Love flowers from bougainvilleas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The different colors of the bougainvillea reflected its different varieties.

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

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

Wiping the slate clean.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 27th Febraury 2005.

By Ng Mei Huey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded and sat back in her chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."

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

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

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

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

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

"June 8."

"Oh no!"

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

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

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

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

"Brent? What happened to him?"

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

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

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

Water the rose within.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pickle jar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Promise.

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

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

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

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

I cleared my throat and picked up the bowl. 

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

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

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

"Sure darling." 

 "Promise?" 

"Promise." 

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

 "Ask Mom to promise too," she insisted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 I stood transfixed. Then I began to weep. 

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

Safari suits and stories.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 23rd January 2005.
By Deeya Menon.

My earliest memory of my grandfather is of his safari suit or bush coat, and lots of ice-cream and chocolate. My grandparents lived in India and he would visit in Malaysia annually, for about a month each time.

We looked forward to those visits. The house would be stocked with ice-cream (a must after dinner) and Coke ( his choice beverage). From the very first night of my Mutacha's arrival, I would insist on sleeping with him, in anticipation of his stories.

N.S. Sankar was a master storyteller. No two stories were ever the same and he would never repeat one he'd told. He would spin tales of kings and emperors, animals in the jungle, or just about anything that came to mind. Lying on his warm, extremely hairy chest and listening to those stories was one of the high points of my childhood.

(As I grew older and became more aware of my surroundings, story time was followed by a quick dash to my own bedroom because dear grandfather had a snore that could wake the dead!)

He was somewhat tight-fisted. But not when it came to children. Once, Mutacha bought a few bottles of Coke for himself. As I had some friends over, I opened one of them. My mother saw this and re-primanded me for not asking him first.

On my way home from school the next day, I decided to replace the bottle. I made a detour to the shop and so, got home later than usual. When Mutacha asked why I was late, I told him and he called me a stupid girl. It was only a drink.

Well, the next time he went out, he bought 12 bottles of Coke - all for me! It was his way of rewarding me for my attempt to be responsible. This was how my grandfather did things for us children. A request for a bar of chocolate was fulfilled with at least half a dozen bars. A desire for some ice-cream in his home in was satisfied with a freezer-full.

Also, if we did something successfully, we were always rewarded with some money. I once received Rs300 after learning to ride a bicycle, Rs150 for learning to skateboard and Rs100 for being able to count from one to 100 in Malayalam, all during one holiday! This way, he could give us something, and teach us its value. He was a man of many principles.

I have personally benefited from my grandfather's generosity to others. The afternoon supervisor of my secondary school happened to be the daughter of Mutacha's colleague bck when he was manager of Pamol Estate in Kluang, Johore. She told me of the times he gave her and her siblings rides home from school in his car.

There was also that story about pies baked at home and shared with these children. Anyway, the kindness and generosity he showed the supervisor and her family was repaid via a watchful eye and the sense of security I felt in those daunting first weeks of secondary school.

At his home in India, Mutacha always had kids from the slums hanging outside his main gate. They would chat with him as he sat outside the estate office, watching the coming and going around him.

In all honesty, these children were dirty and smelly, had lice in their hair, and runny nose. My grandfather saw none of this. They were just kids. He knew each one by name and could tell you all about them if you asked him. Some evenings, he would pile as many of them as they would fit into his old jalopy and take them for a drive around the village. I suspected that he kept that car solely for this purpose!

Much to my grandmother's dismay, these same children became our playmates when my brother, sister and I were there on vacation. On hindsight, I realise that this was my first and greatest lesson in humility ... one which I fully intend to pass on to my own children.

In the past two-and-a-half years, Mutacha had been ill. The illness ate away at the pound, sturdy man that he was once. Only physically, however, for his mind, soul and spirit were unconquerable. Towards the end, his mind threatened to cave in, but when the time came, clarity returned and he spoke to my grandmother right until he heaved his very last breath.

Grandfather reaped the rewards of his many good deeds at the end of his life. He enjoyed the love and care of a wife who was willing and able to take excellent care of him. A son who had spent most of his life away from home came back when he was most needed. Above all, his death was peaceful and relatively painless.

My brother had the cheeky habit of hugging Mutacha a little too hard, just so he would shout, "Aiyo!" A few days after grandfather's death in India last Nov 20, Adheel wished he could hear the expression one more time and see Mutacha just once more.

To help Adheel through this difficult time, out aunt told him that grandfather had become a star in the sky. Whenever he felt like it, he could go outside, look up at that star and talk to Mutacha, as much as he wanted.

I, too, take comfort in believing that my grandfather is now pain-free, worry-free and completely at peace, living with God and his angels and, most importantly, a beloved brother he lost some years ago.

I will never hear another story and my brother will never hear another "Aiyo!". But Mutacha will always be our star in the sky, a guiding light and guardian angel to his small but strong family of 15 - plus one on the way.

The 99 Club.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 13th February 2005.
Sent in by Lydia Chin.

Long ago, there lived a king who should have been contented with his life, given all the riches and luxuries he had. However, this was not the case. The king was always wondering why he just never seemed happy with what he had.

Sure, he had the attention of everyone wherever he when, and he attended fancy dinners and parties. Yet, he still felt something was lacking but couldn't put his finger on it.

One day, the king woke up earlier than usual to stroll around his palace. He entered his huge living room and came to a stop when he heard someone happily singing away. He followed the sound of the song and found one of the servants singing. The man had a very contended look on his face.

This fascinated the king and he summoned him to his chambers. The servant entered as ordered and the king asked why he was so happy?

To that, he replied: "Your Majesty, I am nothing but a servant, but I make enough to keep my wife and children happy. They are my inspiration; they are contented with whatever little I bring home. We don't need much - a roof over our heads and warm food to fill our stomachs. I am happy because my family is happy.

Hearing this, the King dismissed the servant and called for his personal assistant. The king poured out his personal anguish and then related the story of the servant. He hoped that somehow, his assistant would be able to tell him why a ruler who could have anything he wished for at a snap of his fingers was not contented, whereas his servant, who had so little, was extremely happy.

The assistant listened attentively and came to a conclusion. "Your Majesty, I believe that the servant is not a member of The 99 Club."

"The 99 Club? And what is that?"

"To truly know what The 99 Club is, Your Majesty will have to place 99 gold coins in a bag and leave it at this servant's doorstep."

that very evening, the king arranged for 99 gold coins to be placed in a bag at the servant's doorstep. He was slightly hesitant and thought he should have put 100 coins into the bag, but decided to do as his assistant had advised.

The servant was just stepping out of his house when he saw the bag at his doorstep. Wondering what it could contain, he took it into his house and opened it. When he saw the gold coins, he let out a joyous shout. There were so many of them!

He could hardly believe his eyes. He called out to his wife and showed her the shiny pieces. He then took the bag to a table, emptied it out and began to count the coins. Soon, he came to 99 and it struck him that that was an odd number. So he counted the coins again and again, only to arrive at the same number.

The servant began to wonder what could happened to the last coin. There must have been 100, for who would put just 99 coins in the bag?

He began to search his entire house, and poked looked around his backyard. For hours, he searched because he didn't want to lose out on that one coin. Finally exhausted, he decided that he would have to work harder than ever to earn enough to complete his entire collection of 100 gold coins.

He got up late the next morning, in an extremely bad mood, and started shouting at his wife and children. What he didn't realise was that he'd spent most of the night thinking of ways to work hard so that he would have enough money to buy himself one gold coin.

Then he went to work, only not in his usual happy mood, with a song on his lips, but feeling grumpy and tired. When the king saw the servant, he was puzzled to see the change in his attitude. He promptly summoned his assistant to his chambers. The king related his thoughts about the man and once again, his assistant listened. The king had thought that the servant who, until yesterday, had been contented with his life, should be even happier after receiving the gold coins.

To this, the assistant replied: "Ah! But Your Majesty, the servant has now officially joined The 99 Club."

He explained: "The 99 Club is just a name given to those people who have everything yet are never contented. They are always striving for that extra one gold coin to round off what they have to 100!

"We have so much to be thankful for and we can live with very little. But the minute we are given something bigger and better, we want even more. We are not the same happy person, contented person we used to be.

"We don't realise the price we have to pay for wanting more and more - we lose sleep, we hurt the people around us ... That is what joining The 99 Club is all about."

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.

The smallest gesture counts.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 9th January 2005.
Sent in by Hen Yune Yin.

One day, a man was walking along the beach when he noticed a figure in the distance. As he got closer, he saw that the figure was a little boy who was repeatedly reaching down to pick something up from the sandy floor and then gently throwing it into the sea.

Approaching the boy, the man asked, "What are you doing?"

The youth replied, "Throwing starfish back into the ocean. The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them back, they'll die,"

"Son," the man said, "don't you realise that there are miles and miles of sand and hundreds of starfish? You can't possibly make a difference with what you're doing."

The boy listened politely to the man and then bent down to pick up yet another starfish. Throwing it into the surf, he smiled at the man and said, "I make a difference for the ones I throw back."

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.

Carrot, egg or coffee bean?

Taken from The Sunday Star, 2nd January 2005.
Sent in by Jaysheila Manoharan.

A young woman complained to her mother about how hard things were for her. She was tired of fighting and struggling, and felt like giving up. It seemed as though whenever one problem got solved, another cropped up.

The mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and put them on the stove to boil. Then she placed carrots in the first pot, eggs in the second, and ground coffee beans in the last and let them boil. After about 20 minutes, mum fished the carrots and eggs out and placed them in a bowl, and ladled the coffee into another bowl.

Turning to her daughter, she said, "Tell me what you see."

"Carrots, eggs and coffee."

She drew the girl closer and asked her to feel the carrots. The daughter did, and noted that they were soft. She was then asked to take an egg and remove the shell. The egg was hard-boiled. Finally, the young woman sipped the coffee from the second bowl, smiling as she breathed in its rich aroma.

"What does all this mean, mum?"

her mother explained that three items had faced the same adversity - boiling water - but each had reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard and unrelenting. However, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile but its thin outer shell and protected its liquid interior. And the boiling water had hardened what was inside. However, the coffee beans were unique - they actually changed the water!

"Which are you?" mum asked. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Do you become soft and lose your strength when you encounter pain? Are you like the egg, which had a malleable heart that changes with the heat? Do you become bitter and hard inside after facing hardship?"

"Or are you like the coffee beans, which actually changes the hot water - the very factor that causes pain. As the water boils, the bean releases its fragrance and flavour. In times of trial and darkness, can you, like the bean, elevate yourself to another level?

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 demise of Common Sense.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 19th December 2004.
Sent in by Jackie Low.

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend by the name of Common Sense.

No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were lost long ago amidst bureaucratic red tape.

But he will be remembered as having cultivated such valued lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.

Common Sense lived by simple sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge). His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.

Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only to worsen his condition!

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became business, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, spilled it in her lap an was awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two stepbrothers, My Rights and I'm Whiner. Not many attended his funeral because few realised he was gone.

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."

Carl's garden.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 5th December 2004.
Sent in by S. T. Koay.

Carl didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighbourhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.

Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet would he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through our changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs and drug activity.

When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.

He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked "Would you like a drink from the hose?"

The tallest and toughest-looking of the guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch, wallet, and then fled.

Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.

A few weeks later, the trio returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried on with his watering.

The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.

"Don't worry old man, I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, then pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.

"What's this?" Carl asked.

"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."

"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"

The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us. You kept showing us love."

He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."

He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.

Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."

The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour him."

The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory.

One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."

"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"

"Carl."

Prayers answered.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 28th November 2004.
Sent in by Jaysheila Manoharan.

A voyaging ship was wrecked during a storm at sea and only two of the men on it were able to swim to a small, deserted island. The survivors, not knowing what else to do, agreed that they had no other recourse but to pray to God.

However, to find out whose prayer was more powerful, they decided to divide the territory between them, thus each would stay on the opposite sides of the island.

The first thing they prayed for was food. The next morning, the first man saw a fruit bearing tree on his side of the land, and he was able to eat its fruit. The other man's parcel of land remained barren.

After a week, the first man was lonely and decided to pray for a wife. The next day, another ship sank nearby, and the only survivor was a woman, who swam to his side of the island. On the other side, there was nothing.

Soon, the first man prayed for a house, clothes, and more food. The next day, like magic, all of these were given to him. However, the second man still had nothing.

Finally, the first man prayed for a ship, so that he and his wife could leave the island. In the morning, he found a ship docked at his side of the island. He boarded the ship with his spouse and decided to leave the second man behind.

He considered the other man unworthy to God's blessings, since none of his prayers had been answered.

As the ship was about to sail off, the first man heard a booming voice which seemed to come from way above his head: "Why are you leaving your companion on the island?"

"My blessings are mine alone, since I was the one who prayed for them. His prayers were all unanswered, so he does not deserve anything."

"You are mistaken!" the voice rebulked him. "He has only one prayer, which I answered. If not for that, you would not have received any of my blessings."

"Tell me," the first man said, "what did he pray for that I should owe him anything?"

"He prayed that all your prayers be answered."

Great expectations.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 28th November 2004.
Sent in by Terence Wong.

A butcher watching over his shop is surprised when a dog walks in. He shoos it away, but soon enough, the creature comes back. As the butcher walks towards it, he spots a note in its mouth, which reads: "Can I have 12 sausages and a leg of lamb please?"

The dog has something else in its mouth. The butcher looks inside and, lo and behold, there is a RM10 note! He takes the money, puts the sausages and lamb in a bad, and places it in the dog's mouth. Quite impressed by now, he decides to close shop and tail the dog home.

The dog walks down the street and when it gets to a level crossing, it puts the bag down, jumps up and presses the button. Then it waits patiently, bag in mouth, for the lights to change. When the green light comes on, it walks across the road, with the butcher close behind.

The dog then comes to a bus stop, and stops to look at the timetable. It halts the bus by pulling it's left leg up, and then hops on board, with the butcher following suit. The dog shows the conductor a ticket tied to its collar. It then sits beside the driver, and looks out throughout the ride. As the vehicle nears a bus stop, the creature stands up and starts wagging its tail.

Then, without waiting for the bus to stop, it jumps out and scampers to a house by the road. The dog opens the big iron gate and makes for the front door.

Suddenly, it changes its mind and heads towards the garden. It goes to the window, beats its head on the pane several times, jumps off, then walks back to the front door, and sits down to wait.

The butcher watches as a big guy opens the door, ans starts swearing at and kicking and punching the dog. Shocked, he runs up to stop the guy.

"What in heaven's name are you doing? This dog is a genius/ He could be on TV!"

To which the guy shouts: "You call that clever? This is the second time this week the stupid dog has forgotten his key!"

Growing up with stories.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 21st November 2004.
Written by Yam Siew Mei.

"Long, long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a little boy with his grandmother in a small village," my father began his story.

"Where's the mummy?" I asked, as I snuggled closer to him.

With his arms folded behind his head, he fed my question: "Well, she's working at the farm with his father."

He continued in a whispering tone, "This boy is special. He has a special gift."

With a storyline like that, I was hooked like fish to bait. I was curious. I wanted to know the little boy's gift. I stared at my father with bated breath as he spun his tale.

"This boy cooks the best curry in the village."

Excuse me? Curry? Is this supposed to be a fairy tale? Imagine Cinderella scrubbing pots filled with curry stains. There I was a nine-year-old captivated by a supposedly "fairy tale" which my father had conjured up. He had been concocting stories all the years. I was so in love with stories - or maybe my father was such a good story-teller - that I couldn't even tell he was making them up.

But heck, that curry boy story was my all-time favourite from my dad's collection. Anyway, I did ask what curry he cooked best. Chicken curry, my father said, with a twinkle in his eyes. I laughed my head off. Every time I look at chicken curry, my thoughts go back to that story. You can't forget such outrageous and funny tale, ever.

I have always loved stories. Any story. My father was responsible for that, without even realising it. I remember when I was seven, he returned from a trip to Australia and gave me this sky blue book. It was the bluest of blues and on one page, a caveman was trying to make fire with two sticks.

I couldn't comprehend the facts in the book until years later: it was about human civilisation. I realised that my father had planted in me the seed to open my eyes and mind, and see the bigger picture of life. Personally, that was the best gift anybody could ever have given me.

I believe my father had this tendency to tell tales because my grandmother shared with him her history. Imagine how thrilled I was when she opened up her heart and told me about her life.

We were in the kitchen, sitting on bamboo stools. A visit to Amah's kitchen, with its old furnishings, will throw you back to the 1940s. It was drizzling as she began her tale....

madam Lee Soon Heng is a classic character from a bygone era. She is persevering and patient. She was born into a hard life in mainland China. I recall vividly her story about her blistered feet as she had to walk around bare-footed during the treacherous winters. Getting a pair of sandals was out of the question for the family had more urgent priorities - like filling their hungry bellies.

Amah's marriage to Gung-Gung was match-made by her aunt. The newly-weds decided to "escape bitterness" by coming to then Malaya in the late 1930s. All the stuff I've read about the ships that brought immigrants like them are horridly true. My grandmother described how a small cabin would packed with people, and how it was really suffocating.

"I had no choice then. It was too late to turn back," she recalled.

After months at sea they made it safely to Penang, where Gung-Gung worked as a truck driver and she did the laundry for the British officers, during the Japanese Occupation. After Malaya obtained independence, Amah's life became more comfortable. She had sacrificed a lot to send her sons and daughter to school. And the foundation of their success was laid through her perseverance and patience.

I realised then that grandmothers are more than just the biggest angpow-givers. They're also life-savers. These days, I truly appreciate Amah's presence and advice.

On the maternal side of my family, my great-grandma, known affectionately as Ibu Saran, has a whole different flavour to her stories. They are more dramatic, and filled with action and passion.

She lived in Lun Bawang, Sarawak, at a time when headhunters roamed. My great-granddad, the late Ibu (a term used for the elderly) Kapong Palong, was also a head-hunter. According to the elders, Ibu Kapong Palong had to cut off two human heads to prove his worth to his father-in-law. It was a ritual practised then.

My ancestors also had lots of slaves working under them. Initially, I was shocked about that. The upper crust in Lun Bawang had slaves to denote their wealth and power. When the missionaries came and taught them the Lord's words, they converted to Christianity and dropped their animistic beliefs. With this newfound faith, they also released all their slaves.

My father told me stories because it was the only way he could bond with me. My grandmother told him her story for the same reason - to connect with him. Ibu Saran spins her yarns because, as a woman, she is proud of her people's chivalry and death-defying rituals.

We are the descendants of warriors. Our forefathers laughed in the face of death. They were fighters and survivors, and so are we. We should be filled with pride that their blood runs in our veins.

I'm proud to be a part of this culturally-rich family and even prouder that they entrusted me with their tales. It will be my proudest moment when the time comes to pass all these stories to my children.

Keys to my life.

Taken from The Sunday Star, 14th November 2004.
Written by Leonard Selva Gurunathan.


Many of us have certain things that make us better people and our life, an unforgettable journey. For me, the organ had played and still plays a major role in my life.

It all started when my parents got me an organ when I was 11 years old. I was thrilled to see it in our living room. I wondered: "How am I going to play all those keys with just 10 fingers?"

Mr Jeffrey, my first teacher, was very patient and kind. He sparked my interest in the instrument with creative impro-visations on every piece that he played for me.

By the time I was 13, I realised that whenever I was happy or sad, something would tell me to go to the organ and play. When I was sad, I would play a sad piece; when I was happy, it would be a happy tune.

Once, when I was reprimanded by my father for not completing some assignment he had given me, I went straight for the organ and hit the keys with a clenched fist. That produced a thunderous sound.... Of course, my father gave me a piece of his mind, in a thunderous voice.

When I was in Form Four, the organ took a backseat as I concentrated more on games with my friends. I also decided to take a break from lessons.

That year, I faired badly in my mid-term exams. As I headed home with a heavy heart, I wondered what to tell my parents.

As I reached my house, something told me to look towards the window in the living room. There, with a thick cloth draped over it, was the organ. On top of it was a family photo, books, a vase filled with flowers ... it had become a piece of furniture on which to display household items.

I puled off the cloth and lifted the lid of the organ. It was dusty. I played a few notes and, slowly, it all came back to me. I started playing all my favourite pieces. Suddenly, I realised that my parents were behind me. They were so happy to see me at it again. I told them my results and they said it was okay, as long as I worked harder in future.

A few years later, I entered collage and soon discovered I was in love. While all my friends were busy writing love letters to their heartthrobs, I was composing songs for mine.

I wanted to express my feelings for her without a single word, yet with a thousand sentences. I could only manage that with the organ. There were times when we had minor arguments and would not talk for days. But the minute I played the songs I composed for her on the organ, she would be there.

We are married now and the organ is in our living room. I still play it to communicate with my wife. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I will sit and wonder what the organ means to me. I see my face on its varnished surface and I realised that's how it helps me to express myself - it reflects my emotions.

Well, in a few hours, a young student will be starting his first lesson with me. I think I'll use a mirror to help him understand the beauty of this instrument.