by Phoen, Sam;
Then Saraswati sings “Memory” from the musical, Cats, her voice causing havoc with Eric’s senses.
“I’m going to sing my favourite song and dedicate it to my new friend,” says Rajah.
Eric is flattered. Rajah sings “The Impossible Dream”, his voice rich and melodious, the lyrics raising goosebumps on Eric’s skin.
Eric has always loved the lyrics and knows them well. The theme of the song, that nothing is insurmountable, seems more poignant in relation to Rajah. For other people, the impossible dream might be a huge dream but for Rajah, it’s the simple day-to-day activities that have become impossible. So, to Eric, the familiar lyrics take on emotional resonance.
“Rajah, you are a born singer,” Eric says, trying to conceal his emotion. “Did you know that the song was written for the Broadway musical, Man of La Mancha, based on the book, Don Quixote, by 16th-century Spanish author, Miguel de Cervantes? He was a contemporary of William Shakespeare. Except that they lived in different countries which were at war with each other. And they never met…”
“Isn’t my friend well read as well as handsome?”
“Your love for books is wonderful, Eric,” Mr Devan says. “You’ll be really useful to Rajah if you can read to him. Rajah loves stories, don’t you, son? It is tragic that literature is not compulsory anymore in Singapore schools. Literature feeds the human spirit.”
“I’d love to. I have so many novels to share.”
“Eric! Your turn to sing,” Saraswati urges.
“I’m not very good…”
“Don’t put yourself down,” Mrs Devan says. “Just let your voice be free.”
“I remember this song from Oliver!. I’ll give it a go.”
When he finishes, they all clap in appreciation. Eric feels himself grow tall with pride.
“Will you be coming back to visit Rajah again?” Saraswati asks him as he leaves, her voice expectant.
“He’d better,” says Rajah. “He’s my new-found poet, to describe the world to me in beautiful words and cadences. And perhaps if he has time, to read books to me.”
“Auntie, Uncle. May I come back again?”
“As if you have to ask,” Mr and Mrs Devan say.
Eric feels accepted. Rajah has given his life a purpose. He is already sorting out in his mind the books he wants to share with Rajah. Maybe he will start with Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn, about boys who roamed free in the countryside and had adventures, things that Rajah can only dream about. Yes, that will make Rajah happy.
For the first time in his life, Eric realises that he has the power to make someone happy. He feels a sense of responsibility. The thought of Saraswati’s hand on his arm makes him tingle with happiness. It’s only when he is in the taxi on the way home, that Eric realises that he has forgotten to be angry.
Four
“Where the hell have you been?” Clara shouts when Eric lets himself into the apartment, rushing towards him in an almost menacing manner. “We’ve been worried sick. I nearly called the police.”
His mother’s shrill voice and harsh manner jars. She looks harassed, with mascara-streaked cheeks.
Benson gets up quickly to Eric when he walks in, almost as if he is going to embrace Eric, something he has never done. But he seems to change his mind and sits back down.
Salimah is lurking as though she couldn’t go to bed due to the family crisis but is wishing someone will allow her to. She looks exhausted.
For a few seconds, Eric is filled with remorse for keeping everyone awake and making them worry. He has deliberately not answered any calls from his parents initially, then later was enjoying himself so much at the Devans’ that he did not think of letting his parents know he was going to be back late, the incident at the restaurant relegated to the back of his mind by an afternoon and evening of good cheer.
“Oh, sorry. I met a teenager who’s blind and helped him on the MRT. His name is Rajah. Then he invited me to his home for curry and to meet his family.”
“So you completely forgot to let me know about it and I don’t have to worry, is it?” Clara demands, her features twisted from her anger. “And why can’t you mix with people of your kind?”
“Clara!” Benson interrupts.
Up until he came home, Eric has been filled with a warm feeling of euphoria. But it evaporates quickly in the face of his mother’s hostility.
“We do live in Singapore, a multi-racial society, Mother,” Eric says coldly.
“You’re so selfish, making us worry like this! You walked out of the restaurant so rudely. Then you don’t answer your phone,” Clara shrieks. “We’ve called and called. What has got into you? Where are your brains? Acting so stupid like this…”
“Clara, honey…” Benson pleads.
“Answer me!” she yells.
Eric has apologised but obviously not enough. Clara’s words have far-reaching claws that rake at his self-esteem, drawing blood. He felt like a somebody at the Devans’. Now he is thrust back into being a useless piece of nothing. His mother’s tone slams shut that small window of remorse. The muscles in his body tense. The anger returns.
“Who wants to come home to this kind of shit?”
“Don’t swear or act smart!” Clara says, swinging out her arm to thwack him on the head.
“Clara!”
Eric is stunned into momentary silence, his head buzzing.
“I never seem to please you,” he says, adopting the Devans’ unhurried way of talking, nursing his head. “Maybe it’s better if I am dead.”
Then he climbs up the stairs to his bedroom and locks his door.
Clara sinks to the floor, cradling her own head, howling.
“What have I done to deserve a son like this?”
“What have we done to deserve you?” Benson says, with unusual vehemence, as if for once he has stepped into his true character. “You always think about yourself, how things affect you and what people say to you or about you. Have you given much thought to what might be happening to the boy?”
“Whose side are you on? What has gotten into you? Have you been drinking again or what?” Clara shouts. “That’s your problem – not supporting me in disciplining Eric because your mother was never there for you.”
Benson looks at her, as if he was going to retort but instead he says, “Sometimes people finally wake up. I hope I’m not too late.”
He ascends the stairs to go after his son.
Clara is stunned. “Why is everyone getting at me?”
She notices Salimah peering out from the kitchen and yells at her, “What are you staring at? It’s none of your business. Go to bed!”
“Eric, let me in. Let me talk to you.” Benson knocks continuously on Eric’s bedroom door. The chasm between them is great; it’s not just a wooden door that separates them.
“Go away!”
“Please Eric. I can explain. About Grandma and all that…”
“Just go away!”
“Eric, please let me in…”
From within, the sound system is turned up to full blast, a whole orchestra accompanies Adele’s dulcet tones singing “Skyfall”.
Benson leans his forehead against the door, spent. He feels he has failed everybody.
The tension in their air-conditioned apartment is so thick, Eric feels that it can be cut with a knife. His parents are not talking to each other, and he is not talking to his parents. They are definitely not facing it all together.
Their apartment has an open-plan design so the dining area with its Italian marble flooring is on a half-level above the sitting room. Luxury and comfort are in obvious abundance around the apartment but the distinct lack of joy makes the place feel parched.
Eric bends his head towards his cereal bowl and refuses to make eye contact with either parent. Poor Salimah is roped in as the reluctant messenger.
“Salimah, please tell ma’am I will be home late tonight,” Benson says.
“Ma’am, Sir said he will be l
ate home tonight.”
“You think I’m deaf or what? I can hear him! Tell him I’m not coming back for dinner either.”
“Sir, Ma’am says she’s not coming home for dinner,” Salimah dutifully reports.
Clara rolls her eyes, scrapes back her chair roughly and stalks out of the dining space in her short, tight, black skirt. She puts on her Jimmy Choos, picks up her laptop case, walks out the front door and slams the door shut so hard that the pictures on the wall rattle.
There is a moment of silence.
“Let me take you to school today,” Benson ventures.
“No thanks,” Eric says, picking up his backpack getting up to leave. “I can manage.”
“We have to talk.”
“You had sixteen years to do it. Why didn’t you do it before?”
Five
All day long, Eric broods on his retort to his father. The unpleasantness clings to him like a sticky cobweb. He is not the kind of person who enjoys hurting others.
After school, Eric makes his way to the Devans’. He rings the bell.
“Eric!” Saraswati says with delight. “So nice to see you.”
Eric’s heart lifts at the sight of Saraswati and her obvious fondness for him.
“May I come in?”
Mrs Devan hears this and she quickly comes to the door.
“You never ever have to ask!” she chides. “You’re always welcome. I’m making keema today. We’re having it with chapatti. Will you like it?”
“I love your cooking, Auntie. Thank you so much for making me feel welcome.”
Earlier, his shoulders had drooped and there was a heaviness in him. But now Eric feels the weight lifting. Nathan and Saraswati storming him with questions about everything takes his mind off the situation with his parents.
“But where’s Rajah?” Eric asks.
“He’s not back from school yet. Amma always worries until he arrives home safely,” Saraswati says. “When you rang the doorbell, we thought it might be him returning home though he always uses the key.”
“I can imagine it must be a daily worry for you, Auntie,” Eric says. “Do you want me to go out and look for him?”
“No, it’s okay,” says Mrs Devan. “Yes, it’s a worry. I know we have to let him have as much of an independent life as possible. But I’m nervous about what he has to tackle on a day-to-day basis. Not everyone is as kind as you.”
Eric realises that Rajah’s condition not only affects him but his family daily. To have a disabled family member is a challenge for everyone. Compared to Rajah, his own problem with his parents is nothing. Eric wonders what he can do to help make life easier for Rajah.
When Rajah returns home unscathed, Mrs Devan hides her relief so that Rajah does not feel himself a burden to the family. Eric marvels at the love shown by the Devan family. He had picked up Auntie Devan’s anxiety and watched as the clock ticked by slowly. When they hear the key turning in the lock, their hearts lift.
“Hey! Great to see you at home,” Rajah says to Eric when he hears his voice.
“I’ve brought Tom Sawyer to read to you today,” Eric says. “It’s a classic.”
As he starts reading, Eric feels a thrill to have both Rajah and Saraswati listening attentively.
“You read so well, you make the characters come alive for me.”
“Recently Harry Potter has been all the rage. If you’re interested in magic, spells and wizards, we could try out the first book. Or if you want to hear about blood-sucking vampires, we can try the Twilight series.”
A while later, Mr Devan comes home and Mrs Devan serves the keema and chapatti.
“Best way to eat this is to use your fingers like this,” Nathan advises Eric, breaking off a piece of chapatti and scooping up some keema on his plate.
“Wah! Auntie! You’re really a great cook!” Eric says after a mouthful.
“She’s a wonderful mother as well,” Rajah says proudly and Mrs Devan pats his shoulder lovingly. “Where would I be without her?”
Eric is moved by Mrs Devan’s simple gesture, so much love in her eyes. He wishes his own mother has that soft look for him. Clara’s eyes are always so piercing, so accusatory, making Eric feel inadequate and useless.
“Wow, your washing up skills have improved!” Saraswati teases him after dinner.
Eric has insisted on doing the washing, rather than just wiping. He has never had to do it before; Salimah was always at hand to do anything menial. Eric actually enjoys the activity and the camaraderie, the others taking the crockery and cutlery from him as they wipe up and crack jokes.
“I’m trying to pretend I’m not spoilt,” he says, making everyone laugh.
“See!” Rajah says. “You’ve already learnt to laugh at yourself, my friend!”
Eric reads to Rajah, who delights over the antics of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. He laughs out loud at the idea of a grown man like Don Quixote fighting windmills.
Later, Eric asks Mr Devan, “Why do I feel bad when I’m not being nice, Uncle?”
He didn’t give the details but mentions his retort to his father.
“Words have their own energy,” Mr Devan explains in his soothing, unhurried voice. “Anything that you put out has a repercussion within. When you say something positive, the repercussion inwards is positive; when negative, its backlash makes you feel bad. I’m so proud of you that you notice there is an internal reaction to words. You’re already a step ahead. The majority of people go through life without being aware. That’s why they do not realise the impact of their words, not just to others but to themselves. Harsh words to others and even to ourselves can result in illness and disease.”
“I don’t understand how.”
“All our Asian philosophies believe in the existence of our body’s inner energy, known as chi to the Chinese, prana in Hindu philosophy and ki to the Japanese. It is this energy that determines your emotional and mental health. Yoga, Tai Chi, Chi Kung, Reiki are all systems that teach you to regulate this energy for optimum health. Check it out yourself. Yoga never expects you to believe anything without checking it out. Yoga is not a religion, it’s a science. It does not say ‘you must do this and not that’. It says, ‘try this to make yourself feel better’.”
“That’s good,” Eric says. “I’m disillusioned with religions. People can appear so religious but their behaviour outside church can be so uncaring.”
“Try this,” Mr Devan says. “Close your eyes and breathe in and out slowly. Your breath is connected to your mood. When you’re upset, your breath is short and sharp. To calm yourself, simply take longer breaths.”
Eric is amazed at how effectively his breathing pattern can be altered just by becoming aware of it. Even more importantly, he has the capacity to control his mood. There is so much he does not know still. After doing the various breathing exercises Mr Devan teaches him, he can feel his bad mood lightening.
He does not know if he believes in all that energy that Mr Devan talks about, but Eric knows that the atmosphere in the Devans’ home is definitely calming and soothing. Perhaps it is made more so by Auntie Devan’s joyful singing, Rajah strumming the guitar or the presence of Saraswati. The alien monster, the television, is not blaring away, moving images constantly flashing the screen and assaulting one’s senses. To Eric, the constant presence of the television seems to suck out good energy. His school friends always tease him for being different from other boys as he does not participate in any online games or even own a PlayStation.
“You must be a really special person to want to be a nurse, Uncle,” Eric says to Mr Devan. “Did you choose to be one or did you just drift into it?”
Eric has been giving this some thought. He is intrigued. He himself can’t imagine any boy or man he knows who would want to be a nurse. His own classmates talk about becoming doctors, lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, engineers, pilots, architects, politicians. But nobody talks about becoming a nurse!
“I’m not special,” says
Mr Devan modestly. “I was just following my calling. I’ve always wanted to help people. Since my family was not rich enough to send me to medical school to be a doctor, I decided that I would help people in my own small way. It’s very fulfilling work. It’s more than just a job. When you can make a difference in someone else’s life, to give a bit of comfort when they are ill, it’s very gratifying.”
Rajah turns around and says, “If Appa was not a nurse, I probably won’t be here. He was the nurse who found me at the doorstep of the hospital’s Emergency Unit where my birth mother had left me!”
Eric is blown away by the synchronicity of events.
“It’s like how serendipitous it was that I was in the MRT when you were there. If I had not quarrelled with my parents, I wouldn’t have been there and we wouldn’t have met.”
“Wow, Eric!” Saraswati says admiringly. “You’re such a thinker!”
Eric is pleased by Saraswati’s remark. But he is still ruminating about Mr Devan’s daring to do something different. It must require courage to go against common expectations of what a man’s profession should be. Especially an occupation that is normally associated with women.
“You know I always feel that way too, Uncle. That I want to work at something creative and that benefits others,” Eric confesses. “I’m not that bothered about making money. I know it’s important and we all must have it. But I think people get overly obsessed over it.”
“It is all about balance,” Mr Devan says. “We need to balance the outer life with the inner life for us to be truly happy. And you, my young friend, seem to have your head screwed on right. You are a big tree in a small pot!”
“What does that mean, Uncle?”
“I think you’re a unique young man who has big dreams. You’re a powerhouse of good intentions and good morals stuck in a small space. But right now you are stuck in a small pot, in old ways that are restraining you. So you are like a tree that has outgrown its pot. You need to be taken out and re-potted. You need to be allowed to expand.”