Taken 11 Aug 2004 - before I got prepared to meet the peeps for my birthday celebration, I sat down and requested for a shot with him. He didn't and never knew it was my birthday. After activating the timer, I sat beside him, bearing in mind that this might well be the last, and one and only shot I have with him.
12 Nov 2005, dad woke me up at day break. As part of me still lingers in the other dimension - the wonderland- the air, the shine, the temperature, and the chirps, early morning never failed to greet me from the dimension of reality. However, despite the good start such mornings should render, something is really wrong.
Firstly, ever since working with the shop, beautiful morning is not a privilege anymore. The time is cruelly dedicated to the other dimension. Secondly, dad never wake me up. Everytime dad steps into my bedroom to talk, it would be matters so solemn and urgent that could wake me up better than soaking my face in ice cold water. Dad woke me up to the dimension of reality.
He broke the news, one supposedly to be heart-breaking and could bring one to a state of lost. Upon hearing it, a sense of peace rode along the morning breeze through me. As I inhaled the peace, dad said, "get prepared. We should be setting off for Malaysia by afternoon." We are going back to the hometown of grandpa in Malaysia, Pontian, Jelotong.
*****
The same morning, I decided that I should report to work for half a day. While the seemingly abrupt news had appeared expected to me, this coming half day with the shop puts an abrupt end to my assignment to West Mall. Like a new soldier who settled in, and got so gelled to his platoon, I was being pulled out to attach to other units on the frontline. So foreign, so alien. I was brought to the vanguard of the company - the Paragon.
*****
By evening, on board a black jeep coated with a sandy brown, I slept my way through the 3 hour journey beside the driver, blood-related instead of psychologically attached.
Slapping myself to the dimension of reality once again, ungreeted by the presentees, however by the two servants standing still by the bright house that shelters the frame of the man who once was the guardian to my upgrowing 10 years back. Beckoned by dad, I bypassed the flushed maid to the casket.
Though in deep sleep, the man looked much heartier than he was one month back, while struggling for every breath, lying on the sofa back at Woodlands Ring Road. Donned in the smartest coat I ever witnessed on him, he seemed at ease. Despite being housed underneath the thick glass panel, just one foot above the tip of his nose, that granted the least of air, it had magically eased him of the hardships in fighting for a next breath in the most spacious openess supplying an abundance fresh air.
His two golden-plated front teeth still sparkles in my mind.
It was almost a 6 good years ever since I last inhale the freshness that arose from the kampong soil. Even this time round, the air of burning incense saturated every corner of the open space, as if to remind me always that I am here on a solemn affair.
The durian plantation left behind from two generations back.
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Not much help to prevent the invaders for every meal.
All but one building across the street, every other inch of soil and every piece of wood that constructed the shelter appeared to be unchanged as of 6 years back. Yellow was the theme of the village. Not one that would highlight the spirit of liveliness or joyful mood, the yellow reminds of wearing off, stained, and the antique. Across the street, the little coffee house, half the size of a stall, depicts the strongest definition of the yellow. The ceiling fan was freed of dust, apparently the shop was well maintained. But yet, the fan was yellow, leaving traces that it used to be white. The Suzuki scooter that drove in from the road left the same clue to the fading white. Even the boarish rider displayed evidence of yellow eyes and teeth, as he conversed in the native language - Teochew. This trip seemingly brought me back to the time when I wore 25" pants to frequent this village about yearly to receive ang pows in ringgits.
Bathroom
Four long days of kneelings, chants, prayers under the man-made shelter drew the curtain of a man who probably had time to ponder on the past 73 years. Staging Teochew-styled re-enactment of the Naihe bridge crossing, the modern monk sang an end to the 4-day ritual, before cremation.
I took a while to picture his last view, before the world turned black on him eternally. He probably saw the ceiling fan spinning aloft.
