Dear Daddy,

April 16, 1962

Dear Daddy,

                How are you doing, daddy? It’s been a long time since you were last home. Mommy told me that if I miss you, I should write you a letter and mommy will help send it to you. I miss you daddy.

Mommy told me you are not in United States. She said you were serving United States in another country. She also said that your work is very noble and that you are a very brave man because you are trying to protect us from danger. Thank you, Daddy! I am so proud of you!

My friends also miss you, daddy. They always ask me where you have been. They still remember you bought them ice-creams. They say that you are a very kind man. That is why they miss you. So I told them that you are working outside the country.

Daddy, wherever you are, I hope that you will be healthy and fine. I love you daddy. When you have finished your work, please come home quickly.

I love you daddy.

                                                                                                                                                -Melissa

May 2, 1962

Dear Daddy,

                How are you doing?  Since you left home, it has been three months and two weeks. When are you coming home, daddy?

                Last night I saw mommy cry in the kitchen. When I ask her why, she said it was the onion. I remember it too! When mommy and I were cooking together, she asked me to help her cut the onions. When I cut the onions, I cried. I asked her why but she said she didn’t know because she never finished school. Grandpa and granny were not rich people, she said. She also said that that is why I need to study hard in school.

                Daddy, I love you. It is already late. I have to go to sleep. I hope you sleep well, too, daddy. Goodbye.

             

I love you, daddy.

                                                                                                                                                                -Melissa

May 31, 1962

Dear Daddy,

                Today Uncle Jones came to visit us! But do you know that Uncle Jones lost his left leg? It was scary. When I asked him why, he said that he stepped on a trap and the doctor had to remove his leg because it is damaged and cannot be used anymore.

When I asked him when did it happen, he said it was two weeks ago. He said it happened in Vietnam. He also said that now, he is retired from his work and had to find a new one. I feel sorry for him. But he has a very beautiful chair. His chair has wheels daddy! It must be good because he does not have to walk anymore. I wish I could have a chair like that so I can move about without standing. Can you buy me a chair like that when you get home?

Oh, daddy, I forgot to ask. What place is Vietnam? Is it dangerous? Uncle Jones said that there are many traps in Vietnam and there are many bad people hiding in tunnels. He said that those people are the ones who placed the traps that damaged his leg.

Daddy, nobody ever told me where you are working. They only told me that you are not in the United States. Wherever you are daddy, I hope you will stay safe and healthy. I miss you daddy. I will send you a drawing in my next letter. Bye, daddy.

                I love you.

                                                                                                                                                                -Melissa

June 17, 1962

Dear daddy,

                Happy Father’s Day, daddy! I have sent a drawing for you for Father’s Day. I posted it with this letter. I hope you like it.

                Today there were three men visiting us at home. They wore nice uniforms. Mommy told me they are your friends. They gave mommy a flag. But I think it is weird because mommy did not like the flag. When your friends gave it to mommy, she cried. I did not know why. When I asked her, she did not say anything. But I think she will be okay because she always cried since you went to work.

                Daddy, it is late now. I hope you will be back soon. And thank you for my birthday letter you sent me! I got it the day before yesterday. Thank you, daddy.

                I hope you will return home soon.

                                                                                                                                                                -Melissa

Ridiculously Fast

You don’t need to be in your middle age to know that life comes at you fast – in-the-fractions-of-a-second fast.

Decisive split-second turn of events can ruin your whole life if you’re too slow to catch up with the pace of your environment. I mean, there are these very little things you take for granted which will forever change the course of your miserable destiny. We take the most familiar examples: you’re queueing for the bathroom and you’re next in line. You realize that this guy is going to take very long and for the sake of efficiency and productivity and to materialize what you write in the recent English test regarding ‘‘exceptional time management capability’’, you went for the sink to brush your teeth while waiting.

And so you brush and brush and brush and because the toothpaste’s new flavor is so... relaxing... you fell into the deep abyss of hygiene paradise – the Zen garden you’ve been looking for the 17-21 years of your life. And then you hear the door creaking. And it slams shut again. You snap back to reality. And that’s the moment you scream “Oi, memotong!” (Don’t tell me you curse people in English)

“Dude, mind the queue please?”

“Well, get absorbed in tooth brushing some more and expect people to wait for you.”

“What? I thought it’s a free country?”

“All you have to do is brush faster next time.”

“But you should have reminded me that my turn is up!”

“Dude, you know why automotive companies in motorsports pay millions of dollars just increase their performance by 0.0047 seconds?”

“Nope.”

“Because that’s what it takes to win. Every time. That's what they call split-second engineering.”

“Do they do that to toothbrushes?”

“No.”

*****************************************

The most horrible chain of events that happened to me that began with being half a second slower occurred when I was 16.

It was the first semester break and I took the bus from Jasin, Malacca to Melaka Sentral. I arrived at 7.25 pm and the bus to Seremban was well departing at 7.30 pm. So I dashed across the terminal knowing that missing this bus will forever end my reputation as the eldest son in the family. FYI, my parents were EXTREMELY skeptical of my maturity and independency. Maybe they haven’t heard me talking about war-profiteering? They never trusted me to ride home alone until my two successful campaigns in the previous episodes in which I managed to return home safely, alone, for the first time. I saved RM40 in both trips.

Back to dashing across the terminal. So I was successfully tackling every turns and corners at the lowest possible time taken, from the south-east end of the terminal where I arrived, way to the north-east end, where my bus was supposedly waiting for me. I was confident I was going to make it. That was, until – stress on ‘’until’’ – an anonymous ah moi dropped her Coke. I managed to sidestep, but in my heart “NO! I LOST 0.57 SECONDS!” The moment I shot through the platform door, the bus waved away with thick, black, diesel fart. Just. Like. That.

But I had no time to throw childish tantrums. I proceeded to scour the whole terminal looking for the next bus to Seremban. Nil. “7.30 pm is the last bus, dik. Sorry, lah!”

I slumped down in devastation, sinking into the waiting seat. “Damn Coke can! Why do you have to be so slippery!?” I was putting 99.27% blame on the Coke can. If it hadn’t been so slippery, the ah moi wouldn’t have spilled her Coke. Or maybe because in the 0.0073 seconds of my sight of her face, she was presumably cute. The rest 0.23%, I blame the atmospheric pressure of the terminal for letting condensation happen on the Coke can’s surface.

I fished out my phone and dialed the boss.

“Hello?”

“Hey dad. Um, so I missed the bus by 0.0073 seconds.”

“Oh. And?”

“And... um... uh, Happy Father’s Day, dad.”

”Gee, thanks son. Hey, have a nice night in the terminal.”

“Yeah, thanks dad. Bye.”

Because I was 0.0073 seconds slower for having to evade an ah moi’s Coke, I missed my bus. With that, I missed the last nightly download gate for the beta-client of a hideous MMORPG that a friend had hired me to download for a reward of RM150, a free 3 semesters math tutorial service. For the whole remaining 3 semesters, I had to listen to various friends trying to explain funny trigonometric logics – instead of the guy who was in the 7th rank of the National Mathematics Olympiad’s 16-29 years old category (he was a rank away from representing Malaysia to the International Mathematics Olympiad in Kazakhstan).

And for the remaining three semesters, I had to put aside my own pocket money to fund travel expenses, instead of Parental Scholarships. Or else, I have to ride with mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.

Other than ridiculous split-second near misses that can forever dislocate your destined fortune, do you know that you could miss the prestigious “MUET Band 6 Candidacy” if you missed a comma? Imagine missing a comma and losing the privilege of appearing in the national headlines!

Glossary


ah moi = "a girl" in Mandarin Chinese. In this context, a Chinese girl.

MUET = Malaysian University English Test

A Love Letter

I am, undoubtedly, ambitious. There are a lot of things in this world that I want. And when I want them, I want them really badly.

But I never had much of self-esteem to begin with either. So it becomes difficult for me to be motivated to achieve my dreams.

On top of it all, I am very self-conscious and realistic. I see what other people possess and I want one for myself too. But then I realize my weaknesses – what they have that I don’t – it separates people like me and people like them. And it restricts what I’m allowed to have and what they are privileged to.

But then you came along. A brilliant glimmer in the shadow of the night – a miracle so perfectly woven and crafted, my words scatter before my lips. I was speechless at your sight. It is true what they say: love makes the fool out of you; or however it goes - it doesn’t matter anymore.

But such is every single miracle in this unforgiving realm, as rare and exquisite as it is a royal luxury – a privilege strictly for those eligible by blood; an impossibility and a forbidden to the common man. I realize: who am I to be entitled to such majestic beauty and perfection? You are forever out of my reach – as far as the sun chasing the moon; the distance between heaven and hell.

The opportunities to witness your beauty don’t even come that often. I could only catch glimpses of you every now and then; we travel the opposite direction, to our own destination in life. On seldom occasions – oh, the days when God grants my shameless little wish – we stop at the lights, and there you are – God’s brilliant craftwork – 50 yards away from my reach. I can barely move my fingers and split my lips apart. My tongue nailed shut to the jaw. I am forever in awe, in admiration, like witnessing magic. 30 seconds later it is all over; I would have to wait for another day or maybe even week just to catch another shimmering glimpse of you.

The days and months have passed me by and yet here I am, having done not a single thing to approach you. How could I? This mere servant in a cruelly corrupted system, ruled by lustful greedy men, hungry for money and riches?

Not a chance! I am but a slave, a puny creature under the rule of law woven very meticulously to secretly feed the pockets of the monstrous men who run the system! There is not a thing I can do for my love of you. My shamble hands can only write this letter – a letter on this dry little parchment that is chipping off even as I hold it. My shaking legs can do nothing but walk the miles every single day, with my trembling shoulders carrying the burden of my thoughts – my thoughts of you.

My thoughts of you – oh, how wonderful they are. There was once a night when I dreamt of you – I dreamt of you every single night when I sleep – but on that particular night, I dreamt that you were finally mine. Yes, my dear. I got to touch you. I got to caress you – caress every single inch of your perfection, every single tiny seam of thread that weaves your skin – oh, your smooth curves; the way every part of you complimented me when I sat on you. I took you through the cold, windy night. I grasped you like I would never let go. I leaned left and right through the twists and turns. Oh, the noises you made! Screaming through the straights, with roars of fierce desire – the way you squeal and whimper on my every maneuvers – it has always been ringing in my ears. When the night was over, we parted away for the first and the last time.

Maybe someday I will stop writing letters. I will do something, my dear. We won’t be meeting in dreams again. Maybe we still would, but then we would be together in reality as well.

Yes.

I have finally decided against my own wills. I, from now on, will no more be an inferior – a man who is afraid of his own wills and desire, of his own grand ambition and majestic destiny. I will not anymore run from my fate. I would not bow down to the cruelty of realistic calculations that has been commandeering the paths of my life, nor would I let the naysayers navigate my destiny.

I will fight for you – for us. We will be together. And we will both run away from this unforgiving land – away from all the lies, all the corruptions, the misdemeanors and evil deeds that have been plagueing the world with intolerance and hatred and violent injustice.

And we will live together in a place far, far away from here. As far as the eyes could see, as the mind could imagine, as the honest heart could ever dream of.

No one can ever separate us. Wait for me. I won’t promise you that it will be a short fight – it will be long and violent and grueling – but it will be worth every single drop of blood, sweat and tears.

And when we are together, I promise I will take care of you. I will change your lubricant every 4 weeks. I will not use the synthetic ones.  I will shave your endtail and minimize your rear plate size. I will warm you up for 10 minutes every time we would set off for a journey. I would change your rear tire to 150/70/17. I will always wear gloves and Puma boots and a jacket. I will get you a carbon-fibre Yoshimura.

I will take care of your shiny black skin.

I promise. Wait for me, my Kawasaki Ninja 250R. Wait for me.

My Biggest Mistake (that I forever regret)

No, I won't trade it for your dad's Mercedes. Not your whole collection of silver wristwatch with embedded Swarovski (that your dad gave, too) and not even the fiscal sum of your dad's non-liquidated assets. I won't give it up even if you will take my life as a change and at gunpoint, you already pulled the trigger halfway.

But I lent it to him. And he "lost" it, or so it seemed. And he promised to pay. But he didn't, maybe because he didn't know what it meant to me. It's fiscal sum by now would worth a speck of dirt. But to me, it's as invaluable as whatever item anyone won't give up for as much as RM30,000,000, let alone a ten thousandth of the price and a 4 months period to raise the sum.

Back then, I was being considerate and generous. I was playing ball with his lies, I was naive. He thought he could talk his way out of paying. And he did - at least virtually. I knew he was bluffing all the way, right from the get-go. From the moment I turned to face him and split open my lips, before I could even let my voice out to ask back for the money, he had LIAR written all over his face. But as unsurpassedly invaluable as it is, I put false hope of gaining it back. Or at least, half the supposed physical value.

Is it really that invaluable?

Oh, of course it's invaluable. Very invaluable indeed! So invaluable that I put false hope of gaining it back. So invaluable I lied to myself that one night it will silently slither right into my grasp for me to find it mine again the moment I wake up from sleep. I'm no philosophy guy. And even if you know my age, you'll most probably laugh your arse off. "Philosophy? He's barely eighteen himself!"

But tell me. If you were diagnosed with colorectal cancer at critical stage, or, heart disease, maybe, what keeps you wanting to stay alive in spite of the fact that you only have 3 months to go? Or if you're a refugee in a country stricken with war and massacre, and you wake up to the daily bombing and trying to sleep hearing your neighbor moan from being slaughtered, or if you were supposedly born into a diasporic race in the middle of a genocide, making a beeline for the shovel of your own grave, what keeps you alive for an extra 2 weeks, 3 months, 6 years or even for the rest of your life that you thought you don't deserve?

False hope!

But I'm not dying, no. But it kept me from taking any of the suppositorily "irrational" and "uncivilized" measures against that bastard and therefore keeping me from getting expelled from the system. And so does "patience", "rationality", "naivety", "inassertivity", "stupidity", "cowardice" and many more synonymous words you can find in your thesaurus which is also available in your local bookstore if you don't have any. Or the library.

And because of all of the above, I managed to finish my secondary education with a decent disciplinary record. Thanks to not laying out a punch or two in his face and for leaving him another chance to reproduce.

This is actually a very unique quiz especially designed to indicate how much you know about me. At some parts, the hints may be obvious, so it's fairly easy.

And the question is: "What is that invaluable belonging of mine that was lost? Who took it away?"

And for the essay section: "Hey wait a minute. I know that guy. I've been looking for him since I was seventeen! What's he doing here? That son of a..." Continue the monologue with your own creativity. And oh, please don't repeat my mistake will you?

The Patient

To begin, I was a psychiatrist in a psychiatry hospital somewhere in America. I was one of the most respected psychiatrists there, and it’s sufficient to say that I was the veteran one. Amongst my patients, there was once a middle-aged man whom newspaper was always found scribbled with sketches of flowers and butterflies.

He was a very different patient, a very unique one, and it was shown as early as his admission. Unlike other patients, he was very stable and calm and he never struggled or wrestled his way out of straitjackets – he never even needed any. He was admitted for chronic depression. But unlike other usual cases involving depression, which usually involve suicide attempts, it was reported that he stayed in his cubicle for one week without signing out of his office building. According to his colleagues, his marriage was shaken when his only daughter of 8 years old died in an accident, before her wife was diagnosed with breast cancer and parted away.

Apart from scribbling flowers and butterflies on newspapers, disassembling and reassembling stationeries, analogue cameras, and more complicated mechanical items and unusual fondness towards binoculars and shades, he was perfectly sane. When interviewed about his background and life journey, he, despite being admitted to a psychiatry ward, told his story with minute accuracy to his background report, plus outstanding usage of vocabularies, not to mention flawless grammar (yes, as a psychiatrist or even psychologist, verbal linguistic details are necessary for analysis).

When he was young, he was sent to a grammar school in Tennessee, until his father, a coke addict and violent alcoholic, was fired from his job as a cop. As he (my patient) grew through the years, his mother grew more ill. His father, of course, had long left them, and he also quitted school to work as a newspaper boy. His mother was reported to have suffered from brain aneurysm, and according to doctor, the curse was at critical stage and removal would not only cost money but also life. He also told me that every morning before breakfast, she would hug him and kiss him in the forehead and say “God is being one day more generous to us.”

He ended up as a clerk who was married to a laundry woman, working fifteen blocks from her apartment under the train track. After marrying, he had to move out from his apartment to hers. His place was too full of gangs that everyday he had to figure out excuses when they approached. Three months after their marriage they had a daughter, and as she grew their financial security declined. Since her daughter’s 8th birthday he started drinking, and it worsened when her wife was diagnosed with cancer in her breast. Then they both left him. Then he was here.

One important feature of psychopaths is that they are always imagining themselves as other people, or playing other roles apart from themselves. In his case, he was a “spy”. One day I saw him with his typewriter, and he was inserting a cutout from his newspaper into the typewriter’s paper feed. From afar I watched him, and he typed and typed, very meticulously, as how a pianist and his piano would. His eyes were rigidly fixed to what he was typing, sitting very still and tightly, with the typewriter on his lap. After he was finished, I approached him and asked. He mildly shushed me, halting me of my words. I began to wonder askance as he began scribbling loops and more loops which then become flower petals, then the stem and leaves, then butterflies and some ladybugs.

After a while he was finished, and he answered me. He took up his typewriter and he presented it to me, with a man-to-man intonation, “This, doctor, is Enigma. All this while I have not told you and kept secrets from all of you, but doctor, I have decided that you must know it one day and right now I’m telling you, that all this while Langley had been sending me messages through the newspapers, encrypted amongst the fine prints of each letter. Yes, doctor, I am indeed, a spy.”

From that moment forward I began to understand his strange habit of disassembling mechanical items, looking out of his window with a binocular, walking along the corridor with his shades on and drawing flowers and butterflies on his newspaper. He was not drawing, he thought he was circling letters and deciphering “encrypted messages” from the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. What is more strange to me is that he thought his typewriter was the Enigma, the code breaker machine used by the Nazi intelligence in World War II, while the actual Enigma was not to break codes — it was to form one, to encrypt messages, not to decrypt.

“Now that you have known my identity,” he slowly walked to the door and locked it shut, then he reached for an object in his drawer, which was apparently a toy revolver, and pointed it at my forehead, continuing, “I cannot let you live anymore.” Then he fired.

Click! Click! Click!

He shot me three times, and then I fell on my back. Then he ran out of the room and I heard screaming, “Get him! He’s getting away!” The corridor was then, for a while, filled with hustles and echoes of daily recapturing operations, with series of familiar yells. “Get me the straitjacket!” “I got him!” “Pin him down!” “Sedative!”

The next day I revisited him. I handed him today’s newspaper. But he made no reaction. He leaned back on his chair, staring rigidly out to the windows. Then I came to him, and whispered, “I’ll get you a new pair of binoculars,” he remained silent, not showing any signs of getting interested.

Then he suddenly stood up, and with light speed agility, he opened the window, climbed onto it and sprang out. I was really shocked. I looked down, eight stories below, and saw splatters and blotches of blood and internal organs. Flabbergasted, I stared down aghast with a gaping mouth. I could not believe what he did for he is a very warm fellow from the beginning and never was he so hostile.

From that day onwards I began wondering: why does the human mind create an illusion that tricks itself into believing it?