Personality-Driven Portfolio

by Phoen, Sam;

  “Wah! I’m impressed! You speak French!”

  “No, it’s only an expression that has entered the English language.”

  “Still, it means you are smart. No wonder you are in that school. I heard kids from that school are not like kids from neighbourhood schools.”

  “Aiyah, no lah! We are just more fortunate.”

  “We must be near the sea now. I can smell the salt in the air.”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Let us try something. Stand still for a minute and close your eyes.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For fun. Just an experiment,” Rajah says with lightness in his voice.

  Eric decides to humour him. He closes his eyes. Shut away from sensory input, his ears take over as the predominant organs of perception. At first he just hears traffic sounds and the white noise of a city. Then he starts hearing other, subtler, sounds: a bird twittering, an animal thrashing in the bushes, the waves lapping onto the sandy shore. How calming it is to hone in on one sense only. And then his sense of smell takes reign – he detects meat being roasted on a barbecue, the fumes from an outboard motor, and then there it is: the smell of salt in the air.

  “Wow!” he exclaims. “I am amazed at how my other senses take over.”

  “That’s how I manage,” Rajah explains. “I train my other senses to guide me. Still, I wish that I can own a guide dog. These are dogs trained to guide a blind person across roads and navigate streets and public spaces. Do you know that in the UK, guide dogs are provided for the blind? In Singapore, very few people can afford it. Anyway, how about you being my guide dog for now and guide me to the water’s edge? I have this insane desire to splash about with my bare feet. I don’t feel confident without help.”

  Eric is struck that such an ordinary pleasure is denied Rajah and how, for him, the world is shrunk to what he can manage. And Eric suddenly realises how people like Rajah are so dependent on sighted people like him.

  Eric watches Rajah’s face as he splashes in the waves. He seems in absolute ecstasy. Eric is amazed that such a simple activity can bring such unadulterated joy. It is true then that happiness can come from simple things. He has always looked for pleasure in books, movies and all sorts of sports. But never has he felt such abundance as he now sees in Rajah.

  “Hey, that was fun! Thank you. I think the sun must be setting because my skin feels a lot cooler,” Rajah says after he fumbles to put his socks and shoes back on.

  Eric watches with an unfamiliar pain in his chest. Even the normal task of putting on one’s shoes becomes a monumental challenge when one is blind. His respect for Rajah grows.

  “Yes, the sun is setting,” Eric says, trying to keep his voice even.

  “Can you describe the sky to me, as it is right now?”

  Eric is taken aback for a few minutes. He has not had such a request before. Of course it would make sense in this instance. But what can he say about the sky? A sky is a sky as far as he is concerned. He has never thought to look up at it before. In a city of skyscrapers, when one looks up from the street, the sky is broken into jagged pieces. Yet here by the sea, the sky is a vault of blue, puffy white clouds streaming across its face. Why hasn’t he noticed it before? With a start, Eric realises that this is yet another thing he has always taken for granted.

  “Well,” he says. “We are right on the east coast and the sun is setting in the west. So we’re not getting a clear view of the sunset but…”

  He thinks about this. How is he going to describe the sky to make it meaningful for someone who cannot differentiate colour or shades?

  “Here in the tropics, the sun goes down quite rapidly. We don’t get a long twilight as compared to countries nearer the poles. The sun is a distant ball of fire and the sky around it is aglow with its energy and light. Imagine it like a kite flying high above. Then comes sunset: it is as if the kite flyer below the horizon is swiftly pulling the kite in. As the sun dips into the horizon, all the light in the sky is pulled along with it. For some brief minutes, the intensity of the light is magnified, streaking across the firmament in oranges, pinks and golds. Then we are left with darkness, until the stars and moon come out. I know it is hard for you to visualise what this might look like…”

  “The way you describe it has given me a sense of movement. Has anyone ever told you, you have a way with words? You make things sound joyful.”

  Eric has never been told he is good at anything before. The feeling he gets from the compliment makes him glow warm inside.

  “I love reading and am interested in the ways words are used to express our innermost feelings. I would like to study literature at university but my mother wants me to be a lawyer.”

  “I think it’s important to work at something that lifts your spirit rather than be in a job that imprisons your soul. Don’t waste your gift. Yes, it’s hard for me to comprehend the concept of colour. Be grateful that you live in a world of textures and colours. I learn everything second-hand through others. Without sight, it’s difficult to know the real world and to appreciate sensual beauty.”

  “It’s getting dark,” Eric tells Rajah. “The lights along the pathways are coming on. I think we should go before your parents start to worry.”

  Three

  “Since you like curry, why don’t you come over and join my family for dinner?” Rajah says.

  Eric is surprised at the invitation since they have only just met. But what has he got to lose? There is no reason for him to rush home, so Eric accepts the invitation.

  Eric has never been in a HDB flat before. All his friends from school live in luxurious condominiums or houses. Eric is glad that Rajah can’t see him making a face at the soggy mess of rubbish by the lift and the pool of urine in the corner. So this is what a HDB estate is like, this dismal stack of pigeonholes harbouring humanity.

  Eric recalls his Social Science project in school about the HDB. The Housing Board Development flats were largely built for the average- and low-income families. In the 1960s, HDB was the saviour of folks from the attap-thatched kampongs or villages, rescuing them from dire conditions where there was no running water, electricity, or flushing toilets. A small HDB flat, free from the smell of the jambans or outhouses, scuttling rats, cockroaches and holes in the attap roofs, was seen as a gift from the newly minted PAP. People who had voted for the People’s Action Party had been under the yoke of colonial rulers, suffered the devastating Japanese Occupation, experienced a nation’s painful ejection from the short-lived Federation of Malaysia and knew hunger at first hand. A HDB flat was luxury compared to their wooden huts on their farms and villages, which were prone to flash fires, floods, dysentery, dengue fever, malaria and cholera.

  But since the nation had shot out of Third World status and gained material wealth, its people holding positions that the colonial masters once held, more luxurious buildings and homes sprouted from the ground, rising like the dragon teeth that Jason sowed. More land had to be dredged from the sea. Once, it was enough simply to have an apartment with running water and electricity, but people now wanted homes complete with a swimming pool, gym, clubhouse and landscaped gardens.

  The lift takes them to the fourteenth storey.

  “Our house is one from the corner,” Rajah says when they step out, using the word that Singaporeans use to refer to their home. None of the vernacular languages differentiate a house from a home and this usage has been imported into Singaporean English. “There’s a Lord Ganesha image on the door. He’s the Remover of Obstacles.”

  “I can smell the curry from here,” Eric says. “Is it coming from your house?”

  “Probably,” Rajah laughs. For someone with such a severe handicap, he is a bundle of good cheer. “When you live in a HDB flat, you have to get used to the smell of your neighbour’s cooking. If it is not curry, it is fried chicken, herbal soup, rendang, assam pedas or some other local dish. Our neighbours are multi-ethnic. We all live harmoniously. You have to when you l
ive in such close proximity.”

  “Oh, is that what they mean by ‘kampong spirit’?”

  “Well, not quite lah! In the old kampongs, apparently people never kept their doors shut in the day, so neighbours mingled and were friendlier to each other. Kampong spirit is born from community sharing and oneness. My parents were from the kampongs. But here, no doors are ever kept open so neighbours hardly meet one another.”

  The two boys walk down the long common corridor, with aluminium windows shuttered for privacy, the grilles on the windows and doors looking as if they are keeping people in rather than burglars out. Eric experiences a modicum of claustrophobia but is too polite to mention this to his new friend.

  The corridor is strewn with potted plants and Taoist altars, shoe racks and even clothes-drying racks. Eric has to help Rajah manoeuvre his way through the paraphernalia since a trailing clothesline, forlorn shoe or mis-positioned flower pot could prove treacherous to him. Eric does not know what Lord Ganesha looks like but Rajah stops at a door with an image of the Elephant God on it. He uses his hand to touch the image and to find the keyhole.

  The fragrance of curry is delicious, the scent of roasted cinnamon sticks and star anise fill the air. The flat does smell like a curry house as Eric’s mother fears. But it is not as offensive as Clara had intimated. In fact, the smell makes the place seem homely and warm. As soon as they walk through the door, a girl with silky black hair that falls to her shoulders calls out, “Amma! Rajah is home. He’s got a friend with him.”

  Wow, Eric thinks, she’s beautiful.

  A woman in a simple cotton sari walks out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her midriff is exposed between blouse and sari. She is about Clara’s age but there is an aura of wisdom about her. The relief at seeing her visually handicapped son arrive home safely is reflected on her face momentarily.

  “Aiyoh!” Mrs Devan cries. “Did you go out in those shoes? One is yours and the other’s your brother’s! He’ll kill you. It’s his special star-spangled ones.”

  Rajah grins, his teeth white against his ebony skin.

  “Ooops!” he says. “People must think I’m either crazy or blind.”

  “Ya!” says the young girl, whom Rajah introduces as his sister, Saraswati. “Especially in that super bright orange shirt.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs Devan says. “Don’t tease him about the shirts I force him to wear. I want to make sure that people can see him.”

  “Oh, people can see him, all right!” Saraswati giggles.

  “What’s this I hear? Someone stole my best shoes?” Rajah’s brother, Nathan, rushes out of their shared bedroom. “You hantu, devil! Do you know how long it took for me to save for those shoes? They are the ones for my stage act.”

  But his tone is jocular. He pretends to snatch the shoe off from Rajah’s foot and gives his brother a playful whack with it.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Rajah holds his hands up in apology. “Someone must have put them on my shoe rack by accident.”

  “Maybe your hand strayed to my rack? Next time if you want to steal my shoes and go out in style, try to wear a pair!”

  Everyone laughs. Eric is surprised how Rajah does not take offence at their allusion to his lack of sight. The family seems relaxed about his condition.

  “Hey, everybody. I want you to meet my new friend, Eric Teo. Amma, Eric loves curry. Can he eat with us?”

  “Do you have to ask?” Mrs Devan sounds offended. “Our home is always open to family and friends. No need to ask or stand on ceremony.”

  “Thank you, Auntie,” Eric says.

  “Are you okay with curry fish head?”

  “I love it,” Eric says, feeling welcomed.

  The flat has three bedrooms and a living room-cum-dining area. The parents sleep in one bedroom, the boys in another and Saraswati in the smallest. The flat is as big as Eric’s bedroom and en suite bathroom at home. Eric is humbled. He scans the flat and immediately notes that there isn’t a television. In many households, the television is turned on whether anyone is watching or not, like a noisy, chattering alien who visited and never left. But the atmosphere in the Devans’ flat is different. A sense of peace and calm prevails. Laughter punctuates the air as the siblings tease one another, the smell of cooking emanating from the kitchen, Mrs Devan singing as she cooks, the long braid on her back swaying to the rhythm of her hips.

  “Is your mother singing a Bollywood song?”

  “Yes,” Saraswati says. “We all like to sing. Nathan wears his star-spangled shoes when he performs in school. We often sing together after dinner. Sometimes Amma chants as she cooks, to infuse the food with positive energy.”

  Eric is mesmerised by fifteen-year-old Sarawati’s large eyes, ringed with kohl, her dark lashes fluttering as she speaks animatedly. She has her mother’s soft, delicate features and a smile to match. A new feeling stirs in him. His heart starts to thump in his chest. For goodness’ sake, what is happening to him?

  “I know a song or two…” His voice sounds breathless to his own ears.

  “You must sing for us then,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm, her fingers spreading fire throughout his body. She springs back abruptly as if she too felt the burn.

  “And who is this handsome young man?” the tall man stepping into the flat asks.

  “Appa, this is Rajah’s new friend, Eric,” Saraswati says. “He’s joining us for dinner. Eric, our father. He’s a nurse at Singapore General Hospital.”

  Eric has never met a male nurse before. His mother probably would not approve. Eric is also taken by Mr Devan’s style of greeting which is new to him – what a lovely way to commence a conversation. He never regards himself as handsome but to have someone say so felt positive and heartening. He knows few people who pay compliments; he thought it was a Western custom or the kind of thing that happens only in movies.

  “Oh he is handsome, is he?” Rajah says. “Come here Eric. Let me see.”

  Eric is unsure what Rajah is asking.

  “He needs to run his hands over your face,” Mr Devan explains.

  Eric sits next to Rajah and permits Rajah to use his hands to trace his features. The gesture makes Eric surprisingly emotional. It is not just about Rajah touching him but the keen awareness that Rajah’s life is so restrictive due to his blindness.

  “Wah! Eric!” Rajah exclaims. “Appa is right. You are handsome.”

  “Oh yes,” Saraswati says, under her breath.

  “But don’t you think my pimples make me look ugly?” Eric is anxious to know.

  “Pimples? What pimples?” Rajah asks. “I can’t see any pimples.”

  It’s the way Rajah said the word see, which makes everyone laugh, including Eric. Eric hears his own throaty laugh and realises with a start that he has not laughed for a very long time. The sound feels unnatural, like it has been strangled for too long, but gradually it becomes looser. Something is definitely shifting in him now. In one quick swoop, in his inimitable way, Rajah has banished Eric’s obsession with his pimples.

  “Would you like a fork and spoon?” Mrs Devan asks Eric when the meal is spread out on the dining table. “We all eat with our hands.”

  “Well, I have to be honest and say I’ve never tried eating with my fingers. But I believe that Peranakans, like the Malays, used to eat with their fingers too. Since I’ve just learnt that I’m half-Peranakan, I might give it a go. That is, if you don’t mind me having curry and rice trailing down my arm,” he laughs for the second time. Eric is surprised at how easily the laughter is now flowing from him.

  That’s it! Eric thinks. That’s what’s lacking at home – joy!

  The Devan family talk and exchange news while they eat, making inside jokes, speaking in English and Tamil. The atmosphere is vastly different from mealtimes in his own home, his mother constantly on her iPhone or iPad, his father on his iPhone or in a different world. His family mealtimes reflect many he has seen in restaurants where couples and families do no
t make conversation as each is busy with his own personal mobile device. Instant communication has replaced the art of conversation and of being present.

  In this household, Eric feels included; the family’s friendliness and warmth envelops him and in their midst he feels comfortable and wanted. He does not feel the tension that grips him at his own family meal, watching to see when his mother’s mood is going to change abruptly, resulting in either his father or himself getting ticked off.

  After the meal, Mrs Devan sits down to read while everyone else helps to clear the table.

  “Amma has done all the hard work of cooking so now we do the washing up,” Nathan explains.

  It seems a reasonable and fair arrangement. Except that Eric has never had to wash up in all the years he has lived. So he stands awkwardly in the kitchen.

  “Ha! Ha!” Saraswati laughs. “Look at you! You look like an alien in the kitchen. I bet you have a maid to do everything for you! Here, you can wipe up.”

  “Oh, she’s a bossy madam, huh?” Mr Devan says, laughing.

  Eric is momentarily stung by Saraswati’s comment. Was his incapability so obvious? Or did he just look spoilt? For some inane reason, he wants her to think well of him. But as he takes the tea towel from her, she winks at him. Suddenly, everything is all right again. He realises that she was just teasing him.

  Rajah contributes to the washing up and it appears that the family does not take his blindness as any excuse. Because they treat him as normal, he acts as if he is normal. It’s a strange idea for Eric to grasp. When Rajah puts something in the wrong place, one of them quietly moves it to the right spot without making him feel wrong. The camaraderie in the kitchen is refreshing.

  “Okay, you guys have to help me,” Nathan says, once they were done. “I’m going to practise my dance routine and need some music. Rajah, will you play?”

  “Of course,” Rajah says and Nathan hands him the guitar.

  Eric is astounded as he watches Rajah, the way he feels the length and breadth of the wooden guitar, to take its measure so he knows where to place his hands. The strings seem to call his fingers to them so that even without seeing, he can pluck them. Nathan and his father shift the coffee table and Nathan shows off his moves, his arms and legs acquiring a rubbery flexibility and fluidity. The family applauds.