A show of hands - how many of you men reading this are fathers in your 50s or older? Not many, I see. I guess that's because technology and the Internet age has zoomed right past our fathers without slowing down for them to jump on the bandwagon too. If it had, I'll bet my dad would have been quite the blogger, especially since he always had something intelligent to say about politics, religion, education, people and life in general. Instead of blogs filled with immature mindless dribble about how physically able people should not be barred from using restrooms meant for the physically challenged or poking fun at religion (no offense meant to others who share their honest and heartfelt opinions, thoughts and feelings), we would be reading about life experiences and learning from our fathers' mistakes. My father was no blogger but he was always enthusiastic about sharing his life stories and experiences with me over dinner or during our car rides together. In fact, I think he would have loved the concept of blogging because he spent many weekends writing his thoughts and worries in a "reporter's" notepad. About a year ago, I bought him 10 of those "reporter's" notepads because he decided on writing his life story. I am not sure if he managed to fill them all up but I recently managed to find one of his notepads labeled "volume 2" written in his handwriting. Unfortunately, I can no longer ask him where he kept the rest of his "work" because he passed away on 27 January 2006. So, I dedicate my very first blog entry in cyberspace to my father - a man who loved writing.
My father was born in India and came to Singapore to work for the British Army. Since his youth, he had a passion for learning and along with that passion came a desire to teach. So, after a short stint with the British Army, he ventured out into teaching and started his own classes. With his little savings, he bought a table, a chair and a typewriter. He rented a small classroom from a Chinese school back in the early 50s and taught typewriting to students in the evenings. Students would come for their scheduled lessons and learn to type on that typewriter. As his classes started getting popular, he bought another table, chair and typewriter so that he could accommodate more students keen to learn a valuable skill. Two typewriters became four and four became eight. In 1957, he decided to start his very own private school. His school was one of the first few private schools in Singapore and by the late 60s and early 70s, the typewriting classes were filled with at least 200 typewriters and students were still on the waiting list to join.
While my father's venture brought him much fortune, he was not really interested in money. His main aim was to educate people. If a student came saying that he could not pay his school fees, he'd still allow them to continue their study without charge. Many of his old students, whom I had the opportunity to talk to when they received word of my father's passing, told me these stories. Of course, they also told me that he was a very strict Principal and all his students feared him back then. I guess this was reflective of the importance he placed on education.
So, he was a strict Principal and educator. But was he a strict father? There is no correct answer to that. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy but he loved his children very much. When I was a young boy, we would drive down to town in his convertible and spent time hanging out at Robinson's buying an obscene amount of toys, much to the disgust of my mother when we returned home. On the way home, we'd stop at A&W (remember that fast-food place?) and both father and son would have a root beer float each. I'd usually get sick by the time i got home - root beer, ice-cream and a fast car without a roof is not a good combination for a small boy. Again, my mother would flip her lid. As loving as he was towards me, he would not tolerate me being rude to anyone or misbehaving in anyway. He taught me the importance of respecting elders and helping anyone in need if it is within my means. Whenever we passed by a beggar on the street (it was common back then), he would pass me a one-dollar note for me to hand it to him.
While my mother was a firm believer in the saying "spare the rod and spoil the child" and regularly replenished her stock of canes from the nearby market, my father only used the cane on me once in my entire life. And even when I got that one stroke from him at the age of 9, I still remember thinking how much I deserved it. My father called me from work to ask me about my homework. I cannot remember why but I got irritated and slammed the phone down without answering him. I knew immediately that I was in trouble but figured he would call me back, give me a good yelling over the phone and all would be well again. Ten minutes passed - no call. Twenty minutes passed - no call. This can't be good. Silent treatment? Noooo. After twenty-five minutes, I saw my father's car pull up in front of our house! My heart almost stopped. He got out, came into our house and walked right past me towards the kitchen. He fumbled for something there and came out with the cane in his hand and delivered one stroke. He threw the cane away on his way out, got into the car and drove back to work... all without saying a word to me. To this day, I remember my father's one "stroke". It was a lesson I will never forget.
My father's weakness was his passion for cars, and fast ones too. I guess that has rubbed off on me over the years considering the cars that I have owned. He was well-to-do back then and money was no object. If he saw a car he liked, he'd buy it. Of course, there was no waiting for COEs and all that jazz back then so if he decided to buy a car in the morning, it would be delivered in the evening. And as soon as he got home in his new car, he'd bring me out for a ride in it.
As with all good times, I've come to accept the fact that they never last. In the late 70s, my father lost a huge legal battle with his landlord due to a technicality and lost most of his hard-earned money. I remember that it was one of the biggest cases in Singapore's history back then - making the front page of the papers. My mother was devastated. But my father never flinched. The only time he showed any emotion about his misfortune was when he had to sell his convertible. But I know that he would never let it get him down for too long. Being an incurable optimist, his constant belief was that "things will definitely get better". So, till the day he became very ill, he frequently reminded me to look out for his favourite 1970 MG Triumph sports car in the newspapers or in car magazines under the "For Sale" category. I tried in vain. Sadly, I chanced upon a beautifully restored one for sale, a week after he passed away. I cried inconsolably.
Although he believed that the good times would return, he struggled till the very end. As a result of the legal battle back then, he had to work very hard to try to normalise everything again. He never really caught a break after that - having to face one set-back after another. I think the biggest blow for him was in 1995 when my mother passed away. You see, my mother was not only his life partner but his business partner at the school. In fact, that's where they met! My mother had come to the school to learn typewriting during the 60s and fell in love with the suave Principal. Hmmm.... Eventually, my mother became a teacher there too. So, they ran the business together. After she died, my father seemed to have lost his drive. But he carried on because of his love of teaching and did not want to disappoint students who came to his school wanting to learn. His not wanting to disappoint anyone also extended to his children. One morning a few days after my mum passed away, I overheard a conversation with a friend of my dad's who came to offer his condolences. Although I didn't her the question, my father's response was something I will never forget. He said "My only duty now is to ensure that my children do not feel the loss of their mother even for one second". And he kept to his word. When we got home, there was always food waiting for us. Clothes were washed and ironed even though it was my responsibility to do it. Marketing and shopping was done every weekend without fail. And if he found a button had fallen off from a shirt when he was ironing, it would be replaced. All this was done despite his 9 am - 9 pm work at the school.
My dad used to call me on my mobile phone from time to time when I am out and about. Once, a friend asked me "Who are you talking to? Your cousin?". "My father", I answered. "Wah, you talk to your father like talking to your buddy", came his response. Don't all sons talk to their fathers like friends? Apparently, not all. So, I posed this question to my father. His reply was "My father and I never spoke except when he wanted me to run errands. As a result, I became very frightened of him. So, I promised myself that when I became a father, I will not do the same thing to my son." I felt something tugging at my heart at that moment. It also reminded me never to take such blessings in life for granted.
Growing up, we all think our parents are invincible. We turn to them for everything, big or small. Every time they deliver, our belief in their invincibility is further strengthened until one of them dies - then that belief is shaken beyond repair. These thoughts hit me when my mother died. It was then that I became very fearful about losing my father. Sadly, that fear has become a reality for me. While it still hurts terribly to know that I will never again be able to see his reassuring smile, to hear his wise words of advice, to feel his hand on my forehead when he thinks I am not well, I know he is in a much better place than the one he has left me in. For almost a year, he suffered through major surgeries, painful procedures and two strokes before he died. But he bore them all bravely without complaint because he still believed that things will definitely get better. Now that he is with God and free from his tortured body, I guess he was right after all.
I will miss him forever.
