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."

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.

Four seasons of a tree.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 16th January 2005.

There was a man who had four sons. He wanted them to learn to not judge things too quickly, so he sent each, in turn, on a quest to look at a pear tree a great distance away.

The first son went in the winter, the second in spring, the third in summer, and the youngest, in the fall. When they had all returned, he called them together to describe what they had seen.

The first son said that the pear tree was ugly, bent and twisted. The second one said no - it was covered with green buds and full of promise.

The third said the tree was laden with blossoms that smelled sweet and looked so beautiful, it was the most graceful thing he had ever seen. The last son disagreed with all of them; he said it was ripe and drooping with fruit.

The man then explained to his sons that they were all right, because they had each seen but one season in the tree's life. He added that you cannot judge a tree - or a person - by only one season, and that the essence of who we are - and the pleasure, joy and love that come from life - can only be measured at the end, when all the seasons are up.

Remembering Murphy.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 9th january 2005.
Written by E. L. Wong.

The most heartbreaking thing about pet ownership is that we often outlive our pets. Yet, if the situation were reversed, the consequences would be nothing short of tragic.

What makes people keep animal companions? What impels us to adopt an animal and love and provide for it as an honorary family member? It could be that in an increasing alienated society, we need someone with whom we can be truthful and accepting, and to receive truthfulness and acceptance in return.

Or it could be that animals simply have such warmth, sincerity and personality that we cannot help but invite them to be part of our lives.

Murphy came into our lives in August 1994. I must admit that the timid, trembling puppy that I brought home in my bicycle basket did not impress anyone then. He had a limp and his skin was sore with scabies.

We named our newest family member "Murphy" and plastered his diseased skin with sulphur solution until he yelped for mercy. Once he made full recovery, however, his true personality shone. He was "only a mongrel" to others, but he was, until the end, always our "Handsome Boy".

Murphy was grateful and never tried to conceal the fact. He hungered for our approval and we gave him unconditional love: We locked away shoes from his destructive jaws rather than punish him for being a puppy.

He was quirky and affectionate. His particular idiosyncrasies were leaning his body against ours whenever we sat down to do the laundry or gardening, and turning back for Mum each time we went jogging - he feared her being left behind. When he grew tall enough to reach the kitchen window, we came to expect his front paws and doggy grin at the windowsill each time we did the washing up. Murphy was the type of dog that gave new meaning to the words love, loyalty and friendship.

He brought our family closer together with his guileless ability to love. He greeted each of us, no matter how short our absence, with such emotion that we regarded him with the tenderness we never allowed ourselves to express with other human beings. He was just so happy to be included in everything we soon arranged festive occasions around him. He had his share of Lunar New Year steamboat dinners; moon cakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; his place at each birthday celebration; and birthday cakes and presents of his own.

Murphy watched over our house with formidable seriousness and, soon, his inclination to watch over the neighbours' homes and visitors' cars parked outside became legendary. He minded my bike at the shop, watched over visiting toddlers and won over the hearts of non-dog-loving friends.

Having Murphy made me even more sensitive to the plight of homeless animals, and he inspired me to volunteer with the animal shelter and campaign for responsible pet ownership.

His ability to empathise astounded us. When a scraggly waif of a kitten wandered into our garden, Murphy promptly adopted her, showered her with licks and unwavering attention, shared his food with her and shielded her against nosey parkers. He curled his body protectively around her in sleep, and when the kitten left him (the mother cat presumably came back for her delinquent), Murphy cried with grief and refused to eat. It was several days before he stopped trying to look for her.

During his best friend Simba's last days, Murphy stayed by his side, treating him with utter gentleness, seeming to understand that his buddy was no longer capable of rough play. Simba's demise left Murphy withdrawn and melancholic. For year afterwards, whnever Simba's name was mentioned, Murphy would rush to the side gate, peer anxiously and then, with a sigh of resignation, walk slowly back to us.

The last time I saw Murphy was on the morning of my birthday. The night before, I had brushed his hair and he had stretched and grunted with pleasure. I told him that t I would be back on Saturday. He never made it to the weekend.

The following day, I was admitted to the Bar. That same evening, I received the dreaded phone call that Murphy was "no longer moving". The commute home was the longest, saddest and most bewildering of my life. My parents had, upon their return from witnessing my Call to the Bar, taken a nap. Murphy had been running around the garden as was his wont, and then decided to take a nap close to them. He never woke up.

In retrospect, Murphy was blessed in that his death was so peaceful. He had probably waited to see that my parents reached home safely, and had waited for my return. I guess he couldn't hand in there that long. He was almost 11, and his heart wasn't that strong as before.

That evening, my brother and I carried Murphy for the last time. We lifted his body gently, feeling his shiny coat for the last time. We buried him in the back garden so he could remain close to us and we could always watch over him. We were ourselves buried in our sorrow. Our sense of loss was palpable. It really is that heart that feels the pain.

The house was grimly cheerless and quiet without Murphy. My routine was so in tune with his that I got up several times at the usual time to prepare his dinner, only to remember that he wasn't with us any more. Everything reminded us of him.

Our best buddy is gone from our touch but never our hearts. We can only thank him for showing us how easily love and happiness can be found.

Murphy, I hope Heaven isn't so big a place that we cannot find each other one day.

An Xmas Sacrifice.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 19th December 2004.
Sent in by Pat Chan.

It was a bitterly cold Christmas eve in Korea in 1952. A pregnant young Bak Yoon hobbled through the snow toward the home of a missionary friend where she knew she could fins help. Tears of sorrow froze on her face as she mourned for her husband. He had recently been killed in the Korean War, and she had no one else to turn to.

A short way down the road from the house was a deep gully spanned by a bridge. As Bak Yoon stumbled forward, birth pains sudden;y overcame her. She fell, and realising that she could go no further, crawled under the end of the bridge.

There, cold and alone, her baby boy was born. Bak Yoon had nothing with her except her heavy, padded clothes. One by one she removed all the pieces of her clothing and wrapped them around her tiny son, still connected to her body by his umbilical cord. Then, exhausted, she lay back in the snow beside him.

The next morning, Miss Watson, a long time missionary, drove across the bridge to take a basket of food to a needy Korean family. On her return, as she neared the bridge, the car sputtered and stopped. It was out of petrol. She got out and started across the bridge. Through crunching snow under her feet, she heard another sound - a baby's faint cry. She hesitated, stopped then heard the cry again.

"It's coming from beneath this bridge!"

Miss Watson crawled under the bridge to investigate. There she saw a tiny, bundled baby, warm but hungry, and Bak Yoon frozen to death. With a knife from her tool box, she cut the cord and took the baby home. After caring first for the child, she, along with some helpers, brought Bak Yoon's body back to near where she lived and buried her there.

She named the baby Soo Park, and adopted him. He was strong and healthy and grew up among many other orphans that she cared for. But to her, he was special. She often told him, "Your mother had great love for you, Soo Park," and about how she had proved that love. The boy never tired of hearing about his beautiful mother.

On Christmas day, his 12th birthday, snow fell non-stop. After the children helped Soo Park celebrate, he went and sat beside Miss Watson.

"Mother Watson, do you think God made your car run out of petrol the day you found me?"

"Perhaps He did. If that car hadn't stopped, I would not have found you. But I'm so glad it did. I love you and am very proud of you, Soo Park." She hugged him and he rested his head against her.

"Will you please take me out to my mother's grave? I want to pray there. I want to thank her for my life."

"Yes, but put on your heavy coat. It's very cold."

Beside the grave, Soo Park asked Mother Watson to wait a distance away.

As the astonished missionary watched, the boy began to take off his warm clothing, piece by piece. Surely he won't take off all his clothing, she thought. He'll freeze!

But the boy stripped himself of everything, laid it all on his mother's grave, and knelt shivering in the snow.

Miss Watson waited one minute, then two. Then she put her gloved hand on his snow-covered shoulder. "Come Soo Park. Your mother in Heaven sees how much you love her. I will help you dress."

In deep sorrow, the boy cried out to the mother he never knew: "Were you colder than this for me, my mother?" And he wept bitterly because he knew, of course, that she was.

The photograph.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 31st October 2004.
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.

Guardian grandma.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 24th October 2004.
Written by Cheah Kok Hin.

July 17, 2001, was the first time I had to visit my grandmother at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Po-po had been suffering from diabetes for a few years. That day, she had to go for a heart operation.

I remember that morning. I was 12 then, and felt so bored at the hospital that I went around playing with my cousins and brother. We didn't notice the gloomy faces of our parents, who soon asked my uncle to take us back to his condominium. There, we had a great time at the pool.

I didn't know why, or how, but for the first time, I felt that the water was clearer than usual. I reckoned the workers had cleaned it. I played and played, and didn't realised the time.

It was the best swim I'd ever had. I wasn't afraid of the water, and I didn't think about drowning. It was as if a guardian angel was among us ...

After a few hours, uncle took us back to the hospital. All that swimming had left me tired. Suddenly I remembered my grandmother.

"How is Po-po?"

"I don't think she will make it," uncle said.

I was dumbstruck. Just as we reached the ward, the lift door opened and there were all my aunts and uncles, crying. My cousins were sitting in a corner heads down.

I started to cry. Mom came and hugged me. I shrugged her off and went to a corner. I couldn't believe what was happening.

Back in my uncle's car, suddenly, I knew why I had had such a great time in the pool. It was Po-po's way of giving me a happy time, even when she was having a bad time ...

The pebbles.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 3rd October 2004.
Sent in by Pola Singh.

Many years ago, in a smal Indian village, a farmer had the misfortune of owning a large sum of money to an old and mean moneylender, who fancied his beautiful daughter.

So, when the farmer could not repay his debt, the moneylender proposed a deal: he would write off what the poor man owed him if he could marry his daughter.

Both the farmer and his daughter were horrified by the proposal and said "No". But the cunning moneylender suggested that they let providence settle the issue.

He told them he would put a black pebble and a white pebble into an empty bag. If the girl picked the black pebble, she had to become his wife and her father's debt would be written off.

If she picked the white pebble, she need not marry him, and her father's debt would still be cleared. But if she refused to pick a pebble, her father would be thrown into jail.

When the next day dawned, all the villagers gathered on a pebble-strewn path in the farmer's field to see what would happened. As they waited, the moneylender bent to pick up two pebbles.

The farmer's sharp-eyed daughter noticed that he had selected two black pebbles and put them in the bag. He then held the bag out to her.

Now, imagine you were the girl standing in the field, with all eyes on you. What would you do?

Refuse to pick a pebble? Empty out the bag and expose the moneylender as a cheat? Dip your hand into the bag and sacrifice yourself so as to save your father from debt and imprisonment?

Well, this is what she did ...

The girl put her hand into the moneybag and drew out a pebble. Without even looking at it, she fumbled and let it fall onto the pebble-strewn path, where it immediately became lost among all the other pebbles.

"Oh, how clumsy of me!" she exclaimed. "But, never mind. If you look into the bag for the remaining pebble, you will be able to tell which one I had picked."

As the moneylender dared not reveal his dirty trick, he had to declare that the girl had picked the white pebble. Thus her father's debt was cleared and she saved herself from being bound to the dishonest moneylender.

Tears for a brother.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 26 September 2004.
Sent in by Ong Bee Har.

I was born in a secluded mountain village. Day-by-day my parents ploughed the dry, yellow soil with their backs to the sky. I have one younger brother.

Once, to buy a handkerchief which all the girls around me seemed to have, I stole 50 cents from my father;s drawer. He found out right away and made my brother and me kneel against the wall as he held a bamboo stick in his hand.

"Who stole the money?" I was too stunned to speak up. Father said: "Fine, if nobody wants to admit to the theft, both of you will be beaten!"

He lifted the bamboo stick ... Suddenly, my brother gripped his hand and said, "I did it!" The long stick hit my brother's back with a thud. Father was so angry he kept hitting brother until he lost his breath. After that, he sat down on the stone bed and shouted: "You have learnt to steal from your own house now. What other shameless things will you do in future? You should be beaten to death!"

That night, mother and I hugged my brother. His back was red and swollen, but he didn't shed a single tear. In the middle of the night, all of sudden, I cried out. My brother covered my mouth with his little hand and said, "Sis, don't cry. It's over."

Years have passed but the incident remains fresh in my mind. I still hate myself for not having the courage to admit to the theft. I cannot forget my brother's expression as he spoke up to protect me. That year, he was eight years old and I, 11.

When my brother was in his last year of his lower secondary, he was offered a place in an Upper Secondary school in town. At the same time, I was accepted into a province university. That evening, father squatted in the yard, smoking continuously. I could hear him say, "Both our children have very good results."

Mother sighed. "What's the use? How could we possibly finance both of them?" Just then, my brother walked up and said, "Father, I don't want to continue my studies any more. I've had enough of books."

Father swung his hand across brother's face. "Why do you have such a weak spirit? Even if I have to beg for money on the streets, I will send the two of you to school until you complete your education."

Late in the night, I placed my soft hand on my brother's swollen face and said, "A boy has to continue with his studies. If not he won't be able to leave this life of poverty." On my part, I decided not to accept the university offer.

But before dawn the nest day, my brother left home with a few pieces of worn out clothing and a handful of dry beans. He left a note on my pillow: "Sis, getting into a university is not easy. I will find a job and send money home."

I held the note as I sat on my bed and sobbed until I lost my voice. that year, my brother was 17 and I was 20. With whatever father managed to borrow from the whole village, and the money my brother earned from carrying cement at a construction site, I entered university.

One day, during my third year, a roommate said, "There's a villager waiting for you outside." It was my brother. His whole body was covered with dust, cement and sand. I asked why he didn't tell my roommate who he was.

"Look at me. Wouldn't they laugh at you if I told them that?" Tears filled my eyes as I brushed the dust from his body. He then took out a butterfly hair clip from his pocket and fixed it on my hair. "I saw all the girls in town wearing this, and I thought you should have one."

I pulled my brother into my arms and cried. That year, he was 20 and I was 23.

The first time I took my boyfriend home, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced and the whole house looked clean. After he left, I danced around Mother. "You needn't have spent so much time cleaning the house!" I told her. "Your brother came home early to do it." She said. "He cut his hand while replacing the pane.

I went into my brother's small bedroom. As I looked at his thin face, I felt a hundred needles pricking my heart. I applied some ointment on his wound and bandage it.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, it doesn't. You know, when I was working at the construction site, stones fell on my feet all the time. Even that could not stop me from working and ... "

He stopped in mid sentence. I turned my face back to him as tears rolled down my face. That year, he was 23 and I was 26.

After I married, I lived in the city. Many times, my husband invited my parents to come and live with us, but they declined, saying they would not know what to do if they left the village. My brother sided with their decision. He advised me: "Sis, you just take care of your parents-in-law and I will take care of Mother and Father here."

My husband became the director of his factory. We then hoped my brother would accept the post of manager in the maintenance department. But he insisted on starting out as a reparation worker. One day, my brother was on a ladder repairing a cable when he got electrocuted. At the hospital, I grumbled, "Why did you reject the offer? A manager wouldn't have to do dangerous things and risk serious injury. Look at you now."

With a serious look, brother said: "Think of brother-in-law. He has just been promoted. I am almost uneducated. If I became the manager, what would people say?" My husband's eyes filled with tears as I cried out: " But you lack in education because of me!" "Why talk about the past?" my brother replied as he held my hand. That year, he was 26 and I was 29.

My brother was 30 years old when he married a farm girl from the village. At his wedding reception, the master of ceremonies asked him, "Who is the one person you respect and love the most?" Without hesitating, he answered, "My sister." Then he went on to tell a story I could not even remember.

"Our primary school was on a different village. Every day, my sister and I walked for two hours to and from school. One day, I lost one side of my gloves. My sister gave me one of hers. When we got home, her hand was trembling so much she could not even hold her chopsticks. That day, I swore that as long as I lived, I would take care of my sister and be good to her."

Applause filled the room and every guest turned to look at me as I stood up. "In my whole life, the one person I would like to thank most is my brother." And on this happy occasion, in front of everyone, tears rolled down my face once again.

Things could be worse.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 1st August 2004.
Sent in by Juliana Phang.

A mother passing by her daughter's bedroom was astonished to see the bed nicely made and everything picked up. Then she saw an envelope propped prominently on the centre of the bed. It was addressed, "Mom".

Fearing the worst, she opened the envelope and read the letter, with trembling hands:

Dear Mom,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had elope with my new boyfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with dad and you.

I've been finding real passion with John and he is so nice - even with all his piercings, tattoos, beard and motorcycle clothes. But it's not only the passion, mom. I'm pregnant and John said that we will be very happy. He owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood for the whole winter. He wants to have many more children with me and that's now one of my dreams too.

John taught me that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone and we'll be growing it for us, and trading it with his friends for all the cocaine and ecstasy we want.

In the meantime, we'll pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so John can get better; he sure deserves it!

Don't worry, mom. I'm 15 years old now and I know how to take care of myself. Some day, I'm sure we'll be back to visit so you can get to know your grandchildren.

Your Daughter,
Julie.

PS Mom, none of the above is true. I'm over at the neighbour's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than my report card that's in my desk centre drawer. I love you! Call when it is safe for me to come home.

What goes around.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 25th July 2004.
Written by M. Nantha.

"Are we there yet?" It was the mother of all annoying questions. If this was what was meant by retribution, Marge regretted ever having kids.

She silently counted to 10 and willed herself not to lose her cool with five-year-old Penny, who was seated in the back of the minivan and had obviously become restless. They were on their way to an old folks' home, a cosy, quiet little rest house about an hour's drive out of town.

The last thing Marge had wanted to do was pack her mother off to some home, but things had gone from bad to worse. For the last three years, she had struggled against all odds to keep her mother with her family in their double-storey suburban bungalow. But with Alzheimer's disease, it wasn't easy.

Harriet was 76. She wet her bed every time her diaper overflowed. She would call out for someone to attend to her whenever that happened, never mind that it was 4am. Then, unable to go back to sleep, she'd stay awake and expect someone to keep her company.

No one was in the mood for a little tete-a-tete at that ungodly hour. What was most exasperating was that Harriet would just nod off just as it was time to start the day, and Marge would drag herself to work, like a zombie.

She had to take time off from the office to attend to Harriet, like taking her for regular hospital check-ups, giving her medication, and making sure she ate the right foods.

Marge had seen no less than four maids come and go over the last couple of years; all of them left because caring for a grumpy, demanding, bed-ridden old woman was not in their job description.

She had put her own family life on hold because of this. Jason wanted to plan for a second child, but she kept putting it off. How could she manage a newborn in the house when her own mother was the way she was?

It had come to a point where Marge knew she had to either exercise her last option, or risk losing her sanity. The guilt trip was tremendous. What was it about history repeating itself?

Yet, for her own sake, she had had to make the heartbreaking decision, which she tried to convince herself was for the best, as Harriet would get the attention and care at the home which she couldn't give.

"It is for the best, sweetheart," Jason reassured her the night before Harriet's departure, as if reading her minds. She kept repeating that to herself in the car during the journey.

Thirty years on, Penny still had not forgiven her mother for what she had done to nana. Harriet had been there from day one for Penny and the two of them had formed a bond tighter than a Boy Scout's reef knot.

Harriet had meant the world to Penny; even as an adult, Penny could remember crying her eyes out as a little girl when she realised what had happened to nana. When Marge told her nana isn't going to live with them anymore, she had not spoken to her mother for days. Such was the bitterness she felt.

While the other kids talked about how great their grandma's pot pies tasted, or how granny had knitted a cool new sweater for them, penny could only listen and miss her own nana even more.

She vowed never to deprive her own children of a loving grandma, the way she felt she had been cheated of one.

"These are people, for goodness sake," she told herself. "You don't just chuck people out like old furniture."

Her twins, Katy and Shawna, arrived just after Penny had received a huge promotion. Marge was, of course, on hand to care for the bundles of joy. the girls were left in Marge's care as both Penny and her husband continued with their ultra-busy jobs.

Penny could not thank her mother enough for the support she rendered. Shortly after that, however, Marge was diagnosed with cancer, and was forced to move in with them.

The chemo soon took a toll on everyone. Marge needed daily injections and she only trusted Penny to administer them for her. She refused a nursemaid, even though her daughter offered to get her one. Penny was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Two years later, she found herself behind the wheel of her car, on an hour long journey heading out of town. Her girls were horsing around in the back; fidgety because the scenery outside their windows had not changed for the past 20 minutes.

She let out a sigh and counted to 10 when, for the fifth time in half-an-hour, they asked: "Are we there yet?"

Playing for dad.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 4th July 2004. Sent in by Wong Lee Teng.

The son loved football but was not very good at it. But the dad didn't mind. Even thought the son was always sitting out games on the bench, his father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.

The young man was determined to try his best at every practice - perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through secondary school he never missed a practice or a game even though he remained a bench warmer for four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.

When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team. Everyone was sure he would never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he let the young man on the team because, as a junior, he always put his heart and soul into every practice while providing his team members with the spirit and hustle they needed.

The news that he survived the cut thrilled the teen so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and got season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game.

Then, at the end of his senior football season, he trotted on to the practice field shortly before the big play off game only to be met by the coach with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly white.

Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his shoulders and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."

Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well.

In the third quarter, when the team was 10 points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran to the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful team-mate back so soon.

"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close championship game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."

Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke loose. His team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!

Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"

The young man looked at the coach with tears in his eyes and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it!"

No easy way out.

Taken from The Sunday Star newspaper, dated 30th May 2004.
Written by Patricia Pinto.


The pain was like nothing she had ever known. It spread from her heart to her eyes and through her soul. The tears as she lay in a ball on her bed, her spirit crumpled. In her mind, she replayed her"conversation" with her father.

"Why every week must go out? Cannot stay home, is it? Nowadays, you very big, no need to ask permission lah! Just tell and then go out, huh?" he'd shouted at her. His anger shocked her.

"I tell you cannot go means cannot go. The other time, after play futsal, I already told you cannot go out again. That was the last time."

Her face fell; she could not remember him ever saying that. But father did not give her a chance to reply. He ended abruptly and she went into her room, careful not to slam the door and fuel his anger.

She phoned her boyfriend and told him about her father's harsh words. He reminded her that her father had no legal right to keep her in the house. He also expressed his frustrations with her parents, particularly her father, who seems opposed to her making friends with guys.

After the call, she curled up in a ball and tried hard not to let the tears fall. All this time, she had stomached her parents' accusations stoically. But what hurt most was that they persisted in treating her like a 10-year-old kid, and not the 20-year-old woman she had become.

How many years had she followed their orders blindly, giving them what they wanted? When they wanted good grades, she had scored them and waited to hear their praise. Instead, they had complained that her grades were not up to par and that she was not a straight-A student.

She did not have a good time at school either. People had mocked her because of her figure, and later, her name. Then things got worse. Her "friends" had teased and bullied her. But she took everything good-naturedly, letting them run roughshod over her. She felt left out because whenever they made plans to go out, she could not join in. She was lonely.

Talking to her parents had never been an option. They cared more for her brother, although lately, she'd noticed that even he was getting the burnt of their tongue. They never heard her cries at night, and never knew her frustration when she could not answer a question. They always stifled some of her interests with this question: "Is it in your books?"

Even when she had a boyfriend, she did not tell him everything. She did not dare confide in anyone because she'd learnt, from a young age, that expressing a "forbidden" feeling would incur harsh words and humiliation, especially in front of her other relatives.

Was it so wrong to ask that her parents say they love her?

Her lips twisted bitterly as she though of the idiom, "Blood is thicker than water."

Which father would hit and kick his only son just because his favourite hat had a small, insignificant part missing? Which mother would use her own daughter as an excuse to turn herself into something she was not? What kind of parents would poison their own children against their cousins?

She held up her hand and looked at the faint blue veins on her wrist. Smiling to herself, she went to the kitchen, then returned to her room. She locked the door, then stared at the metal blade. She began to think of everything good in her life.

Those friends who did not mind hearing her prattle away. her grandmother, who loved her unconditionally. A boyfriend who loved her too, but who - from their latest conversation - she felt she did not really deserve. her little cousins, who would really wonder why she had chosen this road.

Then she thought of the "bad" things. The father whose expectations she could never fulfil. Her mother, who wanted her to be what she herself could not be. Her aunts, who always took advantage of the fact that she lived near them. Her godmother, who she had thought of confiding in once, but was now glad she didn't. And of the loneliness of not being able to talk to the very people who were responsible for her life.

Then she thought of what would happened if she slit her wrist.

There would be a funeral to be arranged and paid for. Her brother would truly be alone, without her around to confide in and share his secrets, her cousins would be be shocked, but the aunts would gossip behind her mother's back.

The shock of a beloved granddaughter's suicide might kill her grandmother. There would be one less mouth to feed, but her mother would be angry about all the money she'd spent on her tertiary education. Her little cousin, who'd lost her mother and now clung to her, would be devastated. But good might come of this: if the cousin clung to her father's girlfriend instead, it would bring them all closer to each other.

Then she looked at the teddy bear her boyfriend had given her long ago for Christmas. It looked worn but was still fluffy. And she knew then that doing something stupid would cause him even more pain.

She put the knife away.