The Locksmith

70 yo, male.

“So what brings you here today, young doc?” He handed me the glass of tea. Lens frosted from the steam, I lifted the glass to my lips and took the spectacles off my nose. I knew I couldn’t lie to him. He was much wiser than my colleagues thought. He wasn’t just any ordinary old man who was stubborn.

There was something about him. A side to him that people didn’t really see.

“I’m here because I was sent here by the hospital, uncle.” I decided to be honest. “I will not lie to you that I’m here because I’m a friend or that I care about you, but I’m here because I was told to follow-up on you.”

He smiled. Sitting comfortably across the small coffee table. Behind him was a portrait of him and his wife, definitely in their younger days. A 6R black and white photo framed in wood which paint had uncoated slowly over the years.

“He is difficult to manage, stubborn and refuses medication. Psychiatric therapy and intervention suggested. Requires following up.” 16/5/08

“Have you still been working, uncle?”

Tiny smile. I’m a locksmith, young doc. I make locks, I repair locks.. My life is all about locks.

“And in the process you became a lock too.” Am I right, uncle?

The smile on his face vanished. His gaze locked dead into mine, and his hands started to tremble a little. After a brief moment he turned away, not knowing where to gaze, bent over from his chair towards me. “More tea, young doc?” That would be great uncle. I like your tea. “Jasmine tea,” he replied as he poured more into my cup. “How old are you?”

I’m 28 this year. I know I’m young and inexperienced in many ways.

He chuckled. Then why are you here?

“Because I too am a locksmith. A different locksmith, and I’m just trying to help you find the keys to your own lock.”

He reclined in his chair, and sadness came into his eyes. Son, he said. Those keys are not missing. They’re gone. And no two keys are ever the same. Not even if they’re duplicated.

Who’s the key to your lock then?

Wife deceased in 1996, no contact with family or relatives since 2000.

Long, heavy, burdened sigh. It’s been a very long time since I last talked to anyone properly, he opened up cautiously. The last time I spoke to a friend or a family member was probably in the last century. I thought it would be better to stay away from people, or from the things that reminded me too much of my past.

Young doc, you have no idea how much I’ve lost over the years. How much I’ve struggled and fought for what I thought mattered to me. What would you know about these?

Senior once told me, that the infamous locksmith in the city lived on his own, in recluse. He did so after his wife was killed by burglars who broke the lock of his home, robbed her and killed her. All while he was away fixing another house’s lock.

I know that your lock was broken while you were away fixing someone else’s locks. Your treasure, your key, since then was gone. I’m truly sorry to hear about that.

Ah, that’s right, he said. There was no look of remorse or regret on his face. Still the stony expression since the start of this conversation. There are no locks that cannot be broken.

Locks were never meant to be broken, I protested. They’re meant to keep the inside from the outside.

“Then what are you doing here?” He snapped. Numb, my head hung low, hands locked interdigitally, not knowing what else to say.

I’m sorry uncle. I’m young, inexperienced, and brash.

I don’t blame you son, I’m an old lock. And old locks are always harder to open. That’s the truth. Understand this, young doc—even an empty chest has its treasure.

What’s your treasure? “Memories. Memories of what I once had but lost.”

Chronic depression, possibly manifested from post traumatic stress disorder.

That’s guilt, uncle. That’s no treasure worth keeping. A treasure worth keeping should never be locked away. You bring it out, you take it out and appreciate it; you don’t lock it away and hide it from people. Treasures don’t make you bitter, angry, or depressed. They don’t make you run away, they don’t make you cry. They don’t make you what you are right now, uncle.

For a while, I thought he held his breath. The only sound came from the ticking of the old clock on the bare wall. “What do you want?”

I want to help open your lock. A lock which hangs on the outside, that you from the inside cannot open. And I’m a locksmith, you’re the chest, the lock and the treasure.

Why would a dying man be of value to anyone? I smiled. “I’m sure you know, uncle, that every lock has its purpose and value.”

You know that I care, uncle. “I do,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if thinking. “Let me get changed. I heard the hospital has extended their clinic hours, am I right, young locksmith?”

As he got up and walked to his room, I glanced at my clock and realized it was 3 hours. Funny eh, why would I spent 3 whole hours on one man, an old man whom everyone else has given up upon?

Getting up to leave, I stole a glance at the old picture of him and his late wife. Somehow, deep within me, I suppose that was what she would want someone to do for him. To unlock the man who has spent his lifetime unlocking other locks, that in the process forgetting how he could finally unlock himself. I guess sometimes, even the master needs a disciple’s reminder. Or simpler, because every lock is worth the effort opening.

You never know what you'll see on the inside.

Grandpa's Extra Toy Gun

Things were never the same when we brought you and your brother back to Alor Setar. At that time, it was just you, your brother and your cousin as the only kids in the house.



Grandpa was a strong man. He was a seasoned plumber, an experienced carpenter, and a self-made man. He was, in the words of many who’ve known him for long, a diamond that refused to be polished or cut. And perhaps, that was what made him tough, capable of enduring pressure and problems. A man of few words but faithful in actions, a father that showed his love to his children in the quiet and unseen ways, a husband that never failed to be there when the wife needed him most.



And like any typical Chinese businessman, he started small and slowly built his little kingdom. In all the ways of the business world, he endured his fair shares of losses, savoured the moments of gain, and above all stayed faithful to few principles through his life: Faithfulness, love and family.



One day, Grandpa bought 4 water guns. “For the children to play.”



For as long as I could remember, Grandpa laboured with both hands. Work is one; at the dining table, he ate with chopsticks in one and bowl in the other. He smoked cigarettes he rolled up on his own and habitually had a cut open tin can in his left palm to collect the ashes. It never occurred to me that he would actually do anything with only one hand.



He walked away quickly with the water guns, and I turned to Grandma and asked, “Why did Dad buy 4 toy guns? There are only 3 kids, so who’s the fourth gun for?”



So when my mom decided to enroll me and my brother for music classes, he wasn’t as adamant against it as Grandma. When I was 8 years old, with whatever few words he spoke, he said to me,



“Be the best in your school, and I’ll buy you a violin.”



With eyes wide open, I shrieked, “But Kong-kong, violin very expensive one!”



“That’s why you must be the best in your school.” He taught me then, that there always is a price to pay to be the best. And sometimes, it’s a price worth paying.



Now to think about it, there were 2 things I remember about Grandpa and his 2 hands. Maybe, in many ways, he believed that the best things come from both hands. It was effort, energy, and everything. But also, it was his hands that held his entire family together when things got rough and tough. In tears, he watched his little kingdom burnt down on the second day of Chinese New Year in 1998, and in his quiet but labourous ways he rebuilt it in less than a year.



Grandma smiled with that didn’t-you-know look all over her face. “Who else? It’s for him to play with your kids.”



And when my mom reminded me of the story of Grandpa buying the extra toy gun, it somehow didn’t fit into the picture. What would he do with the other hand then, if he only held the water gun in one hand?



Mom smiled. “He held your hand while both of you went shooting your brother and cousin.” I chuckled, and it all made sense again. After people have left and gone, and after all that’s left are merely memories, one thing for sure is that we never forget such little things that speaks of their greatness. And in all of his ways, it was those little things that ascertained me of my grandpa’s greatness. His violin, his toy gun, and above all, his two strong hands.

10 Minutes

I must get up, I must get up. It was 5.30am, the hour when the world was still sound asleep, when nothing stirred and the voice of silence was in the air, there was only one reason she had to pull herself up.

Like the mornings before, she felt the warm and gentle peck on her cheeks. One so familiar, one so endearing which she grew up with, one she could relate to even after all these years and all that had changed. She rubbed her eyes, making sure she could see clearly. She didn’t stop at the mirror to look at herself. He still loved me no matter how I looked like. Slowly opening the door, squeaking and creaking. Gently shutting it, so as to not wake her siblings up.

The kitchen lights were on. The rhythmic flipping of newspapers put a small smile on her face. She knew what was install for her. Hands reaching for her head, pressing her hair down, she walked slowly into the kitchen. Her hero, her man, was sitting at the kitchen table. Newspapers in his hands, reading lens over his nose. He looked up, the charming smile curved around the edges of his lips. Her heart melted, again, as always and as ever.

“Morning princess.”

The sight of him sitting at the table, calm and steady, reminded her of the good days they had. The days while he would still pick her up and throw her into the air; the days where he would still spin her until she goes dizzy and eventually fall into his arms; the days she would cling onto his neck whenever she’s afraid of the thunder or when the lights went out.

She quickly walked to the sink, behind him, as she fought back the tears. She woke up every morning, at that ghostly hour, just to hear those words. Words that were now hard to come out, words that no longer sounded the same at any other hour of the day. She knew that if she missed this moment, she would have to wait till tomorrow morning to hear it.

“Morning daddy,” she said, trying her best to not choke on her tears. “Did you sleep well last night?”

Her hands reached for the coffee powder container but immediately retracted it. She forgot and remembered immediately that daddy could no longer take coffee. It would make the symptoms worse. She poured 2 glasses of milk and walked back to the table. She sat beside daddy and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Yes..” he replied slowly and softly. “I slept well. Did.. my princesssss.. sleep well?”

“Yes daddy.” I dreamt about you, daddy. I dreamt that you were alright, you were fine. I dreamt that you held me like last time and hugged me when you came walking back in the door. I dreamt that you walked me down the aisle and gave me away.

I dreamt that you were still healthy. That everything was fine and ok.

Her hands locked into his. She felt the flesh of his palms. Hands roughen by hard work, the years of labour and struggles he endured before he was struck with Parkinson. How he gave up the best years of his life for the family, and in the months leading to his retirement he developed the symptoms. Now, in due reversal, the family is taking care of him.

“Princesss..” his slurred voice, reminded her that sometimes things simply do not turn out the way we hope it would.

“I regrettt.. that I didddd not.. give yoouuuu… my beesst..”

The tears came out again. She hated it every time he went into that talk. She turned to him and held his face in her hands. She looked straight into his eyes.

“Daddy, you don’t need to do anything to be my best. Our best.” He smiled, and slowly reached for her tears, wiping it away. She felt the tremors in his fingers as he stroked her cheeks again. She knew it was time to take the medication.

The medication was kept in a drawer, somewhere near the table. She dreaded the moment of daddy taking his medication every morning. It would mean that daddy would become cranky, the muscle spasm would still kick in every now and then, he would continue to stammer for the rest of the day. But he needed it to reduce the pain and the frequency of the spasms. She took the correct tablets and planted them in daddy’s palm. She turned away, not able to bear the sight of him taking his medication. He swallowed it with a gulp of the milk, and that was the day’s turning point. From that moment onwards, things wouldn’t be the same anymore.

And just as before, she would hold his hands, walk out of the kitchen, switched off the lights, and walked daddy back to his bedroom. And as always, she would part with daddy when they reached daddy’s bedroom door. Just like before, she would tiptoe to reach for daddy’s forehead. And as daddy bent over to reach her height, she would kiss him on his forehead.

“Goodnight daddy.”

“Goodnight princesss. I love yoouu”

And just as always, with the sound of daddy's bedroom door closing behind her, she would run back into her room, closed the doors, and wept uncontrollably again. For all the tears and pain, those 10 minutes with daddy in the morning, was worth it all. And for all that has changed, some things still remain the same.

Second Chance - An Easter Story

The airport had no marble floors, no air conditioning, no bright lights or huge advertisements. Unlike the one he had departed from back in the States, it was dirty, dusty, and hot. There were no security guards on duty, no information counters, no taxis waiting to pick passengers up. He walked past some bearded men who gave him the hostile stare, others broke into small gossips as he heaved his knapsack over his shoulder and walked out. He let out a sigh, and in his heart he said to himself,


I ran away from a city of lights and noise, but little did I know I’d end up in a land of darkness.


While walking down the dirt road, stepping upon rocks and pebbles while avoiding potholes as huge as manhole lids, he couldn’t help but question his decision. Yes, he had wanted to run away from home so badly; Yes, he felt so unloved and uncared for; Yes, his friends had backstabbed and betrayed him for their personal gain… But here, in a land so foreign to him, where people spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, where folks were dressed in gowns and turbans so unfamiliar, where passersby clad in blue coverings from face to toe hushed their children past him, he finally conceded to a simple fact,


That while he had left in search of love and hope, he had stumbled into a land of hatred and unforgiveness.


And he soon discovered why. Walking past miles and miles of mountainous terrains, after many hours of trekking on the rocky land, he saw what his countrymen had done to this state. He saw buildings with walls that would never embrace the roof; he saw piles of rubble and rocks lying beside tents and makeshift homes; he saw little children dressed in torn and patched jackets running around a small fire under the watchful eyes of adults with an eye bandage or a limb in a cast. He finally saw a world beyond his own, he finally witnessed what pain truly was, he finally experienced what brokenness was truly about.


He had walked out of a home that kept him warm and safe into a land of no warmth and security.


He slowly inched closer and closer to the rubbled village. He was growing weary. He had to have a drink, he wanted some food, he desperately needed some rest. “Hello?” he cried out. The children stopped in their footsteps and looked up at him, hands stuffed into their little mouths, not knowing how to react. He was about to reach out to them, bend over and cuddle them, when suddenly an old man pushed him aside while motioning for the children to go into the tents. Still lying on the ground, he was grabbed by the collar and pushed even further away. Wobbling to get up, he looked around and saw the children gone. Adults were standing at a distance with sticks in their hands, ready to assault. He walked away, passed the tents and saw the children huddling inside through the creaks of the canvas.


He was fleeing a society that he struggled to survive in, but never did he want to be in a community that rejected him.


There was a barren tree in front of him. Throwing the bag onto the ground and nesting his head against the bark, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. He saw his friends in college, he had dinner with his parents, played catch with his golden retriever. He even had time to hang out with his girlfriend, take a stroll with her in the park, and watch the sunset over the beautiful lake in downtown Manhattan. But alas, such a beautiful dream was short-lived. A pebble hit him right on the forehead, his dream was dashed and his eyes opened to a group of children ten feet away throwing rocks at him. A few more rocks came flying by, and he dodged them as he stumbled to get up.


He remembered the goodness he had had, taken for granted, only when it was all taken away from him.


Walking away from the children, he suddenly saw an angry mob approaching him. He turned around to run, but the mob soon caught up with him. In his haste he fell onto the ground, face kissing the road and even tasting the bitter soil. The mob surrounded him, snatched his bag from his shoulders and kicked him. Simultaneously the blows of the sticks and bats came raining down upon his body. There were screams in a language he would later discover was Urdu, and on the faces of the mobsters was anger, hatred, bitterness. They were screaming at him, as if he had brought upon the people there atrocities so great that even God Himself could not forgive.


Yet he realized, with all the kicks and beatings, he was supposed to feel the pain. He didn’t scream in agony, he didn’t grimace in pain. He was being rolled around on the ground, trying to dodge the kicks and the bats, but still he felt no pain. The blows were cushioned, the kicks were softer than they seemed. Am I being preserved? Am I being protected?


For all the insecurity he had experienced in a land of peace and harmony, he finally experienced security amid an angry mob.


Was this a point of no return? Was there still a chance to go home? He regretted leaving home,
he shouldn’t have left. But there was nothing more that he could do. It was too late, and the rest was beyond his control. He needed a miracle to save him, he would need divine intervention to rescue him from the state he was in.


There was a loud gun shot. The people dropped their bats, panicked and dispersed. He was semi-conscious by then, and the last images he saw were of people in army uniform surrounding him and tending to his injuries. He saw bandages soaked in blood, he felt some army men wrapping his legs up. The wounds must be severe, he thought. The men were wearing blue berets with a blue and white logo on the top left corner.


He finally understood that miracles are only found in the harshest times of trouble.


He was asleep for many days. Word did travel back home, of a young boy that was found by the United Nations peacekeepers along the India-Pakistan border, beaten and severed by a mob. Little did he know that people back home did care, that while he was away and while he was exploring a devastated state, he was searched for and waited for. He was flown into La Guardia Airport, and pushed through the arrival doors in a wheelchair. Vision blurred, he saw a small crowd with banners waiting beyond the doors. He knew who they were. They were people who loved him. People who waited and will still wait for him.


Deep down, he sank into the assurance that there are always second chances for those who chose to return.


He didn’t need to read the banners clearly to know what they said.


Welcome home.

For All It's Worth

One evening on the train, I was reading my notes when I caught a girl stealing looks at me. Sheepishly avoiding my gaze, she hung onto her mother’s blouse tightly, head buried deep within the folds of her mother’s skirt.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother explained. “She got very excited when she saw the stethoscope in your bag.” My hand reached for my bag and I realized that I had forgotten to zip my bag properly, hence revealing its contents to anyone standing beside me.

No worries ma’am, I replied with a smile. I’m actually just a first year medical student.

The little girl turned to look at me upon seeing me and her mom engaging in a comfortable conversation. Don’t you want to talk to this ko-ko here? He’s going to be a doctor one day!

“Ko-ko,” came the sweet voice of a 5-year-old, “what’s it like to be a doctor?”

I hesitated. Before my eyes flashed the many images of children I had visited in the cancer paediatric ward, lying in their beds, heads bald, some with bodies mummified with tubes. The agonizing shrill screams of children every time they were given an injection was still ringing in my ears. Corridors of people lining up, waiting hours to see the doctor in the government hospital; the sight of hopelessness in patients from ICU as they waited for their time to come; the weary looks of loved ones as they forced a smile, covering their tears and pain in vain… is that how a doctor’s life is like?

Well, it’s like being your mummy… You see, we take care of people when they fall sick, and we help them get better!

“Mummy said it’s hard to be a doctor… is it true?”

My gaze dropped to the floor as I fumbled for an answer. I had done terribly in the last examination. Many of my seniors had failed and dropped out from medical school. Some who had made it past the theory stages never survived the clinical years. It’s too difficult, they had said. It’s impossible, many had agreed. Textbooks and reference materials, research papers and journals are merely the beginning. The long hours, the on-call duties, the rotation and attachments, the stench of gangrene and the strain every time a CPR is performed… isn’t it hard to be one?

All it takes is a little bit of patience and hard work. And a bit more courage when giving a little girl like you an injection! The little girl giggled.

The train continued to sail smoothly over the rails, bouncing occasionally over rough patches. “Why do you want to be a doctor?”

Wasn’t that my interview question, when I had applied to enter IMU? And the reason I told my interviewers, well because I want to give back to the society, and because I know that our society would be better off with more doctors who have compassion for the people. Do I believe in that reason? And oh, had it not been for that innocent girl, wouldn’t I have repeated the blunt and harsh truth that I had always used to reply so many others whenever they asked me the same question? Of how I so badly wanted to be a lawyer or a businessman, of my dreams of making money and being rich so I could give back to my parents what they deserved? Or, of how much I wanted to live up to my dreams of being paid to argue and fight a case in court, or meet hundreds and thousands of people in the world? But truth be said, this girl deserves a better answer, doesn’t she?

Because I know that this world would be so much nicer if there were fewer sad and sick people, don’t you think?

And I saw that smile on her face. The smile of a happy and content little girl. The smile that a girl gives to anyone who hands her a lollipop, or her favourite chocolate, or an ice-cream. My heart melted, my eyes nearly swelled. Deep inside, something told me that she’d make a good doctor.

The train approached the station. It would soon come to a complete halt. The doors would slide to the sides and remain open for 9 seconds before sliding back. So as the train nearly came to a halt, the girl urgently squeezed in one last question, “Ko-ko, do you like being a doctor?”

Bravely, I looked straight into her brown round eyes. Eyes filled with so many questions unanswered, so many wonders unexplained, and yet so much hope. Without taking a breath, I blurted,

Of course I do! I’d do anything to make sure a little girl like you would never have to lose that pretty smile of yours when you fall sick.

Within the next 9 seconds, she put her arms around my neck in a quick hug, hurried a “Thank you” and ran through the doors, hands locked within her mom’s. As the train sped off and away towards my destination, I sighed and reminded myself, that for all the pain and difficulties that came with this calling, and for all that it was worth, people like that little girl still deserved my best, now and in the future. I knew every word said was genuinely from the bottom of my heart, and I also knew that it was a reason that I could believe in.

And essentially, that’s all the reason I need to keep me going on when things get tough.

The Greatest Valentine - Valentine's Day Post

From the drawer she pulled out that velvet box. Gently, she lifted the cover and stared at its contents for a moment. As she brought out that elegant chain of white gold with a sparkling diamond pendant in the middle and lifted it up to her neck, I saw the tears rolling from her eyes again. No, Emily, please… please don’t cry again…

That diamond necklace was my gift for her. She deserved it. She was my faithful and lovely wife. She always was the princess that I looked forward to going home to, every evening after work, without fail. Emily, I’m so sorry for leaving…

John was already fidgeting in the chair when she walked out of her room. My impatient son! Haha… he had grown up over the years! Now he was already a handsome five-year-old boy, just in his second year of preschool. Bright, affectionate, helpful. Emily used to tease me, saying that the best of John came from her. He was wearing that nice shirt Mom had bought for him. Emily had fussed over the idea of Mom giving him such an expensive shirt, but I will always remember what Mom patiently told her, “Let us grandparents spoil the kids in a way you parents will never do.”

All that John knew though, was that they were heading for a lovely dinner in Café France. My best friend Si Han owned the place. He had been such a kind soul, taking good care of my wife and son. Every Valentine’s Day, he would invite them to his café for a sumptuous meal, without fail, bill on the house. Thanks buddy, you know I owe you so much.

John was ecstatic. He was singing happily in the car, and Emily was trying to keep up with him. But Emily, oh Emily… The brokenness in her heart, the tears welling up behind her sunglasses, the pain she tried so hard to hide from John. My princess. She had always stayed strong before our son. She had always been the amazing mother, and the miraculous dad I should’ve been. Emily… if only I knew…

They reached the café. The valet took the car, and it disappeared into the underground carpark as they walked graciously into the café. Deep red balloons with scarlet heart-shaped velvet boards made the interior a sight to behold. Scented candle lights, crisps white sheets draped over table and chair, fresh roses on every table. Good job Si Han! It’s lovely!

They quickly decided on the meal that they wanted. As they sat down and waited, John looked around and saw young couples crooning to each other. He watched them hold hands and whisper into each other’s ears. My curious son! And he asked Emily, “Mummy, what’s going on? Why is everyone so cheeky today?”

Emily laughed, ever so happily. John blushed, wondering if he had asked a silly question. My princess took John’s hands, and slowly told him, “Well, you see, it’s Valentine’s Day today John…”

“What’s Valentine’s Day for, Mummy?”

My princess caught her breath at that question. I knew what was in her mind. A tear came to my eye too. Valentine’s Day was the day I met you at that silly Group Date event back in high school. Valentine’s Day was the day I first told you that I loved you and you ran away from me even though your house was two miles away. Valentine’s Day was the day you finally squealed and jumped into my arms, screaming “Yes!” at the top of your voice, with that gorgeous ring on your finger. Valentine’s Day was the day you changed your name and I shared mine with you.

“Valentine’s Day, John my darling, is a special day for lovers all over the world… to celebrate their love…”

But Valentine’s Day was also the day I blundered, the day I messed up my schedule and ended up rushing to the diamond shop. But Valentine’s Day was also the day, of all days, that I beat that traffic light without seeing that oncoming truck.

Valentine’s Day was the day I left my princess behind.

“John, do you know why we come here every year on this special day? It’s because many many years back, even before you were born, Daddy first kissed me here, and gave me this ring. Daddy asked me to marry him. And then we had you.”

Valentine’s Day was the day where you came tearing into the mortuary, screaming and fighting with all the doctors and nurses, until Si Han had to pull you back. Valentine’s Day was the day you finally stopped waiting for me. And on the final hour of Valentine’s Day, Si Han gave you that velvet box the police found in my wrecked car.

My princess never continued from there. She started sobbing quietly, and John was at a loss. Princess! Princess! Oh princess…

John held up a tissue slowly to his Mummy’s eyes. “Mummy, please don’t cry…” As she wiped the tears away, she could only smile back at John. The food finally arrived. John was slow in finishing, for the first time. And Emily was nothing but playing with the food.

Finally, my son, my brave and wonderful son, looked up into my princess’ eyes. “Mummy?”

I will be your Valentine.

My princess, stunned, put down her fork and spoon, and as those tears started coming all over again, she opened her arms to John. He got off the chair and went right into her arms. She held him, ever so tightly, and for the first time, she cried in front of our son.

“Sweetheart, you are always, and forever, my Valentine.”

My heart melted all over again. Those were the words I had said to my princess that evening when the moon was a perfect round marble in a black silk sky. Back when Si Han still had the second floor opened to the skies, basked in that layer of imaginary snow, I slipped that ring on her finger, and said those very words into her ears. And she too, cried, and wept in my arms.

Now I know, that the greatest love of all never dies, even after the love of one’s life has come and gone. I know too, that no matter what will come their way, they will always be safe in each other’s love.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth till the hour of separation.” – Kahlil Gibran, ‘The Prophet’

The Magical Rain Dance - Mummy's Birthday Story

When I was small, probably 4 or 5, the rain was one moment that I truly looked forward to. Not only would I be able to get off the high chair and stop doing the maths questions my mom prepared for me, I also get to run out into the rain.


My mom ain’t the typical mother, neither ‘loose’ till the extent that I can do anything, nor ‘strict’ till I get deprived of everything that’s fun and nice. So what she’d do was she’d dress me and my brother in a tiny raincoat before letting us run out into the porch as the rain started to pour.


The rain was not the best part. Seriously, it was just like a huge shower that fell all over the porch. Once, I even asked my mom what was the difference between rain and taking a bathe, and if I haven’t mistaken, my mom said that you can’t use soap or take of your shirt in the rain. I wonder now, how was it that I never asked her why.


It was how my mom would run out into the rain along with me and my brother that makes the rain truly special. It was my mom who taught us the special ‘rain’ dance. First time running out into the rain, we were lost, not knowing what to do. She stepped out, opened her hands wide, looked face up into the teary skies, and spun herself round and round. We followed suit, and realized that it was just so much fun.


Then my mom would take my hand in one, and my brother’s in the other. And as I grabbed my brother’s free hand, forming a circle, we would start spinning around like a small dance by a bonfire. Laughing all the way, occasionally slipping on the wet floor followed by a perfect land on the ass, getting up still laughing despite the pain, and the dance just goes on and on.


When the rain slowly subsides and it was time to get back inside, my mom would take out those huge towels and wrap me and my brother up to dry us. Still giggling and laughing, my mom would rub us warm and hard, till we’re completely dry.


“Mummy, why does it rain?”


Still rubbing away, my mom said without even thinking, “Coz God loves the trees and the grass… if He didn’t water them, then they would die.”


“Then why doesn’t God water us too?”


Our eyes met, and with that magical smile, she simply said, “Coz you already have Mummy right?” I think we both laughed as my mom hugged me tightly that day.


Though it’s been a long time since I actually last danced in the rain, or felt the warmth of a huge towel wrapped around my body, I’m nevertheless grateful that some things still remain. Like, that beautiful smile that paints my mom’s face, the warmth of her love that knows no boundaries, and very simply, the magical mom that still is, very much, magical in every way I've ever known.


Happy Birthday Mummy, I love you.