei stepped through the apartment door hand-in-hand with Suresh, her college sweetheart from Chennai. Their engagement rings caught the light like twin promises, and the couple exhaled in unison, ready for the hardest part of the journey: convincing the family that love could look like blended spices and mixed pigments.

Grandma sat on the sofa, roselle tea cooling beside yesterday’s newspaper. The sight of Suresh’s dark eyes sparked a rustle of whispers among uncles in the corner. Aunties exchanged glances that said, So soon? But Mei bent, took Grandma’s fragile hands, and spoke gently.

“Pó pó, we’re getting married next spring. You’ll be there, right?”

Grandma opened her mouth, words caught in a net of fears older than anyone in the room. She glanced at Suresh’s skin; she glanced at Mei’s dress, silk as black as midnight.

“You wear mourning colors, ah? And this man’s customs…” She shook her head. “Our ancestors..”

“crossed oceans too,” Suresh interrupted, bowing in respect. “Mine sailed from South India to Penang a century ago. Maybe they shared a cup of kopi with yours.”

The living-room stilled. Grandma’s cloudy eyes widened at the idea that stranger and kin might once have broken bread together.

Mei unfolded a photo album she’d prepared. Page 1: her parents’ wedding in 1985, white gown, red cheongsam, Western vows side-by-side with tea ceremony. Page 2: her cousin’s Peranakan-Malay reception, batik kebaya twirling to Bollywood beats. Page 3: portraits of global designers who had spun black thread into gowns celebrated from Tokyo to Paris.

“This color?” Mei traced a sleeve of onyx silk. “It’s not grief; it’s a canvas. It lets other colours sing, like how our cultures can.”

Silence rippled. Then Grandma lifted one trembling finger and touched the fabric. Memories surfaced of nights sewing under one dull bulb, dyeing cotton with charcoal to stretch a wartime ration. Black once meant survival, she realized, not sorrow. Maybe meanings changed when hearts did.

“I’ve never tasted masala thosai,” Grandma whispered, voice softer than moth wings.

Suresh smiled. “Let me cook some for you. And you can show me how to fold dumpling pleats as neat as yours.”

Something fragile and new flickered in Grandma’s eyes, curiosity. She nodded once, an almost imperceptible bow.

Weeks passed. Lantern Festival arrived, and with it the family’s first pot-luck of Chinese tangyuan floating beside Indian payasam. Grandma, dressed in an elegant black shawl Mei had tailored for her, tasted sesame glutinous rice balls sweetened with jaggery. Laughter rose like smoke from incense, blending cinnamon with ginger, Hokkien with Tamil.

Later that night, Grandma placed a calligraphy scroll above the dining table. Four characters glistened in ink the color of midnight:

知古而不囿 — “Know the past, but do not be trapped by it.”

She turned to her granddaughter, eyes shining. “Tradition is the root,” she said, touching the scroll, “but branches must reach new skies, or the tree will wither.”

For the first time, Mei saw not an immovable guardian of yesterday, but a bridge to tomorrow, fashioned from threads of midnight and wide enough for everyone to cross together.