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.

Installing Love.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 16th January 2005.
Sent in by Su Hisen.

Tech Support : Yes ma'am ... How can I help you?
Customer : Well, after much consideration, I've decided to install Love. Can you guide me through the process?

TS : Yes, I can. Are you ready to proceed?
C : Well, I'm not very technical, but I think I'm ready. What do I do first?

TS : The first step is to open your Heart. Have you located your Heart ma'am?
C : Yes, but there are several other programs running now. Is it okay to install Love while they are running?

TS : What programs are running?
C : Let's see, I have Past Hurt, Low Self-Esteem, Grudge and Resentment running right now.

TS : No problem. Love will gradually erase Past/Hurt from your current operating system. It may remain in your permanent memory, but it will no longer disrupt other programs. Love will eventually override Low Self-Esteem with a module of it's own called High Self-Esteem. However, you have to completely turn off Grudge and Resentment. Those programs prevent Love from being properly installed. Can you turn those off ma'am?
C : I don't know how to turn them off. Can you tell me how?

TS : With pleasure. Go to your start menu and invoke Forgiveness. Do this as many times as necessary until Grudge and Resentment are completely erased.
C : Okay, done! Love has started installing itself. Is that normal?

TS : Yes, but remember that you have only the base program. You need to begin connecting to other Hearts in order to get the upgrades.
C : Oops! I have an error message. It says, "Error - program not run on external components." What should I do?

TS : Don't worry, ma'am. It means that Love program is set up to run on Internal Hearts, but has not yet been run on your Heart. In non-technical terms, it simply means you have to Love yourself before you can Love others.
C : So, what should I do?

TS : Can you pull down Self-Acceptance, then click in the following files: Forgive Self; Realise Your Worth; Acknowledge Your Limitations.
C : Okay, done.

TS : Now copy them to the "My Heart" directory. The system will overwrite any conflicting files and begin patching faulty programming. Also, you need to delete Verbose Self-Criticism from all directories and empty your Recycle Bin to make sure it is completely gone and never comes back.
C : Got it. Hey, My Heart is filling up with new files! Smile is playing on my monitor, and Peace and Contentment are copying themselves all over My Heart. Is this normal?

TS : Sometimes. For others, it takes awhile, but eventually everything gets it at the proper time. So Love is installed and running. One more thing before we hang up. Love is Freeware. Be sure to give it and its various modules to everyone you meet. They will in turn share it with others and return some cool modules back to you.
C : I promise to do just that. By the way, what is your name?

TS : Just call me the Divine Cardiologist, also known as the Great Physician, or simply "I AM". Most people feel all they need is an annual check-up to stay heart-healthy. But the manufacturer (ME) suggests a daily maintenance schedule for maximum Love efficiency.

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.

She ain't heavy.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 12th December 2004.
Sent in by : Unknown.

On my wedding day, the bridal car stopped in front of a one-room flat and I carried my wife into our new home. She was plump and shy; I was strong and happy.

In the decade that followed, we had a kid, I went into business and she remained a civil servant. Our marriage looked happy, but as our assets steadily increased, the affection between us ebbed. Then Dew came into my life.

As I stood on the balcony of the apartment I'd bought for her, Dew hugged me and said: "You're the kind of man who draws a girl's eyes." Her words brought to mind what my wife had said when we were newly-weds: "Men like you, once successful, will be very attractive to girls."

I knew I had betrayed her, but I couldn't help myself. I left after telling Dew I had something to attend to. Suddenly, divorce, which seemed impossible before, became a clear option.

The problem was telling my wife about it. I knew she would be deeply hurt because she had been a good spouse and mother.

Once, I had raised the subject in a joking manner: "Suppose we were to divorce ... What would you do?"

She stared silently at me; the notion seemed too far-fetched to even consider.

Days later, when she dropped by the office, all my employees gave her sympathetic glances. She smiled gently as she spoke to them, but I could see the pain in her eyes.

Before long, Dew broached the subject again. "Divorce her, okay? Then we can live together."

That night, after my wife had served the last dish, I grabbed her hand. "I've got something to tell you." She sat down and started eating again. Again, I noticed her sad eyes. "I Want a divorce."

"Why?" she asked softly.

"I'm serious," I said, avoiding the question. She threw down her chopsticks and shouted, "You're not a man!"

That night, we didn't speak to each other. She wept and waited for my answers. Engulfed with guilt, I drafted an agreement which stated that she could have our house and car, and a 30% stake in my company.

She glanced at the paper, then tore it to pieces. I felt a stab of pain at the thought that this woman who had lived 10 years with me would soon become a stranger.

The next morning, my wife showed me an agreement she'd drafted: she didn't want anything from me, but I had to wait a month before filling the papers. During that time we should continue as before. Her reason was simple: Our son's summer vacation would end in a month.

As she passed me the draft, she asked: "Do you still remember how I entered our bridal room on our wedding day?"

I nodded as memories flooded back.

"From now till the end of the month, can you please carry me from the bedroom to the front door every morning?"

I agreed. I knew she missed those sweet days and wished to end things in a romantic manner. When I told Dew about her request, she laughed and thought it absurd.

My wife and I hadn't had any body contact since I asked to divorce. So, when I carried her out on the first day, we both felt clumsy. Our son clapped behind us: "Daddy is holding mummy in his arms."

As I walked the 10m from bed to door, she closed her eyes and whispered: "Let's start from today. Don't tell him."

On the second day, she leaned on my chest. We were so close I could smell the fragrance on her blouse and see the fine wrinkles on her face. I realised that I had not really looked at her for a long time.

On the third day, she cautioned that there was some work going on in the garden outside. On the fourth, when I lifted her up, I felt a certain intimacy - as though I was holding my sweetheart. I did not tell Dew about this.

On the fifth and sixth days, my wife reminded me where she'd kept the ironed shirts, and that I should take care while cooking. She was looking through her dresses as I waited to carry her out. She tried on a few, then sighed. "All my dresses have grown bigger."

Suddenly, it struck me that I could lift her more easily now because she had shrunk, not because I'd grown stronger from daily exercise. I knew she had buried all the bitterness in her heart. As I reached to touch her head, our son walked in and said, "Dad, it's time to carry mum out."

She hugged him tightly when he came close and I turned away, for fear I would change my mind.

On the last day, as I held her in my arms, I could hardly move a step. My wife said, "I had hopes you would hold me in your arms until we are old."

After I'd left her at the door, I drove straight to the apartment and ran up the stairs. As Dew opened the door, I blurted out: "Sorry, Dew, I won't divorce her." She made to check my forehead, but I brushed her hand away.

"Our married life was boring because my wife and I didn't value the little things in life, not because we don't love each other any more. Now I understand: As I carried her into our home, I have to hold her until I am old."

Dew slapped me hard, burst into tears, and slammed the door in my face.

On the way back to the office, I stopped by the florist's. When the salesgirl asked my message for the bouquet, I smiled and wrote: "I'll carry you out every morning till we are old."

An angel of my own.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 24th October 2004.
Sent in by Kamalhesvari Nagaraj.

There was a time when I felt angels had no place in my life. My childhood was difficult and hurtful. The one bright spot that remained constant was my maternal grandmother.

She lived halfway across the country so I didn't see her nearly as much as I'd have liked to. When she visited she had a way of making me feel loved and special. She accepted me just the way I was and I always felt safe when she was near.

I grew older and got into all kinds of trouble. I got pregnant at the age of 15/ I had not told anyone yet when my grandma came for one of her visits. It was near Mother's Day. She had a penchant for costume jewellery and she gave me one of her rings.

Needless to say, I was pretty surprised and exclaimed, "But Gram, you're only supposed to give gifts to mothers on Mother's Day!" She looked at me with infinite wisdom and simply said, "I know."

That was it. I felt her love and compassion and total acceptance. I still cherish that ring. It's tarnished and the pearl has faded, but there is no other ring of mine quite as beautiful to me.

Later, when I told her I was going to keep the baby, she told me to live with the father before I married him. That was almost 27 years ago - certainly not your average bit of advice for the times. It turned out to be the best advice I have ever taken.

But the father just perpetuated the misery I experienced at home. Eventually, I left him and took my daughter with me.

For the better part of my life, I felt like a misfit and sought refuge in drugs. Misery and despair were my daily companion. Sadly, my grandma died during this time.

My daily use of drugs and my running from reality accelerated. I wanted to stop but couldn't. My life had become a hell that I longed to be released from. I nearly killed myself with overdoses on more than one occasion.

I felt totally worthless and spiritually bankrupt. I tried to protect my daughter from the filth my life had become, but it was becoming impossible. I hated myself even more for what I was doing to her.

I prayed to God, though I didn't have much faith. I believed in God, but felt that he didn't believe in me. Why should he? I was the most vile of creatures.

In desperation one dark night, I prayed more fervently than ever. There was one difference though. I prayed to my grandmother.

I knew without doubt that if there was indeed a God, she sat close to him. She was the kindest, most loving person I had ever known and could only be at God's side. If anyone could help me, it was her.

My prayers were answered. The next day, I received a call from a rehabilitation centre. I had tried the week before to get in, but there was a waiting list and they said they wouldn't have space for months. This was for a 30-day programme, but they kept me for three long months. Eventually, I gained the tools and strength to get clean and stay that way.

I joined a 12-step programme and sought therapy for myself and my daughter.

That was 13 years ago. Slowly, I healed physically, spiritually and emotionally. I started to become whole. It hasn't always been easy. I've learn to let people love me and to trust enough to love others. I've since married a wonderful man I know my grandma would love.

My therapist once said she was amazed that I could even function in the real world, given everything that had happened to me when I was younger. I believe it was my grandmother's unconditional love that led me from certain death into the loving and rewarding life that I live today. She will always live on.

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.

Steaks and Roses.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 1st August 2004.
Sent in by Ming Tsuan Sen.

I walked into the grocery store not particularly interested in buying groceries. I wasn't hungry. The pain of losing my husband of seven years was still to raw. And this store held so many sweet memories.

He often came with me and almost every time he'd pretend to go off and look for something special. I knew what he was up to. I'd always spot him walking down the aisle with three yellow roses in his hands. He knew I loved yellow roses.

With a heart filled with grief, I only wanted to buy my few items and leave, but even grocery shopping was different since he had passed on.

Shopping for one took time, a little more thought than it had for two. Standing by the meat, I searched for the perfect small steak.

Suddenly a woman came beside me. She was blonde, slim and lovely in a soft green pantsuit. I watched as she picked up a large pack of T-bones, dropped them in her basket, hesitated, and then put them back.

She turned to go and once again reached for the pack of steaks. She saw me watching her and she smiled. "My husband loves T-bones, but honestly, at these prices, I don't know."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and met her pale blue eyes. "My husband passed away eight days ago," I told her. Glancing at the package in her hands, I fought to control the tremble in my voice. "Buy him the steaks. And cherish every moment you have together."

She shook her head and I saw the emotion in her eyes as she placed the package in her basket and wheeled away. I turned and pushed my cart across the length of the store to the dairy products. There I stood, trying to decide which size milk I should buy. Quart, I finally decided and moved on to the ice cream. If nothing else, I could always fix myself an ice cream cone. I placed the ice cream in my cart and looked down the aisle toward the front.

I saw first the green suit, and then recognised the pretty lady coming towards me. In her arms she carried a package. On her face was the brightest smile I had ever seen. I would swear a soft halo encircled her blonde hair as she kept walking towards me, her eyes holding mine. As she cam closer, I saw what she held and tears began misting in my eyes.

"These are for you," she said and placed three beautiful long stemmed yellow roses in my arms. "When you go through the line, they will know they have been paid for..." She leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, then smiled again.

I wanted to tell her what she'd done, what the roses meant. But still unable to speak, I watched as she walked away as tears clouded my vision. I looked down at the beautiful flowers nestled in the green tissue wrapping and found it almost unreal.

How did she know? Suddenly the answer seemed so clear. I wasn't alone. "Oh, you haven't forgotten me, have you," I whispered, with tears in my eyes. He was still with me, and she was his angel.

The Perfect Heart.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 18th July 2004.
Sent in by Celia Yap.


One day, a young man stood in the town square and proclaimed that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd soon gathered and everyone admired his heart - it didn't have any mark or flaw. Yes, they all agreed, it truly was the most perfect heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted even louder.

Suddenly, an old man appeared before the crowd and said, "Why, your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." Everyone turned to stare at his heart. It was beating strongly, but it was full of scars. It had parts where pieces had been removed and others put in, but these didn't quite fit and there were jagged edges.

In fact, there were even gouges where whole bits were missing. The people stared: how could he say his heart was more beautiful?

"You must be joking," the young man laughed. "Your heart is a mess of tears and scars."

"Yes," said the old man, "but I would never trade mine with yours. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love. I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often, they give me a piece of theirs. But because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish because they remind me of the love we share.

"Sometimes, the other person doesn't give a piece of his heart in return. So the gouges. When you give love, you take a chance. Although the gouges are painful, they stay open, to remind me of the love I have for these people. I hope some day, they will return and fill the space I have waiting."

As tears coursed down his cheeks, the young man reached into his perfect heart and ripped a piece out. With trembling hands, he offered it to the old man.

The old man places the offering in his heart, then took a piece from his scarred organ and put it over the wound in the young man's heart. It fit, but not quite.

The young man looked at his now imperfect heart, and felt the old man's love flow into it. They embraced and walked away, side by side.

Much follows love.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 4th July 2004.
Sent in by Jasy Liew.

A woman came out of her house and saw three old men with long white beards sitting in her front yard. She did not recognise them. She said, "I don't think I know you, but you must be hungry. Please come in and have something to eat."

"Is the man of the house home?" they asked.

"No," she replied. "He's out."

"Then we cannot come in," they replied.

In the evening, when her husband came home, she told him what had happened.

"Go tell them I am home and invite them in!" he said.

The woman went out and invited the men in.

"We do not go into a house together," they replied.

"Why is that?" she asked.

One of the old men explained: "His name is Wealth," he said pointing to one of his friends, and then, pointing to the other friend and then to himself, he continued, "He is Success, and I am Love. Now go in and talk it over with your husband to decide which one of us you want in your home."

The woman went in and told her husband what had been said. Her husband was overjoyed. "How nice!" he said. "Let us invite Wealth. Let him come and fill our home with wealth!"

His wife disagreed. "My dear, why don't we invite Success?"

Their daughter-in-law was listening. She jumped in with her own suggestion: "Would it not be better to invite Love? Our home will then be filled with love!"

"Let us heed our daughter-in-law's advice," said the husband to his wife. "Go out and invite Love to be out guest."

The women went out and asked the old men, "Which one of you is Love? Please come in and be our guest."

Love got up and started walking towards the house. the other two men also got up and followed him. Surprised, the woman asked Wealth and Success: "I only invited Love, why are you coming in as well?"

The old men replied together: "If you had invited Wealth or Success, the other two of us would've stayed out, but since you invited Love, wherever he goes, we go with him. Wherever there is Love, there is also Wealth and Success."

'Blind' Devotion.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 27th June 2004.
Sent in by Abner Francis.

The passengers on the bus watched sympathetically as the attractive young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and, using her hands to feel her way down the aisle, found the seat he'd told her was empty. Then she settled in, placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg.

It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.

Mark was an army officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.

Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job. But how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.

At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, he realised the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he told himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react?

Just as he had feared, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again.

"I'm blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me." Mark's heart broke to hear those words, but he knew what had to be done. He promised Susan that each morning and evening, he would ride the bus with her for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.

And that was exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was now and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus driver who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.

Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus-riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, patience and love. She said good-bye and, for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday...... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.

On Friday morning, Susan took the bus as usual. As she was about to get off, the driver said: "Boy, I sure do envy you." Susan wasn't sure if he was speaking to her. After all, who on earth would envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage to live for the past year?

Curious, she asked him, "Why do you say that you envy me?"

"It must feel good to be taken care of and protected like you are."

Susan had no idea what he was talking about, and asked again, "What do you mean?"

The driver answered: "You know every morning for the past week, a fine-looking gentleman in military uniform has been standing across the corner, watching you as you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and waits until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."

Although Susan couldn't see Mark, she had always felt his presence. She realised he had given her a gift she didn't need to see to believe: the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.