To know if a man is a good son, ask his parents.
To know if he is a good husband, ask his wife.
Is he a good father? His children will tell you.

One of my favourite Grandfather stories is this: my great-grandmother was not happy that my Third Aunt was a girl; there were no x-rays nor ultra-scans back then, so you’d only know the gender of the baby at birth. There were already two girls in the house, my Mom and Second Aunt. So great-grandmother started to make arrangements for Third Aunt to be given away.

My Grandfather, though having lived his life under his dominating and domineering mother, bravely spoke up, “If you want to give her away, then we will give all the daughters away!”

My Third Aunt got to stay in the family because the other two girls were older by then, and it would have been a waste of resources to give them away too.

My Grandfather when he was young, the black and white days.

Even as I fondly reminisce about my Grandfather, I am very aware of a difficult past when Grandfather discovered mahjong.

I suspect it was the company that he desired more than the game. Nevertheless addictions can be destructive, and I credit my Grandmother and their children for keeping it together.

It is said that strict parents transform into grandparents with the softest of hearts. That’s my grandparents; Grandmother used to shield me from my Mom and her fearsome rotan! Oh I’m sure it was my fault, being a terrible kid until I was about… 25.

The point is, my Grandmother… wow! I adored her for she was my hero, my saviour, my protector!

On the other hand, Grandfather seemed authoritative and intimidating. He wasn’t into action figures, dolls and chasing chickens, so that left us with nothing much to talk about.

But he was always kindly to us, ever present when required. I remember him standing suavely outside my kindergarten, waiting to pick me up in my parents’ old yellow Beetle.

We only bonded much later, right about when I was able to hold coherent conversations. He would regale us with stories of his youth and forgotten contributions to the village.

Grandfather was actively involved in the well-being of Sri Gading folks, and the progress of the village. Here, I repost one of my Aunt’s recollections during that time, back when local council elections was still applicable.

Grandfather with the local elections council team, Sri Gading

“Ah, those were the days when we had local council elections. I remember when I was very young – in the 60s when my village held its elections for councillors. Dad was always a member of the local council – often with no challenger. That year, some younger blood decided that he was too long in the chair and decided to mount a challenge to his post.

There was fever of excitement in the village. There was a bit of campaigning after the papers were filed. I observed the ‘young turks’ going about from house to house to campaign and I was worried (even though I was only 7 years old then). Dad was not doing anything. He just went about his usual business and sometimes to the local coffee shop.

One evening some ‘supporters’ came to the house and told dad: “They are bad-mouthing you, aren’t you going to answer them?” It seems the ‘opposition’ had been spreading smear campaign that dad was corrupt, that he had privately benefited for helping people to get their IC. The word was dad got a commission from the government for each IC made.

Anyway, dad just replied: “No need to answer those rumours. The truth will eventually come out whether I am corrupt or not.”

I whispered to mum: “Why doesn’t dad speak up against those lies?” The answer was typical: “Children should not interfere with adult’s business. And keep out of those campaigns!” Huh!! Wild horses could not even drag me away from those campaigns.

The day of election loomed. I hung around the registration booth and watched the proceedings. The villagers came out in droves – all dressed in their Sunday best. There was an air of carnival. Many waved to dad and he smiled at them. Many of the older folks came to the counter and declared: “I only want to vote for Lim Kheng Siang.” “I only want Lim to be in the ‘Cheng Hu’ (meaning the government)”. Although the ‘young turks’ tried to persuade them to change their minds, but they were adamant.

Finally it was time to close the booths and the ballot boxes were brought to the local council building. A huge crowd gathered outside the building as the counting of the ballot papers began. I could hear the names of the candidates being called out each time a ballot paper was opened. Finally, the names of the winners were declared. Dad won! Plus a Malay guy named Hussein. There was a roar of approval and everybody clapped their hands. I saw the crowd lifted dad and the Hussein chap up and carried them on their shoulders – a mini parade in the hall. I felt so proud that night.”

Grandfather receiving his award from the then-Agong

For his societal contributions, Grandfather was awarded the Pingat Pangkuan Negara (PPN) award, a Malaysian federal award presented for meritorious service to the country. It was possibly the proudest day of his life, and he wore his one and only suit to the ceremony.

At the hospital, the mood was solemn. The few patients in the 6-bed ward seemed struck by our grief, the couple who were able to sit up watched us in silence.

The young doctor, whose name is immortalised as the certifier of Grandfather’s death came and talked with my Uncle for a while.

Three nurses closed the curtain around the bed for privacy, softly chattering with each other as they removed the tubes and needles still attached to Grandfather’s body. I observed them through a small opening in the curtain, noted that they were careful and gentle, and was grateful for their sensitivities.

It was late when we left the hospital, past the customary time for dinner. Empty stomachs needed filling, and off we went to the riverside hawker centre.

Grandmother was restless. There were things that needed to be done before the mortuary van reaches Sri Gading with Grandfather’s body. The prayer altar containing a statue of the Avalokitesvara Boddhisatva, along with the furniture in the living room had to be brought to the back of the house. The curtains needed to be replaced with white ones. Water had to be boiled to make Chinese tea; when Grandfather’s body arrives home, the tea has to ‘served’ with a greeting, “Father, have some tea!”

A call was made to my Aunt who assured Grandmother that all these were being taken care of. Only then was she able to eat in peace.

Grandfather’s slippers. It was a fun day in December ’14 when we shopped for a new pair of slippers. Duck rice was involved.

They laid Grandfather down in the living room, then proceeded to prepare his body for the funeral. He was already cleaned up in the hospital mortuary, so it was just a matter of changing his clothes and putting on a bit of make-up so that he wouldn’t look so… you know, dead.

My Cousin pointed out to a dragonfly that rested faithfully next to Grandfather’s body. He said that it came in when the van arrived, and had not left since. Someone, my Aunt perhaps remarked that Grandfather was born in the year of the Dragon. We were left with our own imagination of what that implied.

The dragonfly that came in with Grandfather. Photo by my Cousin.

That same night, we discovered Grandmother’s true strength. As she was coping with losing her husband of 70 years, she diligently went through the brochure for different funeral packages, and negotiated for the best possible deal with the funeral director. It was amazing to watch, I’d never seen this steely side of her.

Grandmother with the funeral director

The next day, I had to return to the city. There were clothes to be packed and work stuff to be handed over.

My Cousin and I had a few photos of Grandfather that we thought should be printed and framed. They were mostly of him surrounded by his children and grandchildren, when he was at his happiest. That was how he should be remembered.

Fireangel, bless her, accompanied me for the afternoon and helped with this task.

At first, I was afraid that Grandmother may be displeased. Would she be offended by the photos? Some people have this taboo of placing photos of a recently deceased. Or would she be further driven by grief? I had not asked for her permission to place the photos in her house.

Back in Sri Gading, I grabbed her hands and went, “POPO, I DID SOMETHING BUT YOU MUST PROMISE NOT TO SCOLD ME OKAYYY!”

She chuckled, her little eyes disappearing as she smiled, and said, “IF YOU SAY LIKE THAT, THEN I MUST SCOLD YOU FIRST!”

Turns out, she liked the framed photographs. So that went well.

The Buddhist-style funeral would go on for 5 days. The coffin bearing Grandfather’s body was placed in the living room, with a piece of glass in between to prevent rapid decomposition. A plug-in device played the soothing chants of Namo Omi Tuo Fo. There were a couple of times when I sat there alone and found solace in the constant chanting.

Many times we stood by the coffin and marveled at how black and healthy Grandfather’s hair was, amazing for an 88-year old. He had on the same suit that he wore while receiving the PPN award, presented by the then-Agong, the Sultan of Pahang. On his lips stood a cultured pearl that my Sister had picked out earlier. According to custom; not sure whose, the pearl is meant to be the soul’s guiding light.

Throughout the funeral, a Buddhist monk from Johor Bahru presided over the rites. He was rather old, but had a kind and calming sense about him. A popular monk, he was Grandmother’s first choice; she was loathed to think of a second option. I was glad that the kindly monk’s schedule allowed him to be available for Grandfather.

Or rather, for Grandmother. You see, Grandfather was quite the agnostic.

All of Grandfather’s 7 children were able to make it back for his funeral, including my Aunt in Australia who booked the first available flight out when she heard the news. Most of Grandfather’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren were present too. Those who could not make it mourned in far away places.

I shan’t name names, but I know one of them burst out crying in the streets of Sydney, with mascara running down her face…

…Min Min… 😛

There were nightly prayers. We had catered vegetarian food most of the time, except in the mornings when we walked out for our favourite roti canai. We had chores, one of which was to delay the wilting of flowers; it was a few hot days. We laughed as we watched our Little Cousin Aaron spray water at the flowers to keep them fresh, then out of curiosity, sprayed water at the burning incense too.

Married for 70 years, till death did them apart.

Quite a few people turned up at the funeral to pay their last respects. Most of Grandfather’s friends were already gone by then, but their children came in their places.

Close relatives. Distant relatives. Friends of the children. Representatives from groups and associations. The eve of the cremation was so busy, the funeral bursting with people that the catered food almost ran out.

Grandfather who loved people, would have loved his funeral.

On the fifth day, it was time for Grandfather to leave Sri Gading for the last time.

The car bearing his coffin rolled along the main road, past the shops and food stalls that Grandfather knew so well. Some people paused their daily on-goings to watch our procession go by. No more will Mr Lim ride his trusty, rusty bicycle up and down this familiar road, no sir.

And no more shall we see Grandfather sitting at the swing in front of the house, watching friends and neighbours pass by, waiting for his children and grandchildren to visit him.

It was the end of a chapter in our lives, of having Grandfather alive in the village and community that he lived in, helped build and loved.

He was very much loved, and he will be missed.

I’ve always been ambivalent towards coincidences, having not experienced many to be a true believer, yet reluctant to dismiss the few incidents that happen to strut along so… coincidentally…

On the same morning that my uncle passed away, we received news that my grandfather had a stroke. In the hospital, scans revealed that there was bleeding in his brain, and it would be dangerous to have anything done due to his age.

Early Saturday morning, we drove to Johor Bahru for my uncle’s funeral and burial. It was a bit emotional for me, as my uncle and my Dad looked alike, and I could see my Dad lying still in a coffin…

Later that evening in Batu Pahat, we went to the hospital to visit Grandfather. We had parked and were walking to the ward; less than 2 minutes away when my uncle, who was with Grandfather, broadcasted in our family chat group that Grandfather had left us.

Until today, I find it difficult to come to grips that it was all over so soon. The last time I saw him was earlier that same week. It was still Chinese New Year, it was Monday, and I had gone to see my grandparents before returning to KL that afternoon.

We went for the best breakfast in the village. I drove him to the road bearing his name (again), and implored him to have a photo taken. He exclaimed, “Take for what?? Take so many times already!!” but gamely got out from the car and posed for his persistent grandchild (me).

At that same time, the garbage collection truck slowly went past us. Two affable garbage collector workers yelled out to Grandfather, “ATUK, BUAT MACAM INI ATUK!”, while making the peace sign.

We went back to the house that he built more than 50 years ago, and had my third uncle take a photo of us.

It was also the first and last time that I kissed Grandfather on the cheek. You see, he was a rather imposing figure in my life. It was a long time before I dared to touch or hug him. Later I grew to be comfortable enough to hold him, and to take his hand to lead him anywhere.

But that day, I didn’t have a premonition that it would be the last time I’d see Grandfather alive. Nothing like that. As I was leaving the house, I was overcome with this enormous love in my heart for Grandfather, and mustered the courage to kiss his cheek.

In the same manner while facing Grandfather’s body just minutes after his death, I touched his hand and told him amidst uncontrollable tears, “Ah Gong, man man zhou. Wo men hui zhai jian..”

(Grandfather, safe journey. We’ll see each other again.)

Whenever I go back home to my hometown, I make it a point to accompany my 88-year-old grandfather to our favourite roti canai stall in Sri Gading. The proprietor; Haji Mohammad makes the crispiest, most delicious roti canai in town. He is also my grandfather’s buddy, the reason of which I blogged about earlier.

Also it’s fun to watch Haji Mohammad in action. He knows everybody, he remembers what they like, he is everyone’s friend.

“Tok Penghulu sudah mari!” he greeted my grandfather, “Selamat Tahun Baru Tok Penghulu!”

When his colleague came to take our order, Haji Mohammad shouted out, “Tok Penghulu punya biasa!”

My grandfather’s ‘biasa’ (regular order) is roti telur with chopped chili and onion, dhall with a little mutton curry (just the curry, no meat) and hot teh tarik.

Something so simple makes everyone so happy.

It’s my grandfather’s 85th birthday today. (Almost) the entire clan made it back to our hometown to toast (and mostly to drink) to his good health and longevity.

This morning, we headed to Sri Gading for breakfast with the birthday boy. We were told that he would be at the breakfast stall, so we waited for him patiently. Then from the corner of my eye, we saw a lone man on his bicycle heading towards us.

Of course it was my grandfather, possibly the only 85 years old man still whizzing around Sri Gading in his trusty classic (albeit rusty) Raleigh. Not sure if it’s a good thing safety-wise but it makes him immensely happy.

For our second breakfast (we’re hobbits), we walked to a nearby roti canai stall. In an act of familiarity, grandfather immediately sat next to the chef’s stove, possibly the chef’s table.

The roti canai seller is Haji Mohammad, son of Esa. To eat his crispy, delicious roti canai, you need plenty of time, patience and preferably good company. Haji Mohammad is the sole person preparing and cooking the roti canai; a process of flattening the dough, letting it rest, whipping them to a spectacular shape, placing them on the grill and so on. He does all this while memorising new and old orders, tells his staff what to do, and calculates bills via verbal human computation.

He’s also my grandfather’s friend. He would make anything my grandfather wanted and is reluctant to charge him. According to legend (actually just my mom and aunt), one day Haji Mohammad’s wife got very sick. Grandfather advised him on Chinese herbs to buy and prepare for her recovery. After taking the herbs, she got better and soon regained full good health. Thus Haji Mohammad was very grateful to my grandfather.

My grandfather’s version was that, it was Haji Mohammad’s grandfather who was sick. So I don’t know which version is true. But someone got well and that is always a good thing.