There was no space at my father’s rented house to hold the wake. It also didn’t feel like an appropriate venue. The alternatives were either at the funeral parlours downtown or at the void deck at my uncle’s residence. We decided to have it at the void deck to minimise the travelling required by my elderly relatives.
Everyday for 3 days, I travelled from one extreme end of Singapore (Pasir Ris) to the other end (Jurong West), where the wake was held. I managed to hitch a number of rides over the days to save money. My cousin kindly picked me up from home one day, and a kind elderly gentleman who works as an air-con technician at my father’s workplace drove me home on the first night.
It was very strange being in such close proximity with my paternal relatives continuously for days. Our interaction was normally restricted to 2 hours a year during Chinese New Year where we gathered at my eldest uncle’s flat for lunch. On the first evening of the wake, I sat at the dining table with some relatives to have dinner cooked by my auntie. I started crying, because I always had my father with me when I sat at that table for meals at Chinese New Year. I felt awkward, out of place and sad, to be alone with these people I hardly knew.
Oddly enough, nobody once asked me, “Are you okay?” I suppose it is the Chinese/Asian approach to just get on with things rather than openly talk about feelings. My father just died an unexpected death, and I was expected to be strong, calm and normal.
As an only child, there was a lot to be done, from organising what needed to be done, making decisions, observing and performing the rites and rituals. I was very thankful that we had an honest and helpful funeral director who made the process as quick, smooth and pain-free as possible.
On the day of the funeral, it started to rain just as the hearse was leaving. I was made to wear a pair of white socks as we accompanied the hearse on foot to the main road. Mid-way the rain pelted down. I started to laugh. This was my father alright. Always such a prankster. He wanted to see us drenched! My socks were sodden and disgusting.
After we returned from the crematorium, the funeral guys started tearing down the stands and lighting, we sat around to have a quick bite, and I took out a fat wad of cash to pay the funeral director. I was so physically and mentally tired, but there was still this constant hustle and bustle around me. All I wanted was a good lie-down.
That afternoon, we went to collect the ashes and proceeded to the temple’s columbarium. When I saw my father in the form of a pile of bones, I didn’t know what to think. My first thought was, “That’s what life boils down to. A pile of bones.” After a simple ceremony at the temple, we placed my father’s urn in his final resting place.
My father always wanted his own one-room flat, but was so choosy and picky when it came to the condition and location. He was once offered a unit by the government in the Outram Road area but he declined because he said the residents were mainly elderly. (I wonder what he thought of himself).
And so, I texted my mother. I said, “He’s finally gotten a place of his own. On a high floor, fully air-conditioned, clean, bright and spacious.” How sad that one could only get what they wished upon their death. At that point I felt even more determined to live life by the moment, seizing very opportunity to do what I wanted to do. I was never one who procrastinated, and after this episode, I felt even more motivated to live my dreams.
I didn’t want to be a pile of ashes with a million regrets.
I wanted to know I had given life a good go.
The next day I went to clear out his room. I dreaded this task, and although I knew I was going to be again deeply affected by the state of the room, I could not ask any of my relatives to go along with me. I didn’t want to subject them to the horror, and also I wanted to preserve my father’s dignity. Nobody should be allowed to see or know how he lived.
It was painful but I braced myself for it. Again by divine intervention, one of my friends invited me out for lunch via SMS that day upon hearing my dad’s passing and I instantly knew she was one I could rely on. I asked her if she could drive me to his house and help me to clear out his room. She agreed immediately without asking any questions.
We first dropped by a mini-mart to pick up some trash bags and wipes. I warned her that it was going to be messy, dirty and stinky so she could prepare herself. It took us about an hour to put everything into black bin bags. She sneezed and gagged a number of times, but was also very stoic as she had been regularly delivering food to the elderly living in one-room flats, and was used to the sight of filthy living conditions.
She said, “Wah, you look so gu niang. but you are quite tough ah! You are not bothered by the smell!”
It wasn’t so much the smell that bothered me, but more like how could anyone even live in such a place that disturbed me. “Eh, I think he didn’t stay here you know, look at the bed, didn’t look like anyone slept in there! Maybe he had a different place he went to,” my friend said to me afterward.
She seemed quite convinced and I also wanted to believe that was the truth. But I knew it wasn’t.
THIS WAS WHERE HE LIVED TILL THE DAY HE DIED. THIS MISERABLE SAD PIT OF A PLACE.
The following Sunday, on the seventh day after he died, I went to the temple to pay my respects. The moment I saw his photo at his urn I just cried uncontrollably.
I felt so sorry for this man. (end of series)
Through my tinted glasses 