Timmy hung his head despondently as he dragged his feet across the red clay dirt. His arms, hung over his shoulders, lifeless, with no certain movement. He wore a torn and thin yellow stained shirt, a hallmark of countless washings and excessive sweat. Wrapped around his back is the invisible bag from where it should be hanging. His red eyes, sore from the pain of the unceasing crying, made it hard for him to see where he was heading. “It’s the perfect punishment”, thought Timmy. The unforgiving sun released its rays upon Timmy, trying its best to cheer him up but to no avail. All it brought was more sweat seeping into his shabby shirt. The mixture of sweat and tears filled his cheeks, making a rancid salty concoction.
Upon stepping into the barely furnished living room, he surveyed his familiar surroundings. Immediately catching his attention was a figure at the right corner. It was his dad. He was holding the latest New Straight Times up to his eye level. His whole head and part of his body was shielded from sight. Nothing in the living room mattered at that moment. His eyes and attention was solely focused on that being that he calls his dad. As he took off his shoes and stepped into the rattan mat, his dad acknowledged his presence with a flip of the newspaper.
Timmy, knowing that the cat will soon be out of the bag, took the initiative to start a conversation. With a meek voice, he uttered the faintest of greetings. “Good afternoon, dad”. It was all he could muster. His dad, sporting a thick pair of tinted glasses and a strong jaw line, peeked out from behind the newspaper to give him a slight and bordering imaginary nod. With one sweeping movement, Timmy brought his hand from the bag to hold up a piece of paper, placed it on the table in front of him, and ran back to his room down the hall.
There, he slumped on his bed, burying his head in shame. The emotions of all the events of the day came back so vividly. The red circled number at the top right hand corner set his mind racing. What will dad think of me? How will I compare with my siblings? Will my dad shed the same tears as I have? It was as if a dam broke. He wailed and cried with all his heart. He had no reservations on the racket he was making. His heart ached, knowing how sad his dad will be. He thumped his chest unceasingly to bring the pain to a stop. But what it only achieved was to increase it to a higher agony. After what seemed to be infinite minutes, he stopped moving and curled up into a ball. Slowly, weariness took over him and he fell into a dreamless, restless sleep.
Night fell. There he lay on his bed thinking of the card he saw. Slowly, he got up and walked right down the corridor. He was met by a door. On the other side, was his precious son. Yes, he felt all the disappointment in the world. He felt that he had failed in becoming a father. It was not for the fact that his son scored appallingly for his last math test but that his son could not come to him for comfort but instead see him as a dictator who passes out judgment based on something as trivial as a number in red. He wished that Timmy was able to share his failings as much as his successes with him. He leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the doorknob and the other palm on the door. His chin, quivering from the impending flow of tears. All he wanted was for his son to lead a successful life through proper education which he never had the opportunity. He did not mean to bring his son such pressure to perform. To only be able to comfort him and encourage him in all aspects of his life would be his privilege. Looking past the disappointment, he just wanted to be there to give support to his fragile son.
Sensing something or someone hovering outside, Timmy brought himself up to check the corridor. There, his eyes met his dad’s for the first time that day.
It needs a certain jolt of immeasurable magnitude or something if immense influence to bring my thoughts to paper. And an earthquake did shake the foundations of my belief.
~~~~
People pass by, throwing you fleeting gazes. Standing by the side, as a pedestrian of life, you see people going on their daily routine with expectations and commitments hanging on stooping shoulders. Their faces are of strength and vigour and yet their hearts bear the scars of deceit, deception and cynicism. However, their eyes themselves betray their perfect façade, one without flaws or cracks. So smoothly polished and honed by countless times of concealment when society tends to take on the role as the judge. Their feelings and hurts, so apparent yet so cloaked.
And despite it all, we call ourselves friends of others. We are simply satisfied when a person throws at us a momentary smile even though it is plainly visible that they are hurting inside. We owe nothing to our friends but care and yet we allow them to wallow in their own sorrow and despair. Where is the umbrella which we must so gladly bear in order to protect those closest to us from the storms of life? And yes, I am deeply ashamed to be the guilty party, for the times not noticing, or the lack thereof. It really begs a self examination of who we really are and our sincerity in treating others.
Showing what is underneath; peeling off the layers to reveal what is behind the cosmetics. To show one’s true self, to bring to the fore the inner you from hiding requires courage and valor. Of this, I am trying to draw out. Being real takes as much practice as running and hiding. I guess it’s time to take it off. Been a long time coming, hasn’t it…
This was on my lecturer's blog..
Story Of The Old Woman
There was a family of a man, his wife, three children and an old woman. They moved to a new neighbourhood and the family next door consisted of a both-working couple and their two little girls. Knowing that the two little girls were sent to day-care while their parents were at work, the old woman approached their mother.
She offered to babysit the girls, for a little income for herself.
The little girls' mother was surprised, for why would a grandmother of three want work? Shouldn't she be sufficiently occupied and contented taking care of her own grandchildren?
The three children were not her grandchildren, she explained. The family she was living with was not her own. She began her story.
She was a Ma Jie - a maiden maid, sworn to celibacy, who lived a life of servitude. Since she'd never married, she never had any real family. She, however, adopted a little baby girl whom she loved, clothed, fed and educated. Her adopted daughter was the only family she had in the world. In her effort to provide a comfortable home and life for herself and her daughter, she spent her entire life-savings on a house. She had then, both family and home - she thought she would be happy till the end of her life.
The girl grew to be an independent young woman. The independent young woman soon had herself a high-flying career and a husband. She informed her mother that she wanted to relocate, and asked her mother to come with her. Let her sell the house, she told her mother, and they can all move away together.
The old woman, with no reason to doubt the girl she had nurtured since infancy, gave authority to her daughter to sell her only property, and resigned to look forward to the care-free life she expected to soon enjoy. It would never come. The young woman, having obtain the money from the sale of her mother's house, went away with her husband, leaving the old woman behind, alone and destitute.
Alone and destitute she was, until a kind family with three children took pity on her and took her in. They treated her with so much kindness, like she was one of their own, for nothing, she felt quite overwhelmed. She wished to be a little less dependent, financially, in the least, which was the reason she asked to babysit the neighbour's little girls.
She had tears in her eyes as she concluded her story.
What you have read isn't fiction, though I am wholly unable to account for the accuracy of the details. I simply know this story, and happen to be in the mood for telling it.
brought me tears..how about you?
“The best way you can cheer yourself up is to cheer someone else up”
- MARK TWAIN
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