by Phoen, Sam;
“So she had to fight to see me. My father made it painful for us. Only after my father married Auntie Lizzie and they had their own children did he send me to Scotland to be with my mother. I did my O-levels there and went to University in Edinburgh.”
Eric heaves a sigh of relief.
“So you weren’t really abandoned. And you were reconciled then.”
“Yes. But I can’t say I was really close to her. The sense that she could leave me behind always lingered. I felt betrayed.”
“Maybe you never forgave her?”
“Maybe.”
“Aren’t Catholics supposed to forgive? What’s the good of religion if it does not help you overcome your grudges and be a better person?”
Benson sighed. “Later, when I came back to Singapore to do NS, I had different girlfriends here and loved Singapore, so I decided to return after university to do my masters here. That’s when I met your mother. Your mother is a staunch Catholic and in her eyes, Grandma was such a sinner and a scarlet woman. I was so busy with my work, my thesis for my PhD.
“Then you were born. And I just let everything slide, not asserting myself so that there was peace at home for you. It seemed easier that way than to argue with your mother. Her work is making her more and more stressed. We have a huge mortgage on this apartment. She wanted this place in District 10, but she’s not coping with the long hours at work. Plus she gets terrible PMT which causes the mood swings.”
“You’re making excuses for her and for yourself. Have you ever thought about how her behaviour affects me? Your son? How she puts me down all the time? How I’m deprived of someone who loves me? You relinquish your responsibility as a husband but what about your responsibility as a father?”
“I will try to be a better father, but as far as your grandmother is concerned, well, the trouble is that so many years have gone by where our lives have not included Grandma, and it has become the norm. To try to get back in touch seems… too awkward.”
“But Grandma never stopped loving us, loving me.”
“Yes, she never forgets Christmas and our birthdays, even your mother’s. She always sends something.”
“Yes, I know,” Eric says. “I went to the store.”
“Your mother wanted to protect you, thought it would be better for you not to know Grandma exists so that you won’t get hurt. So every time something comes for you, she would dump it. I used to have to rescue the thing from the bin, then took to watching the post when it’s near your birthday or Christmas, anticipating something from Grandma so that I could rescue them in time. It occurred to me that one day you might like to know that she never neglected you, so I rented the store. I didn’t know what else to do.” He looks at Eric hopelessly, like a wounded animal.
“Why don’t you make amends now? Come with me to visit Grandma then.”
“I can’t… I don’t think I can…”
Eric feels like shaking his father. Think of my teeth as a fence. Think fence. It is Eric’s turn to pace the floor. Witness myself. What am I feeling? Why am I feeling it? Don’t get drawn into the feeling. Don’t let it catch me unawares.
“Can’t you see that you are repeating a pattern, Dad? You were separated from your mother. She wanted you but other people prevented her from taking you. Because you haven’t dealt with it, you are doing to me what your father did to you.”
Benson looks up, aghast. The wisdom of his son’s words hits home. Has he really perpetuated the same vile pattern, inadvertently punishing his son like his father did, when he was really trying to punish his wife? Was he, Benson, insidiously trying to punish his own mother for abandoning him? Was that why he never corrected Clara or encouraged Clara to be more benevolent towards his mother?
Perhaps our deep, unresolved wounds drive us more than we know, pushing us towards unhealthy directions. But in the end, who receives the butt of the stored pain? Who is the one really being punished? To his horror, Benson realises that it is Eric. His son.
Benson gets up on unsteady feet, overwhelmed by the enormity of his past actions.
“I need a drink,” he says, departing as suddenly as he had appeared.
The door is still open and Eric hears the clink of a crystal glass and whiskey decanter from downstairs. He can hear his father getting the ice cubes out of the fridge, then sounds of ice clunking against crystal.
Then his mother’s voice: “Boozing again, are you? You drink too much you know. That’s why you are having problems getting it up nowadays.”
His mother spares no one. Eric shuts his bedroom door. He can’t bear it when Clara belittles Benson.
It’s up to me to break the vicious cycle of punishment and hatred, Eric thinks.
Eight
“With you and your family, I feel as if I’m a valued member. With my parents, my mother particularly, I constantly feel like I’m a failure. She wants for me what I don’t want for myself,” Eric confesses to Rajah. “The trouble is, I still look to her for love and affirmation of my worth. In a way, it will be easier if she is wicked all the time. But sometimes, she can be so nice and at other times, so totally cruel. Sometimes, I get the feeling that she’s my stepmother and not my real mother!”
“Does she know how you feel?”
“I can’t talk to her. She puts this wall between us.”
“You have to tell her your dreams. Make her understand,” Rajah says gently. “Someone once said, when dreams die, life is like a winged bird that cannot fly. My wish for you is that you can fulfil your dreams. Promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me that you’ll not stop dreaming.”
“If it means a lot to you, I promise.”
“It does mean a lot,” Rajah says. “I feel you have such great potential. If you can fulfil your dreams, I will be so happy. My life will be made richer if you make yours worthwhile.”
Eric is moved. They’ve shared so much and become such good friends that Rajah is in some ways living through him. It gives Eric a sense of responsibility.
“Listen, never mind my dreams. You have to live yours too. I know you would like to teach blind people to play music. We have to find a way. Imagine what joy you will be spreading to others if you teach them how to play music! You are twinned with me now. I will do my best to help you achieve your dreams. But for starters, when my exams are over, I will do some kind of fundraising to help you get a guide dog.”
“Eric,” Rajah says, touched. He reaches out to grasp his hand. “You’re my best friend.”
Rajah renders the chorus of a Don Williams song, “You’re My Best Friend”, about best friends as shelter from life’s troubles.
To disguise the emotion welling up in him, Eric speaks in a rush, “You know, your voice is so fantastic, you should try to get onto Singapore Idol or The Final 1. You might become Singapore’s Stevie Wonder or Andrea Bocelli.”
“Actually,” Rajah laughs, “the song is about a man who considers his wife his best friend but I think the words are relevant for all good friends, don’t you? Come on, I’ll start with you as my first student, though you’re not blind. But you must pretend to be because people who are sighted look with their mind and not with their hearts or intuition. It stops people from truly feeling. Like we did on the beach, isolate your senses. Shut out the world. Close your eyes and pick up the guitar. Let your fingers feel the wood and the strings. Let them speak to you.”
Some legacies are more precious than others. Uncle Devan had imparted a gift to Rajah and Rajah had given it to him. Eric is only just beginning to understand it. It’s a simple teaching. The intellect has its place but too much reliance on it makes a person overly analytical and organised, or left-brained. Switching to the right brain means triggering the imagination and creativity; the knowledge that is processed is more intuitive and holistic. Finding the balance between the two is integral to growth.
Clara wants him to be a lawyer because she equates that with success. But it’s her bran
d of success, not his. If she is acting from her heart or intuition, she would take into consideration what he wants, what will truly make him happy. Eric realises that she is trying her best to be a good mother and to steer him towards economic success but he wishes she is less analytical and left-brained. He himself likes the idea of becoming more intuitive, to have a fresh look at things and not be hemmed in by a rail-track attitude.
When Rajah taught him how to play the guitar intuitively, something shifted within him. His sensitivity heightened. Eric became keenly aware of his fingertips, the soft pads of flesh touching wood and strings. With his closed eyes, he could hear the strands of vibration as he strummed each string, newly awakened to the nature of each string and the notes it can play, as if he was having a conversation with the instrument in his hands. His fingers simply gave voice to the inherent music in the guitar. It was magical. Eric realises that this kind of awareness can be taken into all avenues of life so that people become flowing and open instead of set and staid.
“I am glad I bumped into you,” Eric says. “You’ve given me so much. Before we go looking for my grandmother, let me take you out for a Peranakan treat. There’s a café next to the Peranakan Museum. I think I need to learn a little bit more about my culture before I see my grandmother.”
“I love Peranakan kueh so yes, we should go,” Rajah says.
“Do you think Saraswati would like to come too?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’d better ask your parents if it is all right first.”
But Saraswati has already eavesdropped on the conversation and says to her mother, “Amma, Eric is taking Rajah to the Peranakan Museum, can I go too?”
“It will be good for you. There are Indian Peranakans too so you can learn about them. I think they are called Chetti Peranakans.”
“Indian Peranakans? I thought all Peranakans are Malay-Chinese?” Eric is surprised. “Shows how much I know! But thank you, Auntie. Nathan, would you like to come as well?” Eric asks.
“Thanks Eric. But I really have to practise my dancing.”
The sky is overcast from the haze of smoke blown over by forest fires in Indonesia as the trio sets out, though the serious pollution that had people wearing surgical masks, coughing and spluttering, had passed. Eric thinks, we are given the gift of a changing sky and landscape every day but how many of us bother to look? And yet, someone like Rajah would so appreciate the changeability. Instead his landscape and outlook never change on a day-to-day or minute-by-minute basis.
How does he cope with the sameness every single day of his life? It may be a clichéd saying that variety is the spice of life but it is true. Surely nothing can be more deadening than the same boring thud of repetition? Being blind must be like being confined in a small cell, hemmed in by the same four high walls that prevent you from seeing beyond them. It must take a huge store of strength not to succumb, not to allow self-pity to sap one of the zest for living. Eric is so proud of Rajah. If Eric were blind, he’s not sure he would be able to cope as well as Rajah. His friend misses out on a daily basis, imprisoned by darkness. He wants so much to lessen the load for Rajah, to make life more alive for his mate.
Eric could have treated everyone to a taxi but he decides against exhibiting his wealth. So they get on the MRT at Pasir Ris station.
“We’ll be getting off at City Hall station,” he explains to Rajah. “Then it’s a short walk from there to Armenian Street.”
“I feel safe in your hands, my friend.”
It’s the first time that Eric has had to care for others. Rajah and Saraswati have become his responsibility on this outing. This engenders a new kind of feeling within him. He has a desire to protect them from all harm. His desire to look after Saraswati feels different from that with Rajah but he doesn’t know why.
The train is packed with the weekend crowd. Eric manages to secure a seat for Rajah but he and Saraswati are wedged against other people. The train shudders with a pneumatic hiss every time it stops and starts at each station. When it arrives at Bugis station, the jolt is so sudden that people are thrown sideways against one another. Instinctively, Eric shoots out his arms round Saraswati’s waist to prevent her from falling. In that split second, the full length of her body is pressed into his. Saraswati lifts her head to look him full in the face. Their eyes lock in mutual awareness, their breaths heavy, lips tantalisingly close.
“Hey guys, where are you?” Rajah asks.
They are jolted out of their moment.
“We’re here,” Eric assures him, patting his hand when he hears the small note of distress in Rajah’s voice. “We’ll be getting off at the next stop.”
Eric sees that Rajah loses confidence once he is in an unfamiliar place and out of his comfort zone. Of course it must be exceedingly difficult for a blind person to gauge his landscape. He can’t read other people’s body language, cannot know what people might be feeling or thinking, how they might react, what conditions or dangers await him in the environment. Eric realises he, like everyone else, takes for granted their casual mental assessment of others and context; this precious ability to pick up sensory hints is part of our everyday interaction with the world. But the blind face a cavernous void wherever they go, nothing to give direction or focus. To Eric, this was hugely frightening.
They alight at the next stop and Eric notices that the quality of air has deteriorated. He is surprised at his own observation. He didn’t use to be so aware of his environment – stumbling through the day, mind detached from his body and surroundings. But he has now learnt from Rajah and his family the importance of being present to himself and to others, and his outlook on life is transformed.
The impressive colonial building on Armenian Street housing the Peranakan Museum used to be a school. In the café, the three friends have a small Peranakan kueh each: kueh salat, pulot enti, and ketok ubi, downed with tea.
“Peranakan kueh is usually very colourful,” Eric says to Rajah. “The blue of your pulot or rice pudding comes from the bunga telang or sweet pea flower. Saraswati’s ketok ubi is a rich golden brown which is a result of the tapioca baked with fresh desiccated coconut and palm sugar, and my kueh salat is green from the pandan leaves used.”
“I thought you didn’t know much about the Peranakans?” Saraswati remarks, impressed.
“I have to confess that I Googled about Peranakan kueh to impress you.”
“Ah,” Saraswati says. “I’m impressed.”
“Oh Eric, you make things so fascinating. You make everything less mundane for me,” says Rajah. “I can’t imagine what colour is, but from the way you describe them, I see them as cheerful and happy cakes.”
“That’s a good one,” Eric says. “Cheerful and happy cakes! I guess they are, with all their rainbow colours. Especially the kueh lapis, each steamed layer is a different colour. They’re certainly not dull.”
“You don’t know how much you’ve brought into my life,” Rajah says to Eric.
Eric is touched. He doesn’t see himself as doing anything extraordinary and yet Rajah sees so much value in what he does. On the other hand, his mother never seems to appreciate anything he does. It suddenly strikes Eric that feeling valued can make a huge difference in one’s self-esteem.
They walk through the doorway into a cool hallway with Peranakan floor tiles and ornate mother-of-pearl hardwood chairs. Eric feels as if another part of the jigsaw puzzle of his life is fitting into place.
“There you are!” Saraswati says in an excited voice. “Amma is right. Look at the pictures of all these Chetti Peranakans!”
Eric tries to use words to create tangible images to make the journey through the museum interesting for Rajah. Perhaps he does have the makings of a writer after all. Some of the interactive tools, designed for children, are helpful for Rajah to feel things and hear the appropriate sounds.
“I guess Peranakans are the first real Singaporeans, since they are the ones who have integrated with the local i
ndigenous folks,” Rajah says.
“That’s an interesting point,” says Eric. “Your ideas and observations are sharp and can help people. Maybe you should aim to be more than a music teacher. Maybe you should aim to be a lawyer or a politician.”
“Oh, that would be fun. What would Singaporeans think of voting for an MP who can’t see?”
“Well, in the UK, they had one.”
“Really? They did?”
“Yes, David Blunkett. He was born blind, like you. He was brought up in a poor family but like you he never gave up. He eventually joined the Labour Party and was Home Secretary for Tony Blair’s cabinet.”
“To dream the impossible dream…” Rajah sings, amused, his voice echoing softly in the vast halls of the museum.
“My brother, the MP,” says Saraswati proudly. “Maybe even the first blind Prime Minister in the world.”
They all share a good chuckle.
“So how come this David Blunkett did not become Prime Minister?” Saraswati asks.
“His reputation was damaged when he became involved in a sex scandal.”
“What?” Saraswati exclaims. “Even the blind have affairs?”
“Little sister!” Rajah says, as if offended. “Blind people are also human, you know.”
“Sorry, big brother!”
Eric becomes thoughtful. Indeed. Just because a person is disabled, people tend to discount them from having normal appetites and feelings. How judgemental we can be, and how wrong.
“Wow! Look at that elaborately decorated bed!” Saraswati says, pointing.
Eric tries to describe the gold, burnished wooden carvings on the ceremonial wedding bed to Rajah.