Tax Relief

All her life, whenever she’s been reluctantly dragged into a conversation about taxes, my mother always drops her voice to the kind of low whisper commonly associated with spa therapists.

            In the same soft tones in which you might be asked during a massage, “Excuse me, sir, but how is my pressure?”, Mother would say, “Have you filed your taxes?”

            Once, her sister asked, “Why are you whispering?”

            Mother’s head rotated discretely as she looked around the crowded and noisy restaurant, checking for eavesdroppers. Then, she leaned in. “You never know who might be listening!”
            A little spooked, Auntie Wai Ling whispered back, “In Crystal Jade?”

            “Anywhere!”

            Is it any wonder that all my mother’s children have inherited her abiding fear of taxes? Though, as Amanda once remarked, it says something about my sister Michelle’s level of masochism that she ended up as an accountant.

            “I just don’t like talking about taxes,” Mother murmured the other day in the hushed low tones which would have put to shame the reception at the Ritz-Carlton spa.

            “But what do you think is going to happen to you?” I asked.

            Mother shrugged. “You never know. Your uncle Eng Leong was once randomly audited, and three hours later, he was charged with embezzlement!”

“But wasn’t he cleared? I thought they discovered it was all the fault of his cheating accountant.”

Mother was unmoved. “Yes, but when it comes to taxes, in my experience, people tend to shoot first and ask questions later. Which, incidentally,” here Mother’s lips pursed in deep disapproval, “is how Leong ended up having to pay off that cabaret girl he’d slept with and knocked up because it turned out she was underage!”

As soon as I’d finished lunch with Mother, I immediately FaceTimed my sister. “She said that?” Michelle marvelled

“Shoot first!” I repeated.

“Amazing,” Michelle sighed. “She really does say the most inappropriate things for a respected pillar of the community.”

For her part, Saffy says she’s on Mother’s side when it comes to taxes. “I hate anything to do with taxes!” Her bosom inflated in shuddering gasps. “Every time I get a letter from IRAS, I get heart palpitations.”

Amanda stared at Saffy. “What are you so afraid of? It’s not like you’re embezzling or claiming fake expenses.”

Saffy stiffened. “You just never know with the tax authorities. They may get bored and decide to do some digging. Who knows what they might find?”

“Really bad maths, probably,” Amanda said.

To her credit, Saffy turned pink and giggled.

And to no one’s surprise, Sharyn, Singapore’s most militant fan and President of the We Love the PM Club, said that she had no fear of the tax authorities.

“If I do nah-ting wrong, what for, got scared?” She poked me in the ribs. “Right or now, hor, Jason?”

“First of all - Ow!” I said, rubbing my side. “Second, I’m with Saffy. The other day, I got an IRAS letter and I was so stressed out, I couldn’t focus on my lunch, and when I finally got the courage to open it, it turned out to be a just a form letter reminding me to file by taxes by a certain date!”

Saffy nodded savagely. “I know, right! I mean, who does that? It’s like getting your exam results!”

“Aiyoh, you all, ah! Your taxes so low or-redi, because your salary so low!” Saffy bristled at this, but Sharyn had moved on. “You just fill in one box with your salary. IRAS come and ka-chow you, for what? You tink they very free, issit?”

Saffy’s bosom swelled to a dangerous volume. “When you get audited, don’t come crying to me, Shazz, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Choy, choy, choy!” Sharyn spluttered. “You don’t anyhow say I get audited, can?”

But Saffy had already moved on, thoroughly caught up in the drama of national taxes. “It’s also why I never talk about taxes on the phone!” she added. “You just never know who might be listening!”

“I don’t think anyone is actually listening,” I told her. “It’s the listening devices that pick up trigger words to alert someone to listen in.”

“I’ve heard of the trigger words, but I seriously doubt ‘taxes’ is one of them,” Amanda said.

“You don’t know that!” Saffy puffed. “In fact, I don’t even think we should be talking so loudly about the IRAS!” By now, her voice had dropped to a soft whisper that Amanda said made her feel as if she was being asked if she needed a facial – but not in a good way.