by Phoen, Sam;
“After the open spaces and mountains of Scotland, I couldn’t live in a confined space on the mainland. Besides, I wanted to start my own windsurfing school. Graham and I had had one in Scotland. After he died, I didn’t want to run a big outfit on my own so I sold it and started a small one here. I freelance, only taking students when I want to.”
“Can you teach me, Grandma?”
“Do you know? It’s lovely to hear you call me that. Finally, before I die, I can hear you call me Grandma! I thought I would go to my grave not hearing that precious word.” She hugs him again. “I can see you’ve inherited my love for sports and the outdoors. Your father was not one for sports. Of course I will teach you. I’ve dreamed about it for so long.”
The other students soon come to join them.
“Hey everyone, this is my grandson, Eric, and his best friend, Rajah,” Isabelle says proudly, putting an arm round each of their shoulders.
“Your grandmother is one hellava woman,” says one of the girls. “I hope I will be half as active at her age.”
“Hear, hear,” the others echo the sentiment.
“We’re thinking of voting for her to be the idol for Pioneer Citizens,” says another girl. “She has shown that people can be healthy when old.”
Eric feels a sense of pride. He likes the warmth of his grandma’s embrace, the weight of her arm on his body, her voice calling him sayang. It’s only after his grandmother has used the endearment that Eric realises his mother has never called him anything but his name, most of the time, her tone belligerent.
“Ohh,” one of the girls exclaim. “This is so good. I was so shivery earlier and this is really warming me up.”
“Grandma, is it true that you make the best ayam buah keluak?”
“Who told you that?” Isabelle asks, curious.
“Dad mentioned it a few months back. That’s the day I first learnt about you and that you were alive. I thought you had died, you see.”
“So he does have some positive memories of me,” Isabelle says wistfully.
Because there are strangers present, neither Eric nor Isabelle pursue the subject. The atmosphere in the village house is more like that of the Devan’s than Eric’s home. It’s merry and light. The students chat and go over their mistakes in managing and handling the sails and surfboards, complain about the number of times they fell into the water; Isabelle assures them that those were mistakes all beginners make. For Rajah’s sake, they try to describe everything graphically. Rajah’s face is lit up with the sheer pleasure of discovering a sport new to him.
After the students leave, Isabelle says to Eric, “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me by coming to see me.” She clutches his hand and takes it up to her lips to kiss it.
“I feel as if a hole in me has finally been plugged in,” Eric says.
“The same here. We have lots to tell each other and lots to learn about each other,” Isabelle says. “But let’s not rush. Let’s be friends first and let the other things come up in their own time. There’s no mileage in blaming other people or going over old ground. We have a future together now but we must also live in the present.”
They talk and laugh; Eric is deliriously happy. If they didn’t need to catch the last boat home, Eric would have loved to stay on. But he must get Rajah home before dark, otherwise Auntie Devan will worry.
Isabelle says, “Now Rajah. Make sure you come back with Eric anytime too.”
“Auntie Isabelle,” Rajah says. “Do you think it will ever be possible for me to feel what windsurfing is like?”
“Can you swim? I can teach you that first. But if you can, we can give it a go. You will wear a life jacket but it’s possible only if you’re not the panicky type,” Isabelle says. “If you panic in the water, you’re a danger not only to yourself but to your rescuer. We can go tandem. I can stand behind you on the windsurfing board and we can try to bring up the sail together. Nothing is impossible. When I was skiing at Aspen, Colorado, I saw something that I thought I would never see – a blind man skiing.”
“You’ve gone skiing in Aspen? I’ve been there too. It’s Dad’s favourite ski resort,” says Eric.
“Yes, I know,” Isabelle says, “I took him there.”
“Wah! Ski as well?” says Rajah, intrigued. “What is snow like? What is it like to stand on a mountain? How can a blind man ski if he can’t see the slope?”
His questions come fast and furious. Isabelle is opening doors for him which he never thought were even there in the first place.
“The man I saw had his instructor by his side to guide him down the slope, like a guide dog. Instead of a leash, the blind skier holds onto the instructor’s ski pole. He wore a placard round his neck which said “Blind Skier” in bold letters, both back and front. So that people can navigate around him safely – and help him if necessary. Of course his guide is shouting out instructions as well, like when to turn when he’s about to run into another skier or when he’s too close to the edge of the ravine, to slow down when they come to a very steep slope or culvert.”
“Wow!” Rajah says impressed. “It must take huge courage and trust for a man who can’t see to ski down a steep mountain slope. See Eric, there are still things for me to achieve. Auntie, you sound like you’ve lived a very active life. I envy Eric if he is going to walk in your shoes.”
Yes, Eric thinks. So many people moan about their lives, even when life is good. People don’t understand the challenges a disabled person has to face each day. And yet these people do not moan and groan but just get on with living. Maybe this is what I should write about.
“Don’t forget that I’m going to report everything back to you, Raj. So it will be like you’re doing those things too,” says Eric, aloud.
“See why he’s my best friend, Auntie.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Isabelle says and reaches out to kiss Eric on the cheek. “Okay now we have each other’s mobile, we don’t ever have to be out of touch again.”
His grandmother’s easy display of affection warms Eric’s heart. He feels loved and good about himself. Very good indeed.
On the way back in the boat, Rajah says to him, “I’m so happy for you, Eric.”
“Thank you, my friend. It’s you who have given me the impetus to look for my Grandma. How can I ever repay you?’
“What’s this talk about repaying? Friends don’t do things for such motives,” says Rajah. “Listen, I know you two will need time on your own together to get to know each other. So don’t feel like you need to take me along every time.”
“Grandma won’t mind.”
“There are some things you need to do without me, Eric. I might not always be around.”
“Touch wood! Don’t say such things,” Eric says. “It’s bad luck.”
Despite his buoyant mood, a tiny worm of foreboding snakes its way into Eric’s heart. Is Rajah just being silly or did he just have a moment of prescience?
Twelve
Eric has adopted Rajah’s habit of bursting into song, and launches into “Top of the World”.
Karen Carpenter’s song is one of Auntie Devan and Rajah’s favourites. It’s not just the tune that endears the song to them, but the meaningful lyrics.
Eric is in his room sorting out things that he could sell to raise more money for Rajah’s guide dog. It’s his private mission to help his friend lead a reasonably independent life. Maybe he can approach corporate organisations to contribute. Eric has so many plans for Rajah and him.
“You know,” Benson says as he passes his room. “That used to be one of my favourite songs too. Your grandmother used to sing it to me.”
“I’ve met her,” Eric says softly.
Benson stops short by the door. “And?”
“She’s well,” Eric says. “She’s been trying to catch my eye all these years after her return to Singapore. She loves me, Dad. I’m entitled to a grandmother, aren’t I? Why don’t we let bygones be bygones and invite her here? Why don’t you go and see h
er?”
Benson shifts awkwardly on his feet.
“It’s not as straightforward as all that.”
“It takes two to tango. Come on, Dad, she’s your mother! Can’t you forgive her the past? Surely you owe her something!” Eric says, frustrated.
“Keep your voice down. Your mother…”
“For goodness’ sake, Dad. Be your own man!” Eric hisses.
“What’s all that whispering upstairs?” Clara asks from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you talking about me behind my back?”
“No, of course not, honey.”
It’s the worst possible day for him to leave his mobile phone behind.
He thought he had placed it in his schoolbag. The old Eric who checked his phone every few minutes would not have forgotten his phone. But the new Eric has cut down on his phone habit, choosing not to check his phone or social media accounts so regularly. The realisation of his unhealthy phone habit struck one night on the MRT after an evening of relaxation and peace with the Devans. Every other individual on the train was fiddling with his phone, texting, playing a game or watching a movie. They seemed afraid to be with their own thoughts, looking so robotic, heads bent over, as if drugged. Eric had been petrified that he might mutate into one of them.
Eric arrives home to retrieve his phone and sees the missed calls and texts from Saraswati, Nathan and Uncle Devan. Instantly, he is filled with an awful sense of dread.
“Uncle Devan. It’s Eric. Sorry, I left my phone at home.”
“Eric,” Uncle Devan’s voice is deadly calm, a controlled lid on overwhelming emotions. “Can you come to Kent Ridge Hospital straightaway? Rajah has had an accident.”
Eric flies down the stairs and crashes into Benson.
“What’s the big hurry?”
“I just spoke to Uncle Devan. He’s at Kent Ridge Hospital. Rajah’s had an accident!”
“Come on. I’ll take you.”
Once inside Benson’s Mercedes, Eric listens to his voicemails: Saraswati tearfully telling him that a car had driven into Rajah at a pedestrian crossing; Nathan telling him that maybe the traffic light beeps had indicated it was safe to cross. Mr Devan’s message was calm – Come as soon as you can. Rajah has been knocked down by a car. Eric is cold with fear, the fear of losing someone he cares for so much.
“It’ll be all right,” Benson tries to assure him, patting him on his knee. “If he has been taken to the ward, it means he survived.”
Eric does not remember his father ever touching him before.
“You go on in,” Benson says when he drops Eric at the main entrance of the hospital. Sprinting to the lobby and desperate to get past the queue to the lift, Eric shouts, “Please let me through! My best friend is dying!”
He didn’t know why he said that but he had the ominous feeling that he was not wrong.
Mr Devan had given him the bed number – Rajah is in a supervised room at the Intensive Care Unit. When Saraswati sees him, she bursts into more tears.
“Nathan, take her outside,” Mr Devan, standing at the foot of the bed, says quietly.
Nathan nods mutely at Eric and takes his sister out. Mrs Devan is beside the bed, clasping Rajah’s right hand to her lips, her hair in disarray, her eyes swollen from weeping.
“Son,” Mr Devan says, putting a hand on Rajah’s shoulder, “Eric is here.”
Eric is horrified at the sight of his friend, his arms in splints, head bandaged, face and lips bruised and puffy from the impact, stitched in black centipede crawls. Tubes are fed into his nose and arm, wires attach him to several beeping and pulsating machines, monitoring his internal injuries. The external damage is marginally less critical than the internal.
The police had informed Mr Devan that the car at the pedestrian crossing had turned swiftly to skip the lights before anyone could cross. Hearing the beeps that it was safe to cross, Rajah had apparently stepped onto the road, right into the car’s path. Not only did the car knock him down, the back wheel also went over Rajah’s body where he had fallen, crushing him.
Eric has to restrain himself from howling. His body shakes with rage against the driver and unfathomable sorrow for his friend. But it will be selfish, inappropriate behaviour in front of the Devans, who were already in so much grief, yet each member is practising restraint and struggling to keep Rajah’s last moments peaceful.
“He’s drifting in and out of consciousness,” says Mr Devan, gravely. “He might not hear. But you can try talking to him. He asked for you earlier.”
“Hey, friend,” Eric puts on a cheerful voice, gripping Rajah’s arm. “You’ve got to get well soon, you hear? Grandma is already organising that windsurfing lesson for you. You will probably make history. I can just see it in the papers: First Blind Windsurfer in the World! I might write the article myself. Maybe you can even represent Singapore in the next Paralympics. Grandma’s also thinking of taking us on a skiing holiday to Aspen, if our parents give us permission. Man, your sporting future is bright.”
There is no response at first, then Rajah attempts a smile, difficult when his lips are so swollen. His lips move but it’s not clear what he is saying.
“What did you say, Raj?”
“To dream the impossible dream… Come, Eric, sing…” Rajah whispers.
The nurse who has come in to check Rajah’s pulse and the machines looks up and nods at Mr Devan, acknowledging him as a trained professional. They exchange a look, and, for a brief moment, Mr Devan’s face is shadowed by the sorrow of the inevitable.
“Yes, it will be good if the family is all around him now and sings for him,” she says pointedly, knowing that Mr Devan understands her meaning.
Saraswati and Nathan are called back to the bedside. Eric sits by his friend’s side, holding his hand, trying not to let his voice break as he sings Rajah’s favourite song. They sing in low tones, faces streaming with tears, desperately not allowing their emotions to overwhelm them so that they can fulfil Rajah’s last request. Rajah tries to join in the song, his voice audible in spurts until it eventually fades out – as does his breath.
They will sing the song again at his funeral. It is what he wants.
The world will be diminished without you, Eric thinks, recalling Rajah’s words to him. People who look upon a disabled person do not see the strength and wisdom of the damaged physical shell.
The wake is held at the Hindu section of the Singapore Casket building at Lavender Street. Eric had told his grandmother and she immediately cancelled her classes to be with him. She arrives, dressed in a white skirt and blouse, the mourning colour for Hindus. Despite the sad occasion, Eric is glad to see her. He wants to weep in her arms for his painful loss, but there at the wake, he puts on a brave front.
Family and friends who visit talk about Rajah’s fortitude and his courage, and most of all, his capacity for joy. They all sit, munching peanuts, celebrating Rajah’s life.
Then, in the afternoon, Benson turns up unexpectedly and for the first time in many years comes face-to-face with his own mother. He stands in confusion, rooted to the spot. It is Isabelle who gets up, kisses him and takes him in her arms.
“Hello. How are you?” Benson says, as if greeting a stranger.
He does not call her Mother or Mum, as if the word has rusted in his throat from disuse. Eric notices all this with utter dismay and thinks how only human beings seem to have the capacity to hurt by withholding love.
According to Hindu rites, women are not permitted to attend funerals. Mr Devan invites Eric to attend the cremation and also to go out to sea a few days later to dispose of the ashes, contained in an urn. Together with a saffron-clad Hindu priest who will do the final prayers and rites, they take the bumboat at Changi Ferry Terminal.
The ferry terminal and the boat ride bring back the memory of their Pulau Ubin trip. No one could have imagined Rajah’s second bumboat ride would be in an urn.
“Eric,” Mr Devan says, while the bumboat speeds along. “You know all that money t
hat you’ve collected for Rajah’s guide dog?”
“Yes, Uncle Devan?”
“Will you try to find that boy in Taiyuan, China, whose eyes were gouged out by his aunt? Donate the money to his parents? It will help ease their burden.”
Eric knows that Mr Devan is giving him a project to do to fill up the empty days that are yawning like a chasm in front of him.
“Yes, that’s a very good cause. I will try my best to locate the child and his family. But I won’t stop trying to help blind people get their guide dogs.”
“I know.”
“We’re far enough now. This is where we can dispose of the ashes,” the priest says.
The boatman cuts the engine and the boat bobs up and down in the waves. The priest in his saffron robes stands up and chants, waving incense sticks.
“You have to die so that you can live,” he murmurs in his prayers.
The profundity of the statement strikes a chord with Eric. Isn’t it the same for all of us? Indeed, the old Eric needs to die so the new Eric can live. Who is he if he isn’t Eric Teo? Maybe this should be his life’s quest? Rajah has taught him so much. The priest conducting the funeral service says that Rajah had chosen to come to this incarnation as a blind person. Eric thinks the concept is too way out for him to understand. Who would choose to come to this life blind or crippled?
Yet, he can see that because Rajah was blind, people who helped him were enriched. Perhaps, there is some measure of truth in what the priest said. Oh, if only he were more mature, Eric thinks, then his mind won’t be going round and round in loops.
“You can empty the urn now,” the priest says.
Mr Devan too chants, then opens the urn, bends over the boat and slowly releases the ashes, the ashes that used to be the body of his son. The grey ash cloud tumbles out of the urn, then is rapidly taken up by the wind, making it swirl in wisps and curls. Before long, the thin trails disappear in the air.
“You’re free now, son,” he says. “You’ll soon be able to see.”
True love is about letting the loved one be free. Yogis and Hindus, like Buddhists, believe in reincarnation. They believe that some people take on challenges in their physical life to purify their souls and to help others to learn their spiritual lessons. It is believed that when they return to the spiritual state, they will regain their full faculties.