Sample:
Preface:
...and they lived happily ever after.
Did they really?
One would like to believe so, but that is only wishful thinking …
So what really happens? Lots … the good, the bad, but, mostly, the unexpected. Sometimes, thankfully, the couple gets along fairly well together, and the matrimonial years may be classified as blissful. Then, there are those couples who realize, after a spell of marriage, that once endearing qualities suddenly seem irritating, even repulsive. They may try to communicate and mend the threatened relationship, sometimes through a counsellor, and, if this fails, they call it quits. Finally, there are those pairs, who carry on stoically, for better or for worse, only to have Fate intervene, sometimes dealing a rather heavy blow.
Marriage has been considered a sanctity. I, for one, have always thought so. Like most young women who are courting, I thought that when I wed my Prince Charming, I would, eventually, be able to get him to see, to some extent at least, my point of view. Alas, little did I know then that I would, too often, have to see his...
I have had to journey deep into the recesses of my heart and soul to harness those thoughts that have often flit across my mind, for, I know, unless I do so, and come to terms with myself, I shall never be at peace.
I have stayed as close as possible to the true sequence of events, sometimes even too close for my own comfort. It is not my intention to tarnish my Yang’s image; if anything, it is to manifest how a wonderfully warm, loving and diligent young man slowly, but surely, lets drink ravage his health and destroy his ideals, dreams and family life. It is my sincere intention to create awareness in those who believe that life without drink is lacklustre. Drink is not for the weak-willed.
If you are the sentimental kind and feel for a fellow human being, if you are the kind that sheds a tear for one in pain, or lets out a laugh at the amusing antics of another, then, come sail with me across the seas of memories. Be warned that the weather is not always going to be fair, nor the seas calm. If you make it across the seas, a vibrant rainbow shall be your boon.
I would never have been able to invite you to accompany me on this voyage of recollections had it not been for the realisation that all is not lost I see the rainbow yet, with its soothing and comforting hues. It is not a mirage it is the legacy my Yang left me .
1. The Eve
“Let’s run down the road and see if we can steal some starfruit from Sikluk s tree!” suggested my playmate, Rita. Sensing my reluctance, she
added, “Don’t worry, he s gone out. We’ll be quite safe.”
Meet Rita, the closest I had to a sister when I was about five. She was a little younger than I, but supercharged with bravado. Of course, I ran down the road with my guru I wasn’t going to lose face, and, of course, those fruits were the sweetest on earth.
Rita was the youngest of seven children. She had four elder brothers and all the attributes of a tomboy. Her house was right next to mine and shared a common kitchen wall. Rita and I also shared many things. She was often to be found in our little two-bedroom house, rummaging determinedly through my treasure chest of toys. We only played with what she deemed fit for that day.
We were a sight to behold the short-haired Rita, clad in a vest and a pair of baggy shorts, and I, in a modest knee-length dress, sporting the longest pig-tails you had ever seen. Rita always featured in my birthday photographs. She would be eyeing the creatively iced birthday cake, while I would be keeping a watchful eye on her! Evidence of this fatal attraction is perpetuated in the childhood photographs, yellowed over the years, but still much treasured. The album is the same, but, like the rest of us, it has seen better days.
Rita was my faithful companion and, I thought, my confidante. When not playing in the bedroom I shared with my only sibling, Rita and I could be found under the shade of a little tree in her garden. We would be lost in a world of fantasy, quite oblivious to the frantic cries of our fatigued mothers, hoping to enlist our services in domestic chores.
Rita s father had a passion for gardening. He spent hours tending his plants, especially the orchids. His garden was his kingdom, and he reigned over it with an iron hoe! As soon as he got back from work each evening, he would change into his shorts and singlet and make a beeline for the garden patch in front of his house. His no-nonsense demeanour discouraged pesky pixies, garden gnomes and curious children.
While we were at play under our favourite tree, one day, I accidentally knocked over a flower pot placed on some bricks. I panicked, for I knew Rita s father would scream at the sight of the forlorn speckled purple orchid sprawled helplessly on the ground, amidst pieces of charcoal, earth and fragments of the broken flower pot. I looked beseechingly at the only witness to the tragedy. “Rita, what am I going to do? Your father is going to get really mad! I am so afraid of him when he shouts! Please, you’ve got to help me!”
I had a vision of the short, stocky Uncle Ho suddenly grown seven feet tall, as he was prone to do when furious, looking down on an even shorter little me, causing me to shrink to almost nothingness! Heaven help me.
It did. When I looked at Rita, she was suddenly sporting a halo. Comfortingly, she said, “Never mind, let’s just pretend we had nothing to do with it. Come on, let s get out of here fast!” Holding my hand tight, she led the way as we fled from the garden of doom, out of the front gate of her house, to our sanctuary my house.
We sought refuge sitting on the concrete apron that ran along the far side of my house, away from hawk-eyed enemies at least for a while. Yes, this was our hideout whenever we had committed an unspeakable crime that would have one of the adults soon hunting us down. Our throbbing legs would be stretched across a narrow drain, the very drain which was also our improvised toilet when the urge was unbearable, and the bathrooms or toilets in both homes were all occupied.
While still trying to catch our breath, I looked at my guardian angel . Could I trust her not to snitch on me? As if she had read my mind, or perhaps in response to the pleading look in my eyes, she assured me with, “Cross my heart! I won’t tell Daddy you killed his orchid. Hey, don t look at me like that! I crossed my heart, remember?”
I wished I could be really sure, but Her face barely five centimetres away from mine, Rita looked straight into my eyes and solemnly vowed, I really, really promise not to tell, “but you owe me a biggie, alright?” Meekly, I nodded.
I could not help wondering, therefore, how the others in her family still came to know that it was I who had broken the pot in which her father had triumphantly grown that rare orchid. Ever since then, Uncle Ho, in his mud-splattered Wellingtons, always gave me a look of disapproval whenever I stepped into his garden. I mentally cancelled my debt to Rita I owed her nothing!
We continued to be friends, for, in a way, I was at her mercy. While she had her siblings to replace me within seconds, I had nobody else to turn to in my lonely state. My only sibling was in the north, staying with grandparents.
Chuckles spent his early years reigning over the kingdom of our maternal grandparents. Being the first grandchild, and grandson to boot, he was determined to flaunt the status of Prince Chuckles . Being the sole granddaughter until then, I guess I, too, could have secured a fairly prestigious position in the sprawling grounds of Mum’s parental abode, but I chose to be in my parents humble dwelling this little two-bedroom semi-detached house, with a garden in front.
The pretty little garden was home to numerous flowering plants. The blooms were no match, perhaps, to the exotic orchids next door, but, nonetheless, appealing in their simplicity and sweet fragrance. I could spend hours sitting on the little blue swing in the garden, admiring the beautiful flowers and inhaling their perfume. This was where I could be found, all alone and nursing my wounded heart, whenever Rita discarded me.
When she finally decided I was worthy of her company again, Rita and I would adjourn to the more spacious garden at the back of my house. There, we would climb up the tall guava tree, to perch on the lower branches. While she updated me on all the exciting things she had done when away from me and in the company of her siblings, we would reach out to pluck some half-ripe, puny-sized guavas.
“Ouch! Stupid ants!” would be an all too familiar exclamation as the two of us beat off the big red ants that crawled up our legs, daring to eavesdrop on our girlish gossip. The annoying six-legged pests, however, could not deter us from biting into the stomach-ache promising fruit.
