Life of My Own

Father left us some money in his life insurance policy. I remember one morning when a man with a thick peppered moustache, another younger man probably in his early thirties without a moustache, and two quiet ladies much younger sat in our living room. Just tea, no cakes, and a cheque laid flat on the coffee table. I don’t remember what the two insurance men were talking about, but I remember feeling embarrassed when I stood up and pinched one corner of the cheque while the moustached man, who did most of the talking, held the other end. Mother stood beside me, smiling, before the second man without the moustache showered the living room with flashes of light from his camera. It wasn’t the posing that embarrassed me, but the presence of the two ladies—because I had forgotten to wear underwear beneath my track trousers.

Before that, we had cattle cheeks, tongues, tendons, and some real beef stuffed in the kitchen freezer from the previous Eid-ul-Adha celebration. Father had given me two decapitated cattle heads and forced me to extract as much meat as possible from the carcasses with a knife so dull it couldn’t even slice a cake, just days before he left us. That struck me deeply, almost spiritual—an odd thought that God had planned all this beautifully, and amin to that. That was the first time I tasted the best beef cheeks, tendons, and tongues in my life. It would have tasted better if Father had been there at the quiet dining table. Still, it was alright, because cattle cheek meat, truth be told, tastes like ordinary beef.

Long before that, someone I knew from the blogosphere generously deposited RM500 into my bank account to help us survive after Father’s demise, before I found a decent job. I am still thankful to her today. We never met in real life, yet it was so kind of her to show such generosity to a stranger. She eventually stopped blogging for reasons I don’t know. She just disappeared—perhaps now sitting on some apartment balcony in Hong Kong, eating egg tarts with a pot of green tea by her side. I remember her kindness well, and I know she wanted me to do the same for others. I try to, though I must admit, I get annoyed by people knocking on my car window during traffic jams asking for a ringgit or two.

All these memories came back after I read the news of a man misappropriating public donations channelled into his bank account—funds he initially claimed were for the well-being of his two orphaned nieces, whose parents died in a car collision. Blindfolded by greed, he siphoned off a large portion elsewhere, and that betrayal sparked public outrage.

While netizens hit their keyboards in anger, I stood under the shower long enough that reflection became inevitable. As I said, Father left us some money. We talked about it as a family, and I compromised—I agreed to let Mother handle it all. I could find a job, build my own wealth, and never have to worry about her with that eighty thousand ringgit in her hands. Later, Mother insisted I should buy a new car, which led to two weeks of silence between us because I preferred to keep the old 1991 Perodua Kancil. Eventually, I compromised again; I bought a new car, which put a smile on her face. Mother then persuaded Sister to do the same, and she, too, bought one. Mother gave us enough money for the down payments, all deducted from the inheritance.

Years have passed, and things are not turning out the way I wanted. I hate it whenever somebody—related or not—interferes with my financial planning. The son wants to save, but the mother says, “spend.” The grandfather insists the house should be demolished and rebuilt in concrete. The uncle taps the wooden wall and reminds me it will collapse one day if I don’t act. The aunts ask, “have you found your soulmate yet?” All of this aggravates me, and it boils down to my parsimonious nature—a trait inherited from nobody in the family. I’ve grown a little rebellious lately, showing more disagreement than approval, avoiding certain people, and even turning down a family vacation plan to Indonesia. Mother now understands that her son is carving out a life of his own.