Personality-Driven Portfolio

by Phoen, Sam;

  But Eric is also angry at himself, tormented by the fact that he never gave his grandmother much thought until now. What kind of person is he? Doesn’t a family member, even if deceased, warrant some reflection? He assumed she was dead. Surely he should have made more effort to find out about his grandmother? How stupid and heartless is he that never once in his sixteen years did he think to ask about her? Or about his father’s side of the family? Is his mother the only one at fault? Or is his apathy as much to blame?

  Eric is disconcerted – he wants to be a good person but there is so much about himself that he doesn’t know.

  The thoughts race in Eric’s head, tumbling over each other. He doesn’t know where he is going but he keeps on walking. He strides out of the restaurant, through the crowded mall, bumping into people, causing them to erupt with unsavoury words, shaking fingers at him.

  “Oi! Watch where you’re going!”

  “Eh! Blind or what?”

  His phone rings. Like many Singaporeans, he is unable to ignore it. “Mum” is reflected on the screen. He does not accept the call. Another call. “Dad”, this time. He is not ready to face either of them.

  Maybe, just maybe, all this has to do with anxiety about his poor performance in Mandarin, the forthcoming exams, his mother’s high expectations, the imminent National Service enlistment, the yearnings of his changing body, his feeling that life is meaningless. Is this what they call teenage angst? Or is it existential angst? He doesn’t know. He just feels as if right now he can commit murder most foul, to quote his favourite Shakespearean play. He has to find a way to calm down. He needs to breathe in some open space or swear and kick at inanimate objects. Clara does not permit him using swear words at home but sometimes when he is out with friends, they use them to release pent-up emotions. Perhaps he should take a very long walk at East Coast Park to disperse the frenetic energy that is coursing through him.

  He suddenly realises he has walked all the way to Bayfront MRT station. Where should he go? He can’t decide. Other than when hunting for famous dishes with his parents, he does not venture much out of his neighbourhood. It is possible to live in a country and know only portions of it. Wealth builds an invisible shield from the teeming humanity living in HDB heartlands and crowded dormitories for foreign workers. Every now and then, Eric is plagued by a sense of guilt over his family’s wealth.

  He gets on a train, which burrows its way through the dark tunnels, the carriages lit by fluorescent tubes simulating daylight. Many of the passengers have earphones on, as if the devices are providing some kind of sustenance, an electronic feeder of saline or something more life-enhancing. Heads nod, feet tap to soundless music. Faces are either impassive or intensely fixed on screens of various devices, effectively cutting off any possible communication with fellow travellers.

  Do I look like this? Eric wonders.

  Something in him has changed to make him feel a measure of disgust at this herd mentality. He wonders if these people who look like living beings are really robots. If the wires they are attached to are taken from them, perhaps they will become inert, like mechanised toys whose batteries have been removed.

  Somebody’s mobile rings. Its sound is diffused, the direction where it is coming from unspecified. Several hands dive urgently into pockets, handbags and computer cases, like gunslingers reaching for their holsters, quick on the draw, whipping out phones like guns poised to shoot. Disappointment registers on faces when they realise it is not their phone ringing, as if not being called is like not being wanted or needed. Has our self-worth been reduced to being wanted on a mobile phone? Many of the passengers check their phones anyway, for messages and emails, as if uncomfortable to be left alone with their thoughts, or worse, space between their thoughts. A girl’s loud voice greets her caller, then goes on in a long tirade about her boyfriend’s inaptitude; a loud blow-by-blow account, not caring that her personal life is being broadcast in public.

  At Promenade station, an old lady in a sarong kebaya steps into the carriage. Is she a Malay or a Peranakan? How stupid of him not to even know this. Eric feels like kicking himself. He wonders if his Peranakan grandmother looks like this woman, wizened and brown. The batik-print sarong and embroidered tunic lends her a quiet elegance. Is it coincidence or by divine intercession that this woman should appear before him right now? After all, not many people wear their traditional costumes these days. Eric realises that he cannot differentiate the Peranakan sarong kebaya from the Malay. Is there a difference? Yes, his father is right. He must pay a visit to the Peranakan Museum to learn more about his people. Indeed, culture gives us a history and foundation.

  Eric gets up quickly and offers the woman his seat, which she accepts with gratitude, flashing him a smile which creases her cheeks even more. This is a woman so natural in her body, not like his mother’s, whose nip and tuck makes her face seem like a stretched drum. The old lady’s thin grey hair is stretched over her visible scalp. She nods at him, as if acknowledging his kindness, her rheumy eyes twinkling. The small gesture touches him, bursting the seed of desire within him to meet his paternal grandmother.

  Eric has a maternal grandmother, but they are not close. He addresses her as Nai Nai as she speaks Mandarin. Her jet black, dyed hair contrasts with her tofu-smooth complexion, and on her corpulent frame hangs a great deal of 24-carat gold; oversized diamonds earrings drag her cheeks towards her chin. It is reasonable to see why Clara tries to fight her mother’s genes with her daily workouts.

  Nai Nai’s comments and conversation always centre on money, market shares, property and social connections; she passes mores like heirlooms to Clara. Her interests – mahjong, shopping, acquisitions and gossip – are not shared by Eric either. The most irritating thing about her is that she never bothers to say his name properly, calling him “Airlick”, making him sound like a room fragrance or air freshener. Or worse, like a toilet disinfectant.

  The carriage fills up, and people are jostled, swaying to and fro with the movement of the train, creating gaps between people that open and close. As the train wends round corners, the upright silver grab poles appear like a line of thin, sturdy tree trunks, like the aspen he saw in Colorado when his parents took him skiing.

  A bright orange shirt catches Eric’s eye through a gap. The Indian teenager wearing it has dark shades perched on his nose, his chin tilted slightly upward. In another opening, Eric sees that the teenager is wearing mismatched trainers, one plain and the other with spangled stars. When the train stops, Eric sees the teenager release his grip of the grab pole and step forward towards the door. Only then does Eric see the white cane.

  The door opens to a crowd waiting to board. The crowd surges forward, not waiting for the outgoing passengers to disembark. Passengers going out push their way through the throng, as if resigned but accustomed to the daily battle. But the Indian youth has difficulty in threading his way through. Eric can sense his uncertainty and anxiety.

  “Hey!” Eric moves swiftly to the Indian youth’s side, addressing the crowd trying to get in. “Hang on! Let people out first.”

  He speaks in English, then Mandarin. His voice is authoritative enough to stop some people from barging in. Several glare at him; others mutter crossly at his arrogance. Eric himself did not plan to disembark but he suddenly feels protective towards the young man, taking his arm and helping him onto the platform.

  “Mind the gap,” he says, sounding like a London Tube announcement.

  “Hey thanks,” the youth responds in a rich, baritone voice. “It’s always a challenge when people are in a rush.”

  “No problem,” Eric says. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Can you put me on the escalator going towards the East-West Line to Pasir Ris? If you don’t mind, please let me take your elbow. It will be easier for me to manage.”

  At the top of the escalator, the sign shows Way Out in one direction and the East-West Line another way. How would a non-sighted person be able to read that sign? It�
�s such an everyday and ordinary thing for him, to mentally scan a sign and make a decision for his next move. It never occurred to him that anyone would have a problem.

  Eric feels a sudden flush of shame. How challenging it must be for someone like this young man to navigate his way on public transport. Eric never worries about getting lost – he can afford to hop into a taxi whenever he chooses.

  “Isn’t Pasir Ris near the sea? Isn’t there a park as well?”

  Singapore is so tiny and yet there are places that I have not been, Eric thinks.

  “Yes. In my parents’ younger days, the sea was much more inland. Apparently the beach of white sand that gave the place its Malay name used to stretch all along the coast. I love standing on the shore and listening to the sea.”

  “Maybe I will take a ride and come along with you.”

  “Yes, that will be good. It will help you…”

  “Help me what?” Eric says, a bit too sharply. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Sorry. I may be wrong but I can sense that you’re agitated. Sometimes blind people can see what the sighted can’t.”

  Eric considers this. The profoundness of what the youth says moves Eric.

  “You are right. I just had a quarrel with my parents. I need to calm down. A walk will do me good.”

  “My name is Rajah,” the young man introduces himself. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to join you. It’s not always safe for me to go wandering near the sea on my own.”

  “Yes, why not? Eric. Eric Teo. Yes, don’t say it. My initials are ET.”

  “At least you can laugh about it. Nothing can hurt you if you can laugh in its face.”

  “Are you a philosopher or what?” Eric asks. “In case you want to know, I’m Chinese. Or diluted Chinese. I just learnt that I am a Peranakan.”

  “Chinese, Peranakan, Malay, Eurasian, Indian, ang moh, whatever. A friend is a friend. Why should race matter? True friendship looks beyond culture and creed. The positive aspect of being blind is that we don’t judge someone by their skin colour or how they look or what they wear. Obviously, we can’t!” Rajah laughs. “I can tell from the timbre of your voice that you’re a sincere person. You definitely have a good heart. But I sense a heaviness of spirit around you.”

  Eric is touched by this. Someone being aware of his goodness makes him feel good.

  “I’m just so fed up with my life right now,” Eric confesses. “I’m unhappy with my parents and worse, I am unhappy with myself. Everything seems to be going wrong.”

  “I presume you’re not crippled or blind?”

  “Oh forgive me! How can I be so selfish? You see what I mean? I don’t say the right things and am so thoughtless.”

  “Hey, relax!” Rajah says. “The trouble is, you sound too tensed.”

  Rajah speaks in an unhurried voice and it does help Eric to calm down. Most Singaporeans speak at the speed of a bullet train, not paying much heed to word endings, consonants or rounding their vowels. The two boys exchange preliminary information about each other as they walk. Eric is in a top-listed secondary school where parents drive their children to school in Mercedes Benzes, BMWs and even Ferraris, and domestic workers, the politically correct term for maids, carry the students’ backpacks right to the school gate. Rajah’s is a no-frills, local neighbourhood school. For two boys about the same age, their lives can’t be more contrasting.

  “I didn’t know your school is a school for the blind.”

  “No lah!” Rajah says, amused. “It’s an ordinary school but they cater for people like me. A teacher who is himself blind comes in to teach me.”

  “Wow! I admire you,” Eric says, meaning it, thinking about the challenges a blind person faces in studying that he never has to. He promises himself that he will not complain about excessive homework any more. He will not complain anymore. Period.

  “I try to do my best and not use my limitation as an excuse. I am truly blessed. I’ve classmates who go out of their way to help me with any library research and notes. You’ll be surprised how my blindness brings the most caring people to me.”

  When they board the train, a young man is in the priority seat reserved for the elderly and disabled, his eyes closed in facile sleep, his ears plugged. Eric has witnessed this obvious disregard for the sign that states the purpose of the seat before. He has never acted upon it, but now feels compelled.

  “Hey bro! There’s someone here who needs the seat more than you.”

  The startled youth’s eyes shoot open in annoyance, ready to protest. But seeing Rajah with his dark shades and white cane, he has the grace to get up and offer his seat.

  “Thank you very much!” Rajah says, feeling and tracing the seat before sitting down.

  If someone had poured acid on the seat, his hand would have been burnt, Eric thinks, recalling the incident he read about in the Straits Times. Some part of Eric’s heart melts at the thought of how vulnerable Rajah is.

  Eric sits next to him, unburdening himself, telling Rajah about the altercation with his parents, as the train snakes its way aloft, above streets and in between the high-rise HDB estates of Bedok, Simei, Tampines and finally, Pasir Ris.

  “Imagine them keeping my grandmother’s existence from me! I was incensed! But I think I am angrier at myself. I’m sixteen and I never even knew about her existence. I must be such a bad person, to have never thought about my grandmother.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Rajah says. “Yes, one’s heritage is important. Family is crucial. It’s as significant as a country’s history. If our young people are not interested, we would lose part of ourselves. It is where we’ve come from. It’s difficult to know why people think they can simply saw off their past; even if it has unpleasant bits, it’s still our history. You can’t know why your parents did what they did. It might not be a joint decision. Your mother sounds like she’s the one who rules. So don’t blame anyone yet until you know the whole story. Don’t be angry. You have to channel it. Anger is very corrosive.”

  “How come you’re so wise?”

  “My parents practise yoga and they teach us….”

  “I didn’t know that yoga is a philosophy. I thought yoga is a form of physical exercise?”

  “Yah. Many people know only about popular yoga. Hatha yoga is only a small part. One of yoga’s eight limbs. But yoga is really a guide to living. It teaches you how to cope with life, deal with your anger and emotions, be creative and live life in an authentic way.”

  “Well then. I guess it’s something I have to learn!”

  “My parents are my greatest gurus. You must come and meet them.”

  “I wish I can say that about my parents. Sometimes, I feel like I’m a piece of furniture in their home. Something they possess and take care of, but nothing more.”

  When they disembark from the train, Eric feels the humid air wrap around him like a suffocating blanket. He is so used to cool air-conditioned cars and buildings. Rajah taps his white cane on the ground to feel his way. Eric lets him lead the way, supervising him. At the pedestrian crossing, they pause.

  “This new technology is so helpful,” he explains to Eric. “We can’t see the green man but we can hear the beeps. Things are improving for us. When the beep is continuous, I know it is safe to cross. If the sound does not work, it will be dangerous for us to cross the road unassisted.”

  Even as Rajah proceeds to cross the road, an impatient driver turns his vehicle almost into Rajah’s path. Eric leaps forward to put himself between the vehicle and Rajah, glaring at the driver. He sees that this system of allowing traffic to turn when the green man lights up is already fraught with danger. Although pedestrians have right of way when the light is green, someone like Rajah cannot anticipate or react to an impatient driver who tries to make the turn hastily before a pedestrian has cleared the way. Rajah is totally unaware of his near brush with danger.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks Eric when he has reached the o
ther side.

  “No. I don’t think my mother can bear another pregnancy. She’s too absorbed in her body, to want to ruin it. It’s not much fun being an only child, with no brothers and sisters to play with and chat.”

  “Let me tell you about mine. I’ve a younger brother called Nathan and a sister called Saraswati.”

  “Are they all normal?” Eric says without thinking, then immediately regrets it. “Oh, sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”

  “I’m used to it,” Rajah says with a tone of resignation. “Yes, they’re all normal. I’m not my parents’ biological child. I was adopted. My birth mother left me when I was only a day old.”

  “How cruel.”

  “No, I think she meant to be kind. She may not even have known I was blind. It must have been a teenage pregnancy or something to that effect. She didn’t have the capacity to take care of me so she let others take care of me. I think that is love of a higher degree, don’t you?”

  “My mother was telling me that Grandma abandoned my father.”

  “Abandon is a harsh word. We don’t know the circumstances. My birth mother had her reasons. Same as your grandmother – if indeed she did abandon her child. I don’t blame my birth mother. It is as much my karma as hers that we should be separated. Who knows what I had done in my past lives? But still, it would be nice to let her know I’m all right. How she must have suffered for her loss! Do you think any mother would readily give up their child if they don’t have to? She carried me in her body for nine months. But if she had not given me up, my parents wouldn’t have been able to adopt me.”

  “Your parents must be special people to adopt….”

  “I know. To adopt a blind baby. They are.”

  “You know. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You have such a big heart. Did your parents give you your name? ‘Rajah’ means ‘king’ right? It’s so apt for you. You have a certain je ne sais quoi…”

  “Je… what?”

  “Oh, it’s a French expression to say you have a special quality.”