Written by Mark Beau De Silva.
I have only seen him once, and even that was an accident. I was tidying the storeroom during a semester break, and was packing some old books into a box when, suddenly, a yellowed black and white photograph fell from the pages of Robinson Crusoe.
I had seen many pictures of strangers before, friends and people my mother knew when she was younger, and they never once stirred my interest. But this man's smile seemed to speak to me.
Just as I was about to turn, my mother grabbed the photo from my hand, and left. She didn't speak about it when I met her at dinner later that day, and her silence made it clear she wanted no questions.
Now, 10 years later, I have that picture with me again. Time and patience have taught me that only now, would I understand, and truly accept the facts surrounding it.
The man was my father.
With only one photograph, and his surname mumbled hesitantly by mother, I was on my way to where he used to live - a fishing village in Malacca.
Mother warned that my efforts would be in vain, for she had never seen nor heard of him for over 20 years. I told her that even if I couldn't find him, some memories would be fine.
"That place is not like here. It is cramped, and they don't speak proper English. They'll want your money, so don't dress nicely. They are poor and will do anything to gain your sympathy," her words echoed in my mind.
I started asking around as soon as I arrived. First in the markets, then at the roadside stalls where dark-skinned children could be seen selling pickled mangoes and cucumbers. A few ran up to me, with fake roses in their hands. They smiled and held out the flowers, beckoning for my kindness. As I reached for the coins in my pocket, I looked at them from the corner of my eyes, never directly.
I could see the excitement growing in their eyes though. It seemed as if I was the only person who'd stopped by to buy from them, as their hands were still full with the plastic stalks, while their feet were dirty and blistered from miles of peddling.
I gave one flower boy the money and waited for him to go away. But he stood there, waiting for my eyes to meet his. I looked at him and said, "Yes?"
"Thank you Encik, God bless you," he replied.
I wanted to say, "It's okay, you're welcome," but I don't know what made me reach into my pocket for the photograph. "Don't be silly, this boy wouldn't know a thing," I muttered to myself.
Anyway, I showed it to him and was ready to put it back when, without a word, he grabbed my arm.
"That is my Papa, Joe Rodriguez," he said, with eyes wide open.
I didn't know what to say or how to react. That was the name my mother had mumbled the day before.
With his tiny hand holding mine, the flower boy silently walked me to the edge of the market, and through a village. I felt slightly unprepared, for mother had taught me to always take along some gifts when I visit. I began to panic and looked around the shop, or maybe a stall that sells souvenirs.
I told the boy to stop and explained that I wasn't ready. Without letting my go of my hand, he gestured to the plastic flower I had bought. "He made it. He will like it."
I looked at him, smiled, and walked on. It's going to be okay.
I had seen many pictures of strangers before, friends and people my mother knew when she was younger, and they never once stirred my interest. But this man's smile seemed to speak to me.
Just as I was about to turn, my mother grabbed the photo from my hand, and left. She didn't speak about it when I met her at dinner later that day, and her silence made it clear she wanted no questions.
Now, 10 years later, I have that picture with me again. Time and patience have taught me that only now, would I understand, and truly accept the facts surrounding it.
The man was my father.
With only one photograph, and his surname mumbled hesitantly by mother, I was on my way to where he used to live - a fishing village in Malacca.
Mother warned that my efforts would be in vain, for she had never seen nor heard of him for over 20 years. I told her that even if I couldn't find him, some memories would be fine.
"That place is not like here. It is cramped, and they don't speak proper English. They'll want your money, so don't dress nicely. They are poor and will do anything to gain your sympathy," her words echoed in my mind.
I started asking around as soon as I arrived. First in the markets, then at the roadside stalls where dark-skinned children could be seen selling pickled mangoes and cucumbers. A few ran up to me, with fake roses in their hands. They smiled and held out the flowers, beckoning for my kindness. As I reached for the coins in my pocket, I looked at them from the corner of my eyes, never directly.
I could see the excitement growing in their eyes though. It seemed as if I was the only person who'd stopped by to buy from them, as their hands were still full with the plastic stalks, while their feet were dirty and blistered from miles of peddling.
I gave one flower boy the money and waited for him to go away. But he stood there, waiting for my eyes to meet his. I looked at him and said, "Yes?"
"Thank you Encik, God bless you," he replied.
I wanted to say, "It's okay, you're welcome," but I don't know what made me reach into my pocket for the photograph. "Don't be silly, this boy wouldn't know a thing," I muttered to myself.
Anyway, I showed it to him and was ready to put it back when, without a word, he grabbed my arm.
"That is my Papa, Joe Rodriguez," he said, with eyes wide open.
I didn't know what to say or how to react. That was the name my mother had mumbled the day before.
With his tiny hand holding mine, the flower boy silently walked me to the edge of the market, and through a village. I felt slightly unprepared, for mother had taught me to always take along some gifts when I visit. I began to panic and looked around the shop, or maybe a stall that sells souvenirs.
I told the boy to stop and explained that I wasn't ready. Without letting my go of my hand, he gestured to the plastic flower I had bought. "He made it. He will like it."
I looked at him, smiled, and walked on. It's going to be okay.
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