I know not of his story.
I have yet to have a chance to break that awkward barrier, to pluck the courage to ask, probe, question and grill the details that would feed my insatiable curiosity.
Yet, I want to know.
Yet, I want to fill in the blanks of the man, that had provided me with much aspects of my life.
Who is he?
Where did he come from?
How did he struggle through those days?
How did he end up where he is now?
What makes him the man he is?
I have no idea, of the 40 years, before I came along.
Sometimes, I wish I was borned, when he was younger.
Much younger.
I remember the days when he would crawl on all 4, and mum would prop me on his back, and he would be my ponyride.
I remember the days when I would insist on him piggybacking me, despite being a lanky 12 year-old.
I remember the days when he would challenge me to the most exciting rollercoaster rides. The spontaneity, the dares, the enthusiasm, that would put my mum off.
It must have been hard on him. His heart failed him that year, and things were never the same again.
I know he was borned in China during 2nd world war, and his dad was beheaded by the Japanese before he was brought into this world.
During the war, his mother travelled with him to Singapore, thinking that it was a safer place to be in.
One of his childhood memories included one of how he had started to adopt this stray kitten, only to come home one day to know that the kitten had taken a dip in a pot of soup his mother was boiling.
Cockroaches were one of his favourite snacks. Crunchy, like the crickets, I was told.
I cringed at the details, but they never fail to make me look at him in reverie.
He was my hero. Still is.
I can’t help but wonder why that immunity towards the fear of cockroaches didn’t pass on down to me.
Come to think of it, mum is fearless in the face of the nasty pest, too.
His right hand is slightly deformed, that had never been fully stretched open as far as I can remember.
I heard from mum that his life was hanging on the thread after suffering severe burns to his body and hand, before I was brought to earth.
When I was younger, I used to be intrigued by the way he held his pen to sign his name.
Now as I recall, I understand why he was never the one who taught me how to hold my pencil.
When I was barely 5, I was already acquiring his signature, and plotted to sign his bills for him.
His younger half-brother, who passed away 5 years ago, was borned the same year his eldest daughter did.
What I know, are so limited.
I didn’t believe it that he ignored me when I was borned.
Not when he had showered me with the impossible amount of love for the next 24 years of my life.
The grays. The wrinkles. The cataracts in the eyes. The slouch I inherited that gave me a glimpse how they would worsen as I gain a bit of age.
Or even the deteriorating perfect teeth he used to have.
I saw them today when we were having lunch at Holland Village Crystal Jade.
The row of calcium…. They were becoming, like an old man’s.
A simple lunch, which I watched, amused, the way he was intrigued by Li Nanxing, who was sitting at the booth across us.
An elderly businessman, looking on inquisitely like a curious young boy.
I am not sure why, and am slightly ashamed, that is all I know of his 65 years of life.
But I hope, for the many more years to come(Lord, please, thank You), I would be there to fill his life, more than ever.
And to fill in the blanks, of the years I missed out.
I want to know his story.
I want to be his story.
I want to know about them.
I want to know about him and mum.
There must be lotsa fascinating details that I wasn’t told.
And sadly, most of those I know of him, are those told on by others.
I wish there is more I could do.
Thank you dad.
Happy 65th.
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