Our Father in Heaven

Friends who're close to me would know that my mom is an unfortunate woman because

1) She has a son like me
2) She's the target of most of my jokes (fat ones, mainly).

I can't help it.

You'd understand why if you've seen my mom -- and trust me, she's very hard to miss.

But today, the topic isn't on her but my father -- the man whom my mom married (and these days, it's helpful to be specific).

Here's a column about my father, which was first published in Lifestyle in June 2010:

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Over the years, I have become more distant from my father.

I seldom speak to him these days -- the last time I did was three months ago. I'm still writing for a living, and Kin is still studying in the UK, I told him telepathically, as I tenderly ran a finger over his youthful face on the photo embedded on his urn.

I was four (and younger brother Kin, one) when cardiac arrest robbed us of our Papa.

Needless to say, Mummy doubled up, taking over the paternal role as well (I'll leave the fat jokes for another day).

While I am indeed sad that I didn't grow up with a father, I am comforted by the fact that I still have vivid memories of him.

I remember my tiny self standing at the corridor one day, enraptured by the sight of a huge, blue bicycle Papa bought me. I could only manage to waah, waah, waah in awe, which drowned out Mummy's disapproving mutterings in the background.

Playtime with Papa was also something I looked forward to. "Keep climbing and go all the way to the top," he'd encourage, as I struggled to scale that monstrous-looking structure at the playground.

Papa had a mischievous side too. Just for the kick of laughing at his sua-ku son, he'd encourage me to speak in front of the moving fan, just to see how I reacted to my wind-distorted voice (I was obviously thrilled by that amazing discovery, and Papa would laugh at my reaction).

Once, I was out with Papa and Mummy, and being the day-dreamer I was, I held the hand of a total stranger. I only realised it was a stranger's, when I heard Papa guffawing away at me. In retrospect, while Mummy was the one who taught me to laugh at myself, it was Papa from whom I learnt how to laugh heartily at others (complete with finger pointing).

And then, there were the painful memories, when Papa caned the hell out of me after he caught me bullying a bunch of older kids (in retrospect, I'm glad I threw pebbles at the kids for no apparent reason, for without that, I'd have one less memory of Papa).

As I grew older, I got to know Papa better through Mummy's reminiscences.

Papa cooked well, and was a man with a big heart. Mummy used to say he'd ignore able-bodied beggars but would buy food for the elderly ones who looked too weak to work.

There are many similarities between us too, says Mummy. We both love spicy food, and like Papa, I am linguistically inclined. I look like him, stand like him, smile like him.

I have imagined, on many occasions, how my life would have turned out if Papa hadn't died.

But I've learnt from Mummy that we shouldn't lament at things beyond our control (she led by example by biting the bullet and cheerfully bringing us up).

What I can control, would be how I choose to lead a meaningful and happy life and being a positive influence to those around me. Just the way Mummy (and Papa, I imagine) had shown me.

Happy Father's Day, Papa -- and Mummy.

Update: Kin is no longer studying in the UK. My very bright brother graduated with first class honours, and is now holding a job in a huge MNC. Papa will be proud. I am.