By Vincent Law
I called uncle Cheong Sunday night to check if he was coming to Singapore and told him if I could wake up on time, I'll pop by and have breakfast with him early Monday morning.
Little did I realise that he had more faith than me that I would show up as he lugged along a sack full of sweet potatoes freshly harvested from his very own garden farm on the back of his rickety motor bike. Despite not having much back home in Malaysia, he gave out of his lack to appreciate my spending time with him.
It would take him a little more than an hour from his rented room to the petrol station facing the Prison Link Centre (PLC) where he would sit on a square concrete slab and catch a little nap while waiting for the prison's door to open at 7am. The routine each Monday has been like this for more than a year now since his son was convicted of drug-trafficking under Singapore's mandatory death penalty.
He looked a lot more cheerful this morning compared to the last time we met. He laughed more easily when he shared with me the joy he felt each time he goes up to the little hilly plot to pick the weeds that threaten to overwhelm his little crop for they grew much quicker than the potatoes.
Even with the searing sun bearing down on his shining pâté, he was happy and contented. Occasionally, he could feel a gush of wind blowing through his soak shirt, sending a much needed cool relief. From here, at the top of his little hide away, he could see all around him the houses and traffic in this sleepy town where a kindly friend let him tend his little garden.
Uncle Cheong could still recall vividly the date when he completed planting the potato seedlings - June 20, 2012, the day he almost lost his life. It was on that fateful day, in the wee hours of the morning while it was pitch dark, that he set off towards a durian plantation intending to earn what little money he could to help raise funds to pay M Ravi, the lawyer who had represented his son, Chung Yin. It was around 4am, as he was riding along a small road, a bas kilang (factory bus), mowed into his bike and drag him under one side of the bus. The driver had not seen him.
The basket intended to carry the durians cushioned the impact as his body hit the hard tarred road, cutting and tearing into his flesh. Though he was all bloodied all over, he came out alive from the ordeal heavily bandaged after the bus driver had sent him to the nearby hospital for treatment.
The accident was waiting to happen as uncle Cheong would work as hard as he could from early morning and late into the night. And despite his tiredness after work, he would just lay on his bed staring at the brownish white ceiling hardly able to fall asleep. He ached more from the tortured pain in his soul for his son than from the physical strain his body had endured the whole day. Though he had wanted to cry, there were no more tears in his eyes. All he felt was this throbbing tug on his chest that he quickly realise was really his heart. And then the memories would come rushing back like a torrent of flood waters unrelentingly.
His wife had left him with his two younger daughters and he recalled with quiet pride that his son had chosen to stick with him. Without a warning, the next moment he saw his son's gullible smile turning into this snickering person he did not recognise. A crowd rapidly separated the two of them as he desperately lunged but to no avail and hit a wall so cold it brought a deep shudder and chill down his spine.
This nightmare would repeat itself every night in varying forms but it always ended with the cold wall and the chilling spine. He would then get up and trudge to the nearby kopi tiam and sit quietly by himself, occasionally chatting with the drinks stall seller when business was slow, until dawn.
The accident had jolted him to see how close he had come face to face with death and survived. Though his damaged bike has been fixed, it was never the same sturdy frame and confident ride again. Instead, it was shaky and he had to keep moving the handle bars to maintain his balance until he made it to the prison every Monday without any untoward mishap. Though he could not be sure, he reckoned an angel must be looking after him from behind his back.
Uncle Cheong was never the same again too. He no longer was as strong as before. Strangely, he had also never felt lighter in his heart and happier as he shared his first fruit harvest with me that morning.
