It’s a very wet Sunday afternoon and I’m alone in this strange city, missing everybody and everything I love. Nothing is familiar; not the food, not the language, not the people. Despite the tropics, it’s a cold steady drizzle that hasn’t eased up since the early morning. Rivulets run down the large plants outside my window onto the grass. I see a large garden lizard sheltering under a giant leaf, looking as miserable as I am. Each time a droplet lands nearby, it jerks its head. The weather makes my beautiful garden look bleak and right now, I’d gladly exchange this lovely but isolated bungalow for a place in the city centre and some sounds other than the steady pitter-patter of rain on the foliage outside.
I long to hear a familiar voice but I arrived a week ago and haven’t made any friends. I moved into this house just a couple of days ago and there is no TV, no telephone, no internet connection. My books and music are still to arrive.
I have one CD, bought at duty-free in Bangkok last week. A language I don’t understand but music I love. Fortunately, the accompanying booklet is bilingual and I turn on my desktop.
A Mio Padre, Andrea Bocelli is addressing his father and I try following in Italian. I give up after the first two lines and read in English. All of a sudden, I want to hug the father I barely had. I want him beside me very badly. I struggle to breathe, swallowing the rapidly growing lump in my throat. The tears are building up and I bite my lip. This is ridiculous. That was so long ago.
But the memories come flooding back.
I am six years old and sitting in the veranda outside our ancestral house in Madras, tying my shoe laces. My three-year old sister is sitting beside me in a frilly pink frock, impatient with my mother and aunt, who are taking so long to get ready. The birthday party, we are going to must have started already. Then a postman rides up and without getting off his bicycle, shouts, “telegram”. I run in to call somebody. My aunt appears, signs for the message and goes inside. Almost immediately, I hear screaming. Laces untied, I walk into the house and there in the living room, collapsed on a sofa, is my mother. Her sister-in-law and some other women are wailing at the top of their voices. I am ignored and my eyes go to the floor and the telegram the postman just delivered. I pick up the pink paper and read the message typed on pasted white strips. “Joe expired – heart failure – seventh – stop”. I don’t understand and toss it back on the floor. Then one of my sobbing aunts hugs me and says something. I nod my head, not fully comprehending. I go outside, sit on the steps next to my sister and continue tying my laces. “Daddy’s dead,” I say to her and then getting caught up in the wailing inside, I too break into sobs.
And with the memories, the tears come gushing out, forty-four years later.
COMMENTS
Deana Watson
This is simply beautiful, Percy. Your words put me into the setting, and helped me hear the music with you.
Cherry Gilchrist
This is very moving, Percy. You’ve combined careful control of the narrative with powerful emotion, and it works – it takes us with you, when the mood suddenly tips over into tears of grief. Also, you’ve conveyed your chosen theme of loneliness through the narrative itself, rather than ‘informing’ us you were lonely. The writing is honest and direct, and it leaves us with much to think about – what happens when our familiar props are taken away? (in your case, they are en route to the new home.) How does music act as a prompt to link us with long ago emotion? What does it mean, to re-connect with an early event in this way?
Iman Sidky
It’s really powerful, and it made me think of my own experience. I was 12 years old, and my sister also broke the news to me about my father.
Jill Coon
Hi Percy, Your first paragraph about moving in is what allowed me to immediately relate to the story. Anyone who has moved can identify with the feelings you were having and it allowed me to jump right in and connect. Then, you beautifully lead us down another path of music and strong emotions of memory. I think your writing speaks to the notion we’ve been reading about in our text — allowing the reader to relate using his/her own experiences, then weave in your own story. Well done! Jill
Louis Jansen Van Vuuren
Percy, I read your story with empathy. It is a piercing tale about longing and loss. You have skillfully linked the paragraphs with a tender thread of music. The end line is forceful and effective. It combines the here and the now with a memory of the past.
Peter Lourdes
Percy:
This is beautiful: son missing father! Your father may shed tears as he reads it. Yours was not a small loss and it happened too early in your life. Painful family tragedy!
I was in Don Bosco Liluah when it happened but unaware of your family. But my dad sent me a short note about your mother becoming a widow so suddenly with so many children.
I never saw or knew your father. Pity!
Peter Lourdes
Juhi Rohatgi Williams
Beautifully written….so meaningful and touching!!. Your words convey all your expressions through the story. You are a born writer and very talented…writing was just one of your many talents!!! Glad you are immersed in it now. Very touching story!!
© Percy Aaron
Wow Laos 