Pa ah...

My father it seems, did not contribute much spatial in my social media circles. Dad's a man of quiet and expensive words.

You know that feeling when you look at something so long that it gradually shifted into something else that it seemed strange even for your mind to decipher?

I mean does it happen to everyone? Like the longer you look at someone, the harder your mind is trying to capture even the tinniest detail and the slightest pore on a face that could alter how you originally perceive things. Like your mind is trying to register new features from the face that was already so familiar yet when you look again, you see new things.

Everyday until now, i learn new things from my father. He'd done countless things it's impossible to keep track of. He's a man full of surprises. My father don't boast. Because love do not boast. And it is the one thing i still struggle with up until today.

But the best thing he'd given to us is education. I can never thank God enough for the opportunities and experiences exposed to me since young. Like every other Asian parents, my father is particularly strict when it comes to our test results. During my upper secondary school days, everyone knew i never really come to terms with my additional mathematics results. My existence is of a total contrast to the invention of add maths. Funny how the connectors just doesn't reach the left hemisphere of my brain where mathematics equations lies, however surprisingly, it coexisted with language and computerisation skills. I guess at the left side of my functioning brain, one skill is dominating the other. And maths was the one that chose to be oppressed. Physics happened to be on the same page.

Dad tried tutoring me on simple and complex mathematics, (though the task of teaching me add maths was later taken by my engineers-to-be brothers, who were really good with add maths, can we just stop and not blame it on gender bias for a sec). But i never really quite grasp the secret to improving my add maths. Dad was on the sidelines, cheering me on, but i kept letting him down, again, and again, continuously for two years. SPM result was a total letdown and i tried fighting back tears when everybody else did really well, nobody have to feel sad for my own underachievement, or at least i didn't want them to. But the saddest part of them all was disappointing my parents, disappointing my father. They were the reason why the tears were boiling at the tip of my eye in the first place. They mattered.

Sad stories aside. Over the years, i had inevitably titled my father as the 'Solution to Everything'. Because from health, to electronics, to education, to carpentry, there's none that he couldn't solve. He's the manual book, always wrapped neatly accompanied by a product, directing you on how stuff works, simplified a thousand times without all the tiny words which made reading a nuisance. This had proven a real challenge for me when i enrolled in UTAR. Dad was my manual, and i'd suddenly grown miles apart from that manual. I was partially lost, drifting in a whirl of independence and autonomy. I thought gaining liberty to pursue self-reliant was fun. It was not. I was lost wandering in the wrong page. Or maybe i relied on my father too much it was hard to let go of his care and constant protection. I dreaded everyday of my first semester in UTAR in hope that i could go home, the place where everything is, where my father is.

Pa ah... I ruined a fridge. My printer isn't working. My knife is blunt. The stove wouldn't work. The outlet is faulty. The room is fungus-infected. Most of the time, i turned to my mother. And who do you think my mother turns to? My father. He is always working backstage, and my mother is the medium to our communications. "Papa says to..." "Papa says you should.." "You lah, papa says you always didn't....next time you should..."

Proximity made us view things a little differently, it exposes us to nonchalance. I used to be an emotional child. I would imagine my parents growing old, wearing their grey hair and clothing themselves in clothes that no longer reveal their youth, i would hold it in and tried to fight the suffocation. To stop myself from the built up energy which made me dysfunctional, i would hide in my blanket and let the tears filled my cheeks. I asked my brother, do these images ever bothered them? They ensure me it's alright. Up to date, i wonder why the image is still so vividly projected in my mind, however, i couldn't feel how i felt anymore. The materialistic way of living had blinded us from the simplest sympathy we feel for those who are dear to us, the distractions are putting away our focus on what matters. Years ago, i asked dad, "Pa, how old are you?" Dad told me, "50." To me, that's half a life gone.

Today, he's 57. I cringed when i look at the number. I hate having our days counted and seeing his health deteriorating day by day. Three more years and he would reach his 60s. More white hair would emerge from his scalp, thick with hair, envious by many, including his own daughter. My father still display traits of a child. He would smile at his own achievement as he fixed something. He would chase the dog (which i brought home without his consent) around the front porch wearing his formal attire and black sling workbag. He still smiles when he purchased the new family car which could accommodate more bags, and more humans. He still does the little things that made his children happy. He gave us the things he couldn't have when he was our age. He gave us happiness, and most importantly, a family.

I know it's not Father or Mother's Day. But let's take a moment to appreciate all the little things our parents did for us. The hike in your petrol needle indicator, the living fees that you so senselessly spend, the food you're eating, the clothes you're wearing, the book you're studying, the ground you're stepping on. These are the luxurious lifestyle that we so boastfully live in while our parents worked hard to provide. During their times, it was very difficult. Time changes, lifestyle changes, our thinking changes, or we can choose to be sensible children, the one our parents cling on dearly to their hearts during our arrival to the world.

Or you can read it on Facebook, 'The Book of Window' page. Link HERE.

kthxbai.