To most people, the funeral industry carries a quiet sense of solemnity. It is a business, yet it has never been about closing a sale. It demands professionalism, but more importantly, it calls for compassion.
In Kulai, there is a small shop called Heng Fatt Funeral Services. Its doors are usually kept closed, yet it has quietly stood the test of time for more than twenty years. The owner, a Hakka Taoist priest, has spent half his life standing at the boundary between life and death, choosing to walk a path that has never sought the spotlight.
“In this line of work, people always come first,” he says. “Making money isn't difficult, but the bereaved families have their own financial burdens too. That's why you need to understand that this is a profession built on compassion.”
His words are more than just a guiding principle, they are a reflection of the life he has chosen to live.
In 1982, he entered the Taoist profession and became a Hakka Taoist priest. It was a time when traditional rituals were deeply respected, with strong emphasis on discipline, etiquette, and the passing down of knowledge from master to apprentice. Over the years, he accompanied his master through countless funeral rites, witnessing life's reunions and farewells through the people they served.
By the late 1990s, however, he began to notice that times were changing.
“The Taoist profession was slowly becoming a sunset industry,” he says calmly, without regret or resentment.
In 1998, he made a decision, not to leave the profession, but to add another calling alongside it. That was the year Heng Fatt Funeral Services was established in Kulai.
The early years were far from easy. Some months, he would sell just one coffin. At times, half a year would pass without a single customer. But he never rushed the process.
“I simply took it one step at a time. Once people got to know you, they'd come to you when the need arose.”
There were no promotions and no flashy advertising. He chose to earn people's trust the old-fashioned way—through time, sincerity, and consistency.
In the funeral industry, waiting at hospitals for potential customers is an open secret. But from the very beginning, he chose not to be part of it.
“We don't wait at hospitals.”
Even when someone calls to inform him of a passing, he first makes sure they are genuinely connected to the family. If the bereaved family says otherwise, he leaves immediately. No pressure, no persistence.
There were times when hospital staff would call him as well. Not wanting to offend anyone, he would politely acknowledge the call, but he never acted on it.
“I never followed up.”
To him, a funeral is not a business competition. It is one of the most vulnerable moments in a person's life.
“We've never believed that every case has to be ours, or that every family must choose us.”
That is also why the doors of Heng Fatt Funeral Services have remained closed most of the time. Since opening in 1998 and obtaining its licence in Taman Desa Kulai, the shop has rarely relied on walk-in customers. Instead, people find them through friends, word of mouth, and when the time comes, they simply remember them.
Over more than two decades, he has witnessed countless farewells—suicides, accidents, sudden deaths. Yet when a case involves police investigations or legal procedures, he usually chooses not to take it.
“Unless it's someone connected to a friend, we normally won't get involved.”
More than the circumstances surrounding a death, what matters most to him is preserving the order and meaning behind traditional funeral customs.
Kulai is home to many Hakka families, but it also has a large Hokkien community. Each dialect group observes funerals differently. Hokkien families traditionally hold zuo qi (the Seventh-Day mourning rites) and zuo xun (ten-day memorial rites), and the funeral procession may include carrying the deceased in a ceremonial sedan chair. Hakka funeral customs, on the other hand, are generally more straightforward.
Before a Hokkien funeral procession begins, families also prepare cooked food, tea, wine, and joss paper as symbolic offerings to accompany the deceased on their final journey.
In the past, Hokkien families would offer a whole white pig and a white goat during funeral rites. Today, as families have become smaller, many have replaced them with smaller offerings. As long as the bereaved family is comfortable with the arrangement, he fully respects their decision.
“Traditions can evolve, but they should never lose their proper order.”
What truly concerns him are the details that many people overlook.
Who should pay their respects first? Who serves as the chief mourner? Who stands alongside the chief mourner? When representatives from associations, guilds, or clan organisations arrive to offer their condolences, where should each person stand?
“It should always begin with blood ties.”
No matter how ordinary someone may seem, if they share the family's surname, they should stand in the centre. It is never about status or social standing, it is about honouring one's roots.
Even the wording on a coffin inscription is something he never takes lightly. When a father passes away, the inscription must clearly identify the children as Filial Son or Filial Daughter.
“This is how our culture is passed on.”
As the conversation turns to how funeral traditions have changed over the years, there is a hint of hesitation in his voice. He knows that many long-standing customs have been abandoned by the younger generation.
He recalls a question once asked by a fellow Taoist priest, who has since passed away:
“Has Chinese culture really moved forward, or have we lost our way?”
His answer is unwavering.
“In many ways, we've gone backwards.”
Not because things have changed, but because we have forgotten what those traditions were meant to preserve.
In a profession often seen as cold and distant, he has quietly held on to his sense of compassion. He never fights for business, never pressures a family into making a decision, and never relies on flashy marketing. Instead, he remembers the meaning behind every ritual, and never forgets the burden each bereaved family carries.
“The bereaved families work hard for their money too,” he says matter-of-factly.
The doors of Heng Fatt Funeral Services may have remained closed for most of the past two decades, yet people have continued to find their way there.
Perhaps that is why he has been able to walk this path between life and death with quiet conviction—never rushing, never wavering.
Because to him, this has never been just a business. It is a calling that asks him to remember the people, honour their roots, and always know where to draw the line.