‘Ah Gong’ is an affectionate address for an elderly man, usually one’s own grandfather. It is a common address in Chinese-majority countries.
Ah Gong, this is my attempt at rejuvenating your life through my own selfish lens. None of us knows whether you’re yearning to go, but as most close ones usually find themselves subconsciously inclined to do, we assume you want to hang on, or, more accurately, that we want you to hang on. I no longer feel your grasp when I massage your shrivelled hand. Why is that so, are you tired? As I recollect the recollections I had the other day while sitting desperately by your bed in Ward 9C, Tan Tock Seng Hospital, trying to make sense of your scaly countenance for the two hours I was there, I decided that I would like to write this letter to a you whose reincarnated life hopefully comprehends the English language, because this wouldn’t mean anything to the present you who has mastered only the Chinese language. As mentioned, this is a letter that aims at rejuvenating your life through my own selfish lens. What does that mean? To be honest, not even I myself am entirely sure. But if I must posit an interpretation, I would say it means knowing you may not want to hang on anymore, perhaps due to a certain kind of benevolence that seems to hit those on the brink of death (after each series of emotional outbursts, of course), and so, the least I can do is start seeing you as dead, a preparation of sorts, perhaps to expedite what would otherwise be a delayed grief, but that because I do not want to, even though I understand your train of thought (if indeed you’re yearning to go), the least I can do is to rejuvenate you within my psyche, to breathe life into you, to the best of my ability, albeit the delusional nature of this endeavour, which, knowing your distaste for irrationality, would probably receive your incandescent flak, assuming your reincarnated life manages to comprehend this, as I wish. All this I know, but I can be pretty stubborn at times, just like you; it’s not as if you didn’t know we share this quality. So the least you can do, is to let me revel in being like you, for the time being, at least.
I don’t think Mom has expressed this enough to you, or even at all, but thanks, Ah Gong, for the emotional support you have given her back on 28th December, 1998, when I almost couldn’t see this world, a life that was expected to see the end before the year does. C-sections are tough enough already, imagine a C-section assessed to risk death. While the me at the very time of this writing subscribes to the philosophies of Cioran, meaning to say I would have preferred for the assessment to have crystallised, since it has been botched, thank you. None of you would have been happy if it crystallised, anyway, which I’m used to; if there’s one thing I want to impart to kids, it is that no one really cares about you, as much as you think they do; I’m talking on a spiritual level. Anyway, yes, Ah Gong, at least you contributed something to Mom’s eventual happiness. When her ontological security was threatened by what she believed would be the holding of a demise, a lifeless product, you injected faith into her, and further massaged it so as to ensure she genuinely felt it. That in approximately one hour’s time, she will be holding in her arms the most adorable child to ever see this world, and everyone in the Choo and Lim families will be the happiest they have been in years. The already bright pastel-coloured birthing room became brighter. You breathed life into her. I couldn’t feel it back then, but now I am breathing life into you. Can you feel it, Ah Gong? Because now I can. I am human because you are.
And how can I forget the most innocent tenderness of a grandparent? The days of being protected by you from anything and everything, when Mom’s mood swings came through in full motion. Running behind you and digging into your calves to attain a shaky stopping of a cane? Check. Manipulating you with my irresistible cuteness so as to induce your nagging at Mom for her overbearing strictness towards me? Check. Using your influence as a means to obtain every single toy I wanted? Check. Crying uncontrollably so that you’ll bring me to the playground whenever Mom doesn’t? Check. In other words — I love you, Ah Gong. Oh, I love you. I love you so, so much. Those were truly the days.
I’m famished. Are you? I’m not sure what the other side offers, this is one of the aspects not presented in Haw Par Villa. Is there even an “other side”? Either way, I think you’ll be fine. You were a proud owner of one of the largest farms in the kampung you were living in. Everyone knew you. When someone got jealous, the law firm you engaged was always Lee & Lee. You were not the kind to play around. In your free time, you indulged in writing. A hobby survived by artefacts of yellowed phonebooks, last pages adorned by stunningly written idioms of extravagant ink and masterful calligraphy. You were a zealous proponent of Chinese literature, apparently. Obscure works, especially. You adored the obscure. I heard everyone in the kampung had at least one work of Chinese literature, all of which gifted by you, which most of these people had not one bloody clue about the plots, nor the authors. Most of these works were as good as dead, the cause of death being suffocation, having existed between other lesser works, breathing dust, not having been read, which was a tell-tale phenomenon of the ever-so prevalent artistic taste that continues to prevail and persist today, unfortunately. Nonetheless, this means that you had persisted in the lives of others, at least for a solid period of time, albeit the further possibilities that could have been, if those people were like you. It’s safe to say you were a cool and great man. And I’m making you cooler and greater by persisting you here, in black and white, where you came from. Not in your language, however, but the least I can do . . .
Is to bawl my eyes out at all things inevitable? It seems to always happen at unforeseen times. I once fell asleep grasping your left hand, you uttered a comment about how your hand felt irresistibly sticky, which you followed with a ‘tsk’, a vocalisation that represents you in the most organic form; I lifted my head up, red eyes bearing the answer to that comment, even though I don’t think you were ever looking for an answer. But you probably knew. How couldn’t you? The redness was supported by a swift, rough grazing of my eyes and nose in one motion each, before I took tissue to clean up the sugary residue I laid upon the side of your left hand. Some things we don’t say, just keep in heart will do. The precipice is also deserving of a moment of silence, before the precipitate receives it all the same, and in greater glory.
As you lay decaying, rotting away as you wait for death to claim you, I find myself rehearsing my way of dealing with it, when it does finally happen, which it will. “Life isn’t as important as you think. No one’s special. You are nothing. Death is a means of emancipation. You should be glad that you’re granted the ability to die. So get over it.” Sure, not the healthiest way of dealing with grief, but definitely one that will work, to begin with, at least.
I’m not going to tell you how I’ve been, because you should have already seen it all. I’m basing this off the traditional Chinese belief that when we pass away, our spirits either ascend or descend but will surely look over our loved ones who are still alive — or, more accurately, try all we can to tell them that we’ve returned to earth in spiritual forms. In some cases — or perhaps many, I’m not entirely sure — spirits get reincarnated into various animals and insects, such as moths, dogs and cats. In the case of moths, they fly into the homes of their surviving loved ones and hope that these loved ones view them as deceased loved ones. And for dogs and cats, apparently God occasionally plans it in a way such that if you’re looking to adopt a dog or cat, that dog or cat could possibly be the reincarnation of a deceased loved one. So I hope one of these, at least, will happen. I’m not a greedy person. Only greedy in my prayers for your existence to somehow prolong beyond expectation.
Actually, did you really have to leave me in the lurch? Are you not able to see my suffering? A suffering on the brink of choking on its own breathing as days pass with me knowing you’re still lying there in Ward 9C, Tan Tock Seng Hospital? I wouldn’t be surprised if I end up giving up on this piece right here right now, choosing to degenerate and stare into air every passing day. At least that would be another similarity we’d share.
Ah Gong, this was my attempt at being you. Which manifested in real life too, of course, don’t worry. It would be silly of me to think just this letter would do you enough justice. Or more accurately, justice enough to encapsulate your distaste for incompetence. Are you satisfied? Today I finally saw the goodbye in your eyes. You never did try to hide. We were just deluding ourselves all this time. But it has been bleak. Everything . . . just everything. How can anything be this unbearably bleak? So I finally allowed myself to see your goodbye. And so goodbye in advance. It was great having you on this Earth. You were great. Your eyes deserve to shine goodbyes. And, because “Do not go gentle into that good night” has been used to see off so many stars already, I’ll leave you with Godspeed You! Black Emperor instead, if you don’t mind:
.
.
.
“Lift your skinny fists like antennas to heaven . . .”
Ah Gong!
(It’s okay, you’ll understand when you receive omnipotence.)
Till then.
Tan Tock Seng Hospital: Arguably Singapore’s second most significant hospital, after Singapore General Hospital.
Haw Par Villa: A popular cultural park in Singapore, and the only one that showcases “statues and dioramas depicting scenes from Chinese mythology, folklore, legends, history, and illustrations of various aspects of Confucianism.” (Wikipedia).
kampung: Malay word for ‘village’, that was prevalent in Singapore prior to its rapid urbanisation under the rule of former Prime Minister and unofficial founding father of modern-day Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew (1923 – 2015).
Lee & Lee: A prominent law firm established in the 50s by former Prime Minister and unofficial founding father of modern-day Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew (1923 – 2015), his wife Kwa Geok Choo (1920 – 2010), and his younger brother Lee Kim Yew (date of birth and death unknown). It was once the largest law firm in Singapore, and its clients were mostly high net-worth individuals and large corporations.
Brandon Choo
metaphorical insanity. 