On 'Father's Day"......

How times have changed!

I grew up never ever having heard of the Father's Day, Mother's Day, Valentine's Day and the many other 'Days' that we celebrate nowadays. The many 'sms's I received, wishing me a Happy Father's Day prompted me to reflect on my father and my relationship to him.

I realised how little I know of him. My father was a man of very few words. I cannot remember any time at all when I had sat down to have a conversation with him. But he was always there, silent but reassuring, firm but not authoritarian, supportive but never directive. The closest moments I had had with him were the Fridays when he would bring me along to the mosque for the Friday prayers.

I am not even sure if my father had had any formal schooling or education at all. I know that he started work as a helper (coolie?) to the British surveyors to plot out maps of the various districts of Perak. He must have learned on the job (and learnt well) to be able to finally retire as a Technical Assistant in the Topographical Survey Department in Kuala Lumpur.

He moved from Perak to Kuala Lumpur in late 40's and was given the government quarters at Chan Ah Tong Street in Brickfields. This is where I was born. Our neighbours were mostly Indian families, workers of the Malayan Railways and many of the kids who grew up there are today successful lawyers and specialist doctors. I believe these kids were fortunate for there were missionary schools nearby which gave them the opportunity to a good English education.

(Government quarters at Chan Ah Tong Street in Brickfields with the Suasana Sentral Condominium in the background)

My father must have realised the importance of education. All my elder siblings were sent to English schools. Yet for reasons only known to him, the three youngest children of eleven in my family ( of whom I am the tenth) were sent to Malay schools. I can only speculate that he must have been swept by the wave of Malay Nationalism that came with the country's struggle for independence.

The Gombak Lane Primary School that I went to was located on the banks of the Gombak River opposite the present Dataran Merdeka. The wooden structure did not even have walls ( but I suppose we had the benefit of fresh air all the time). We did not have exercise books or pencils. We used papan batu ( granite slate) and would rub off whatever we have written using our saliva. I told my children that I grew up during the age of the Flinstones!

Luckily for me that despite all these shortcomings I was able to learn quite well. As I was good at my studies I was selected to go to an English medium boarding school in Ipoh. This is a school specially built for good pupils of Malay primary schools ( which were mostly from the rural areas). We were put through one year of learning nothing else but English. Many of my classmates started out with hardly a word of English. But given their intelligence, hard-work and the efforts of tireless and determined teachers, many of us were successful in our studies and went on to fulfilling successful careers.

Boarding school seperated me further from my father. I disliked the hostel years very much because I was always homesick. I lost my mother ( from breast cancer) when I was in Form 2 and this left me with a more bitter memory about being sent away to the hostel. I do not blame my father for this for it was not him who sent me to the boarding school. It was the system then - I was selected to go because I was a good student. My father just followed whatever was instructed by the education department.I do not know how he felt or what he thought of it. Like I had said earlier, my father was a man of very few words.

He was not a man to show his affection either. I can say that he was somewhat detached. There was no hug of affection, what more of verbal expression of love. Only in his letters (when he occasionally sent me some pocket money) to me did he wished me well as is customary in the old style letter writing. When I did well in all of my examinations, I do not remember even once when he had congratulated me for it! But I am sure that deep in his heart he was very proud of me.

To my father the family always came first. Two years after my mother passed away ( I suspect at the urging of some relatives) he married a very pleasant widow as old as he was. I guess it was more for company and for someone to care for him. But one of my elder sisters did not adjust too well to the presence of a step-mother. And my father divorced her for the sakes of the family (more so for my sister)

He had no influence whatsoever in the career that I chose for myself. I guess he felt that it was better left to me to decide. My medical school years were so hectic that again there was little time to interact with him. I was also involved in student activism as well activities and interests of young people of that age and again I missed out the chance of making connections with my father. When I finished medical school I organised a strike and a boycott of the housemanship in pursuit of a better and fairer salary for the doctors. It was during this time that my father fell ill and died from pnuemonia. I was not at his bedside when he died because I was myself down with fever and fatigue from my involvement of the strike. I still think of this sad day with much regret.

My father died 2 weeks before my convocation at the university. At least he knew that I had made it to become a doctor. If I have the chance I would very much want to give him a hug and thank him for being there for me and to tell him how much I love him.