GANDOM, GANDOM…
Oh, no! He is here again. Three times already this week, Pa had appeared at the same time at my school. It is just the same old story - that my mother is very sick, and I have to go back to take care of her! And surprisingly, my teacher is buying his crap wholesome.
If only I could tell my school teacher, "Teacher, don’t trust him!" I have the urge to scream. If only I could tell her the real story, what is actually happening in the house.
"No, my mother is heartily healthy!" My mouth yearns to verbalise. "She is very much alive and kicking. No, she is not sick. No, she does not need my help. She would give me a nice whacking if only she knew what I am doing daily."
I try not to look at Pa’s direction. I am hoping that he would just change his mind and go away. I try to concentrate on Mrs Chin’s teaching but the anxiety is just too much. But alas, no! I can see from the angle of my eye that he is moving closely towards the classroom. And here he is, politely knocking at the door.
"Excuse me, teacher," he says apologetically. I have to give it to him. Despite his relatively low educational achievements, he has the gift of the gab and has the flair for languages. Perhaps his privileged upbringing gives him the confidence to boss everybody around. His successful conquest of the language is the testimony of his early exposure to the upper crust of society and all the lavish parties in his childhood. His language skills seem to be his only inheritance from his now blemished childhood.
What is the point now? All those wealthy and bourgeois life is just but a distant memory. Pa is a product of a child spared of the rod and given leeway by his doting servants. Even though their jobs required them to be the helping hands, they donned many hats including the patriarchal role in the household. They found the easiest way of parenting — to give in at the slight hint of the start of a wail. Constant conditioning taught him that he could literally get away with murder.
"Shortcut parenting," they say, "cuts short intelligence."
Wealth within the family, which, by Confucius’ calculations would stay within the family only for three generations before it goes missing into the abyss of time. Unfortunately, shortcuts by parents cut short the generational wealth within the family to dissipate within a single generation! My father is the testimony of such a prophesy. Now the heir of one of Penang’s richest family, the owner of the tallest high rise building in town has to be content with chauffeuring others around.
A cat that had the chance to taste the richness of milk will do anything to get another go at it, even if means by forbidden means. Similarly, Pa still lives the old ways. Pockets may be empty, but his appearance has to be spick and span. The family may be wailing for food or be in a parched outfit, it is all the same for him, it is still waltz to him. Empty pockets but dressed to the nines, sharp to the heel to kill.
His brown leather shoes must be spankingly shiny. The creases of his starched attire must stay fresh. The hair must be groomed, and daily shaving at the barber was essential. He lived to eat. His palate craves for the cuisines that he enjoyed in his childhood. Economics and saving for a rainy day does not fall into his equation. His philosophy, albeit weird, seems to have worked well for him all these while — enjoy today what you may not live to enjoy tomorrow. What if tomorrow never comes?
What about responsibilities in life, you may ask? Is a father not duty bound to provide for his offsprings, akin to a mother running into a burning building to save her child? Or does a mother not jump into the river to save her drowning when she, herself, was like a cat in water, a non-swimmer? No, his philosophy of life is warped, you may say.
"The fauna and flora grows, why can’t you? Somebody plants the seed, and there will be someone to come along to water it!" he repeatedly say. "You, don’t worry. Be happy."
***
Mrs Chin looks at my direction. She is calling for me. I suddenly feel small. I could swear that everybody in the class has both their eyes directly focused on me. I secretly wish I could just disappear just like that. Poof.
"Thamby, come. Pack your books," she says. "Take care of your mother well. So sorry you have to miss the class. Don’t worry, I’ll teach this again tomorrow."
If only she knew the truth... If only she knew where I was going to every day during schooling hours. No teacher would want their student to miss their class to do something damaging to his future — to finance his father’s lavish lifestyle!
It was a routine. Pa would come bundled with my home clothes into which I would slip. He would take my books, bundle it up like yesterday’s newspaper and shoo me, like herding cattle. Our destination, the marketplace. Mission: to man the porridge stall.
Why go through this detailed changeover?
1952 is the year of ’education for all’. The War is over and the pride of leading the civilised world against the tyranny of the evil Axis has reared its ugly byproduct. The national coffers have run dry. As though dousing a fire with fuel, the natives have awoken from their slumber. They no longer see the colonists as their masters. The humiliating defeat at the hands of the minnow of soldiers from the land below the wind has severely tarnished their image. Their fellow men of same stature whom they had initially awed at the prowess, proved to be brutal and poor at managing their country.
Joining the nationalistic wave that has spread after the War, the native want out. They demand independence. They want self-administration. The colonial masters decide that the natives need to have an education if they were to self-administer. Truant officers start scaling streets, every nook and corner, looking for students playing hokey-pokey.
So here I am. Business is brisk this morning, as usual. Many hungry mouths are waiting to be fed. Scooping the sweet wheat porridge into the small china bowls and serving these starving souls encompass my scope of duty.
Periodically, I am reminded to announce to the market-folks by the stall owner, "Gandom, gandom, mari, mari!" trying hard to entice potential customers with the smell of sweet aroma of brewing starchy gandom in coconut milk, sugar and pandan leaves.
This routine goes on for almost three weeks. Pa would come to the school, pick me up, send me to stall and return me home by evening. The journey home would be laced with threats of severe repercussions if our little secret is to leak out. If only Ma knew about the truancy, I am sure to be dead meat!
What is it for me? All the toiling and manual labour come to nothing. For, come the time to close up the stall for the day, Pa would faithfully be there to shake me off of all my meagre daily earnings.
***
Our little secret does not stay underground for long. The stall, being strategical located, is in plain view for all to see. And so is the sight of a 12-year-old serving patrons and manning the stall. One of our neighbours, Santhi, during her usual tale-carrying and rumour mongering sessions to our house, is so excited to pour out her new found discovery. She thinks that she is doing a public service.
"Letchumy, Letchumy. Why you stop your son from studying?" Santhi asked. "He is a bright boy, such a waste!"
Ma is taken aback. She is pretty sure it was a case of mistaken identity. "Santhi, all the concoctions that she applied on her face to look like an Indian movie star must have damaged her nerves," Ma thought nonchalantly as she carries on with her daily chores. Thamby, after all, has been going to school regularly and returning, without fail. Or, was he?" Ma is not so sure about anything anymore.