In Teochew - Happy Birthday Song

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…”

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.)

The room went silent. The English song died in their throats. happy birthday song in teochew

Instinctively, everyone launched into the familiar English tune: “Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you…”

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.” The lyrics were simple, nothing like the polished

Ah Ma’s chin trembled. She looked at the little speaker, then at Jun Wei. “That’s… that’s my Aunty Siang’s voice,” she whispered in Teochew. “She sang that at my sweet sixteen .”

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. When it ended, Ah Ma took a deep

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.

A scratchy, tinny melody filled the room. It was a woman’s voice, young and strong, singing not in English, but in the rough, guttural tones of old Teochew.

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.