Love flowers from bougainvilleas.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 6th March 2005.
By Geeta Patel.

There were five of us besides Father and Mother. Two boisterous boys followed by a welcomed girl and later, a chubby boy. There was a space of roughly two-and-a-half years between each child. After a period of five years, a surprise came along - me.

We were all of different temperaments and personalities. Father, just like the cowboys in the movies he frequented, was the type to "shoot first and ask questions later".

There were many mischievous episodes, in school and at home, and once caught, we were duly punished. The type of punishment varied with the mischief committed. It was tough growing up under martial law, but we were a loyal lot who ran to Mother when things got rough. Cuddled up in her saree, which smelled of coriander and chapattis, we found comfort, respite and many words of advice.

Through the knowing eyes of the many neighbors in close-knit Pearl Garden, Fair Park in Ipoh, I made sense of our family, my being. Through their conversations, peppered with wide observations of our daily routine, we realized we were a blessed lot who had access to many luxuries others did not.

We began to see past Father's strict demeanor and Mother's all-knowing remonstrations. We began to see Father as a responsible parent who made time for his noisy family each Sunday.

I also began to see Father as a pruning artist as he tended to his colorful riotous garden.

There were many varieties of flowers in the garden at our house. They were housed in different ways as well - some in the ground, others in different types of clay pots. I could hardly remember the names rattled off by Father, who, when he could not remember scientific names, would create his own versions and name the flowers according to their shape or texture.

Besides the ubiquitous rose and marigold, the one plant that he could pronounce and I could remember was the bougainvillea. Oh, Father grew them in a riot of colors all around the perimeter of the garden. From here, not only did I learn the glamorous spelling of the plant, I began to get acquainted with the different colors they evolved into as they grew taller, larger and older. To me, they were flowers with leaves, thorns and gnarled trunks. But to Father, they were his existence.

Now grown up, and with a garden of my own, I believe I know why he regarded them as his life. The flowers were us, the children; the pots and the ground were the different types of opportunities provided. The water and nutrients were the nourishment to help the flowers develop. Likewise, we, too, developed under the care, guidance and sustenance provided.

The different colors of the bougainvillea reflected its different varieties.

Metaphorically, that was us - with our different personalities. As the flowers grew, their colors changed; so did we, as we aged. We developed and matured, and because our needs were different, we, for good or worse, underwent some changes as well.

Father treated the flowers, especially his bougainvilleas, like his children. And indeed, they were, for through pruning, weeding, watering and a little bit of tender conversation, he learnt how to nurture and nourish them so that we could grow tall, strong and adaptable.

Wiping the slate clean.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 27th Febraury 2005.

By Ng Mei Huey.

Lisa sat on the floor, staring at the old shoe box in front of her. She had decorated it many years ago, for use as her memory box.

One by one, she took her things out: photographs of her family at the Grand Canyon; her note from her friend telling her that Nick liked her; some sweet cards. She lingered over the last before reaching for the last item in the box. It was a single sheet of paper with lines drawn to form boxes - 490, to be exact, and each box had one check mark.

As she stared at the paper, her mind wandered ...

"How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter had asked Jesus. "Seven times?"

The Sunday school teacher then read out Jesus' answer to the class: "Seventy time seven."

Lisa leaned over to her brother and whispered, "How many times is that?"

Brent, two years younger but smarter, replied, "490".

She nodded and sat back in her chair.

Brent looked small for his age. He had narrow shoulders and came close to being a nerd. But his incredible talent in music made him popular among his friends. His music teacher had predicted that he would be a musician some day.

That night, Lisa drew up the chart with 490 boxes. She wanted to tally the number of times Brent forgave her. She showed him the chart before going to bed.

He protested. "You don't need to keep count." 

"Yes, I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You are always forgiving me, and I just want to keep track."

Slowly, the ticks filled the boxes. No. 418 was for losing Brent's keys; 449, for the dent in his car, which she'd borrowed; 467, for the time she put extra bleach in the washing and spoilt his favourite shirt.

They had a small ceremony when Lisa ticked No. 390. She let Brent sign the chart before putting it away in her memory box.

"I guess that's the end ... no more screw-ups for me!" she exclaimed.

Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."

Soon enough, it happened. No. 491 was another careless mistake...

When Brent was in 4th grade at music school, he was offered an opportunity to audition for a place with an orchestra in New York. He was out when the call came. Lisa was the only one home; the audition was scheduled for May 26, the secretary reminded.

Lisa didn't think to jot that down, but assured her that Brent would get the message. Straight after hanging up, she sa down for her own music practice, and totally forgot about the call.

Some weeks later, as the family was having dinner, Brent suddenly said, "The people from the NY Orchestra were supposed to inform me..."

"What's the date today?" Lisa shouted.

"June 8."

"Oh no!"

She'd blown her brother's big chance. Guilt engulfed her as she related, how she'd picked up the phone and what happened after that. Brent ran straight into his bedroom and didn't come out again, not even to watch his favourite TV show.

That night, Lisa wrote a note. "Mum and Dad, I've made a terrible mistake and Brent won't forgive me. Don't worry, I'll be fine." - and left home.

She found a job in another town and settled into a small apartment. Her parents wrote countless letters to her, but she refuse to read or answer any of them.

One day, while at work, Lisa met a family friend, Aunt Winnie, who blurted out: "I'm so sorry about your brother..."

"Brent? What happened to him?"

Aunt Winnie explained that he had had an accident on the highway and died on the spot.

That night, Lisa returned home. After crying on Brent's bed, she crept into her own room and opened the memory box. There, on top of her forgiveness chart, was another, which had letters written big and bold: 

"491: Forgiven forever. Love, your brother Brent."

Water the rose within.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 27th February 2005.
By Mohammed Ismail.

A man planted a rose and watered it faithfully. A bud came out and he saw that it would soon blossom. Then he noticed thorns on the stem and wondered, "How can any beautiful flower come form a plant burdened with so many sharp thorns?"

Saddened by this thought, the man neglected to water the rose. Just before it was ready to bloom, it died.

So it is with many people. Within every soul, there is a rose. The god-like qualities planted in us at birth grow amidst the thorns or our faults.

But many of us look at ourselves and see only the thorns, the defects. We despair, thinking that nothing good can possibly come from us. We neglect to water the good within us and eventually, it dies. We never realise our potential.

Some people do not see the rose within themselves; someone else must show it to them. One of the greatest gifts a person can possess is being able to reach past the thorns of another, and find the rose within them.

The pickle jar.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 20th February 2005.
By Margaret Kam.

The pickle jar, as far back as I could remember, sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy, I was always fascinated by the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.

When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big thing. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully and say: "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old town's not going to hold you back."

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank towards the cashier, he would grin proudly. "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice-cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla.

When the clerk at the ice-cream parlour handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again." He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattle around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It has served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. Dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.

When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played i my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.

Even during the summer when he got laid off from the mill, and Mom had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. On the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again ... unless you want to."

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms.

"She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, her eyes looked teary. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room.

"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.

To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to it, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar.

I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly out the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.

The Promise.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 30th January 2005.
By Thanavalli Rajaretnam.

"How long more do you intend to pore over that newspaper? Can you come here right away and make your darling daughter eat her food?" 

I tossed the paper away and rushed to where the question came from. My only daughter, Sindu, looked frightened. Tears were welling up in her eyes. In front of her was a bowl filled to the brim with curd rice. 

Sindu, who has turned eight, is a nice child, quite intelligent for her age. But she particularly detest curd rice. However, my mother and wife are orthodox about certain things: they believe firmly in the "cooling effects" of curd rice! 

I cleared my throat and picked up the bowl. 

"Sindu darling, why don't you take a few mouthful of this? For Dad's sake. If you don't, Mom will shout at me." 

I could sense my wife's scowl behind my back. Sindu softened a bit, and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. 

"Okay, Dad. I will eat - not just a few mouthfuls, but the whole lot. But you should ... " She hesitated. "Dad, if I eat the entire bowl of curd rice, will you give me whatever I ask for?" 

"Sure darling." 

 "Promise?" 

"Promise." 

I covered the soft, pink hand she extended with mine, and clinched the deal. 

 "Ask Mom to promise too," she insisted. 

 My wife slapped her hand on Sindu's and muttered "Promise" without any emotion. Suddenly, I feel a bit anxious. 

"Sindumma, you shouldn't insist on getting a computer or any such expensive items. Dad does not have that kind of money right now. Okay?" 

 "No, Dad, I don't want anything expensive." With that, she turned to the bowl. Slowly, and painfully, she spooned the curd rice into her mouth. I kept silent but was angry with my wife and mother for forcing my child to eat something that she detested. 

When her ordeal was over, Sindu came to me, her eyes wide with expectation. All our attention was on her. 

"Dad, I want to have my head shaved off this Sunday!" 

"Atrocious!" shouted my wife. "A girl child having her hair shaved off?" 

 "Never in our family!" my mother rasped. "She has been watching too much television. Our culture is being eroded by those TV programs." 

"Sindumma, why don't you ask for something else? We will feel quite sad seeing you with a clean-shaven head." 

"No, Dad, I don't want anything else," she said firmly. 

"Please, Sindu, try to understand our feelings," I pleaded with her. 

"Dad, you saw how difficult it was for me to eat that curd rice ... " Sindu was in tears again. "And you promised to grant me whatever I asked for. Now you are going back on your word. Did you not tell me the story of King Harishchandra, and how we should honor our promise, no matter what?" 

It was time for me to call the shots. "Yes, we should keep our promises." 

"Are you out of your mind?" chorused my mother and wife. 

"No. If we go back on our word, she will never learn to honor hers. Sindu, your wish will be granted." 

On Monday morning, I dropped Sindu at her school. With her head shaved clean, her face looked round and her eyes, big and beautiful. As my hairless daughter walked towards her classroom, she turned around and waved. 

I waved back, with a smile. Just then, a boy got out of a car and shouted: "Sinduja, please wait for me!" What struck me was that the kid was hairless too. 

"Maybe that's the in thing today," I thought to myself. 

"Sir, your daughter Sinduja is just great!" Without introducing herself, the lady who had gotten out of the same car continued: "That boy walking beside your daughter is my son, Harish. He ha ... leukemia." 

She paused to stifle her sobs. "Harish could not attend school the whole of last month. He lost all his hair due to the side effects of the chemotherapy. He refused to come back to school for fear that his classmates would tease him. 

"Sinduja visited him last week and promised that she would take care of the teasing. But I never imagined that she would sacrifice her lovely hair for my son! Sir, you and your wife are blessed to have such a noble soul for your daughter." 

 I stood transfixed. Then I began to weep. 

 "My little Angel, will you grant me a wish? Should I be born again, will you be my mother and teach me what love is about?" I whispered.