My Hong KongIn the eerily quiet of a coronavirus shutdown, the deafening silence of the mahjong tables tell their own story

This week the government ordered the temporary closure of more entertainment venues, including karaoke lounges and mahjong parlours, in response to growing calls for further restrictions to slow the coronavirus pandemic. Over the next two weeks Hong Kong will experience, perhaps for the first time in its contemporary history, being one of the quietest places in the world. After all, what is this city without the cacophony of mahjong tiles being shuffled? The disappearance of this familiar clacking sound coming out of the hundreds of mahjong parlours is going to be eerily deafening. Their temporary closure certainly caused a huge uproar in the community, and understandably so, because playing mahjong, either in commercial parlours or at home, is undeniably the favourite recreational activity in Hong Kong. The move has come at a time when, according to a Chinese University poll, about 54 per cent of Hong Kong residents have found disruption to their social lives the hardest thing amid curbs brought in to contain the pandemic. Mahjong parlours are commonly known as mahjong schools in Hong Kong. I often take pleasure in explaining to foreign friends why they are called schools, when they are obviously gambling establishments. To me, they are like schools, because you are forced to learn to make choices in split seconds at a mahjong table. Just like in life, you can’t afford to be indecisive. Hong Kong’s ‘cart noodles’ are irresistible, but certainly not worth dying for In a game, you draw one tile and discard another; the same can be said for real life. You make a choice, stick with it, and then try to make the most of it or bear the consequences. Ultimately, you are forced to learn quickly, if you don’t, you have to cut your losses and leave the table. My family are not really into mahjong but many of my local friends are. They keep telling me it is not only a game, nor is it just about gambling. If someone invites you to a round or more, it is a clear gesture of friendship, or a sign you have been invited to be part of an inner circle. We sometimes hear stories about local movie stars playing mahjong non-stop for days during the Lunar New Year holiday. Less prominent or up-and-coming stars also like to brag about being present at these marathon games as a form of induction into an elite club. Friendships, relationships, and even business partnerships are formed – or even broken – around a mahjong table. Sometimes in Hong Kong movies, we see the game centres around women who are regular game mates playing mahjong while feasting on food, sharing stories, circulating gossip or playing family politics. The ritual has remained the same over the years, but the game mates don’t always have to be women. From my point of view, the rules of mahjong are maddening as well as mind-boggling. But at least I know that mastery of the game depends half on talent and half on luck. I tried to learn twice, but failed, knowing full well I don’t have the special talent for it; this means my chances of winning are half. But like any competitive game, people try to create their own luck and engage in superstitious practices to generate it. Some players will wear lucky underwear, while some take off theirs after a losing streak. Some take the same seat every time if it has brought them luck before, while some fight over what they perceive as a feng shui seat and some bring their lucky charm along. Wearing a mask has little to do with cultural differences Speaking of mahjong being a social occasion, whenever there are big family gatherings, it’s likely there will be at least a few mahjong tables around. It’s the noise, the shouting of excitement and laughing that Hongkongers so love, especially at a wedding banquet when noise is an essence. Sometimes, a mahjong session can be used for character screening. Parents invite their future daughter or son-in-laws to a game, which can fully reveal their personality. Hongkongers believe a person’s mahjong personality is their genuine character. Whether you are reckless, ruthless, nervous, decent, or generous, all these characteristics are laid bare at the mahjong table. Meanwhile, the clacking sound of mahjong tiles when shuffling is a big part of the fun. I remember when the rubber foam mahjong mat was introduced in a bid to reduce the noise, the product flopped as soon as it came on the market. There are also mechanical mahjong tables around that intend to make the game quieter. Needless to say, they never took off either. Some Hong Kong movies show the dark side of mahjong that serves ulterior motives, such as offering bribes by intentionally losing large sums of money to another person, sometimes public officials. But some bribes are not illegal, so a person may deliberately lose a game or two to curry favour with their partner’s parents. In Hong Kong, mahjong gambling has long been glorified in movies, which liken its skills to kung fu or other martial arts. The importance of saving face in Chinese communities cannot be underestimated Even people who have a lay knowledge of mahjong will appreciate the game from having watched Hong Kong movies or the 2018 American romantic comedy Crazy Rich Asians. The coronavirus pandemic has certainly pushed pause on many Hong Kong customs, but this noisy, frantic and animated table game that is most symbolic of Hong Kong culture and the most beloved game to kill time in the city will hopefully return. Although it can be eerie to walk around a city prized for its symphonic dissonance of noise, whether it’s the clacking of mahjong tiles, the loud chatter from your local cha chaan teng, or even the rush of traffic at all hours that you miss, just remember a little pain now is just what our city needs before it can begin to heal itself. Luisa Tam is a Post correspondent who also hosts Cantonese-language video tutorials that are now part of Cathay Pacific’s in-flight entertainment programme