The morning sun casts a golden sheen over Bagan Ajam, heralding the arrival of Deepavali. The village, usually tranquil, hums with the lively buzz of anticipation. Today, the streets are awash in a vibrant array of colors, as if the holiday itself has painted the town in joyous hues.
From dawn, the air has been filled with the sweet, spicy aroma of festive treats wafting from every home. Garlands of marigolds and jasmine, their vivid orange and white blooms glowing against the morning light, adorn doorways and windows, framing the homes in their fragrant splendor.
As the evening draws near, the sky will soon be alight with fireworks, painting the night in brilliant bursts of color. But for now, the village revels in the joyful clamor of celebration, wrapped in the warm embrace of tradition and togetherness.
Greetings to all readers of The Monologue of an Old Man,
I am Isaac, the second son of The Old Man Em Jay. As I sit here at my father's desk this Deepavali, the scene before me is both tranquil and invigorating. The desk, neatly organized with papers and a lamp casting a soft glow, stands by a large window that frames the serene beauty of the morning outside.
The sea breeze, gentle and refreshing, flows through the open window, carrying with it the crisp, invigorating scent of salt and seaweed. It rustles the curtains softly, creating a rhythmic dance of light and shadow across the room. The breeze feels like a cool embrace, offering a moment of respite amidst the day's activities.
The sound of the waves is a soothing, continuous murmur that fills the room with a sense of calm. Each wave crashes against the shore with a gentle sigh, a steady, rhythmic pulse that echoes the heartbeat of the sea. The waves retreat with a soft, sibilant whisper, only to return in a harmonious pattern, a natural symphony that plays in the background.
Chomel, my father's loyal cat, is curled up on the sofa, her fur catching the dappled sunlight that filters through the window. Her gentle purring adds a comforting, rhythmic undertone to the scene, blending seamlessly with the whispering waves and the caress of the sea breeze.
In this peaceful setting, with the sea's natural music and the comforting presence of Chomel, I find a quiet space to complete the work my father left behind. The atmosphere is one of serene productivity, a perfect reflection of the tranquility of Deepavali.
Maybe you're wondering why it's me, Isaac, writing here instead of the old man himself.
Let me vividly share with you a scene from around two weeks ago, one evening on the balcony of this apartment. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow across the tranquil scene.
My father had just arrived home from a day spent at the beachfront. The balcony, with its panoramic view of the sea, was a perfect vantage point to take in the fading light of the day. As he settled into his favorite chair, he appeared content and relaxed, a faint smile playing on his lips.
According to him, he had spent the early evening strolling along the beach with Aunt Clara. He recounted the day with a spark of enthusiasm in his eyes, a noticeable shift from his usual reserved demeanor.
I remembered his glance, and he told me, "I went for a walk with Aunt Clara. Explained everything to her. Tried to help her understand. So... a man has to do what a man has to do," he chuckled.
Then he motioned to me as he settled into the rocking chair, Chomel purring contentedly on his lap. "Isaac, could you fetch me my night tablets and a glass of water?" he asked, and I did as he asked.
I stood beside him as he took the tablets, and later he leaned back. Noticing he was relaxing, I left him to take the rest he so barely needed. I went to wash myself and planned to go down to the beachfront to grab some dinner as I hadn't eaten yet.
When I came out of the washroom, I heard Chomel's meows, which were erratic. I rushed to the balcony and saw Chomel was so restless. Then I saw my dad was breathing heavily. I hurried to him in anxiety, shouting, "Dad... dad... dad..." and shook his body. He was gasping for air.
I rushed to my room, put on a shirt and tracksuit, grabbed my mobile, and dialed the ambulance. Then I called the management office, but no one picked up. I called Mr. Rajan, and fortunately, he was at the guard room. I rushed to the balcony, telling him what happened as I waved frantically to the guard house.
The seconds felt like hours as I waited for the ambulance, each moment dragging on painfully as I watched my father fight for breath. Mr. Rajan soon appeared, and his presence was a slight comfort in the chaos. He reassured me that help was on the way and tried to assist in keeping my father stable.
In those intense moments, all I could do was hold my father's hand and try to comfort him, praying for the ambulance to arrive quickly. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore below, which had always been a source of peace, now seemed distant and irrelevant in the face of the crisis at hand.
As the paramedics finally arrived and took over, I stepped back, feeling a mixture of helplessness and relief. Watching them work on my father, I realized how fragile life could be and how quickly everything could change.
The paramedics then prepared my father onto the stretcher to ferry him into the ambulance. I tailed them closely. At the pavement, a crowd had gathered, their faces etched with concern and curiosity. Their murmurs of worry filled the air, but my focus remained solely on the man on that stretcher.
When the paramedic allowed me to climb into the ambulance to accompany my father to the hospital, I hesitated for a moment, my hands trembling as I gripped the side of the stretcher.
My father lay there, an oxygen mask covering his face, his breathing now more relaxed but still labored. The sound of the oxygen mask hissing softly was strangely comforting, a sign that he was being cared for.
Inside the ambulance, I sat close to him, my eyes never leaving his face. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing my anxiety and fear. I clenched my hands together, my knuckles white, trying to steady my racing thoughts. My father's hand, cool and slightly clammy, lay beside mine. I reached out and gently held it, squeezing it lightly, as if to reassure both him and myself.
His breathing, though aided by the oxygen mask, seemed more even now. I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, a sign of life, a fragile yet resilient rhythm.
The ambulance's sirens wailed, a stark contrast to the earlier tranquility of the evening. The flashing lights outside painted the interior in alternating hues of red and blue, adding to the surreal atmosphere.
I found myself whispering words of encouragement, my voice trembling. "Hang in there, Dad. We're almost there," I said, hoping he could hear me through the fog of his condition. My eyes stung with unshed tears, but I blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.
Every bump in the road jolted us slightly, and I tightened my grip on his hand, feeling a desperate need to keep him grounded, to keep him here with me. The paramedics moved efficiently around us, checking his vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of the severity of the situation.
In that confined space, the world outside seemed to blur and fade away. It was just my father and me, connected by a fragile thread of hope and love. The minutes stretched endlessly, each one a silent plea for his recovery.
Finally, as the hospital came into view, I felt a surge of hope mingled with fear. The paramedics' calm reassurances provided a thin layer of comfort, but the reality of the unknown still loomed large. As we came to a stop, I prepared myself for the next steps, ready to face whatever came, determined to be there for my father every step of the way.
The sterile, white walls of the ICU ward felt both oppressive and isolating as I was asked to wait outside and register my father's details at the registration counter. The hallway was eerily quiet, punctuated only by the occasional distant beep of medical equipment.
My hands shook as I filled out the forms, my mind racing with a mix of fear and hope. Each stroke of the pen felt heavy, and I found myself glancing repeatedly at the ICU doors, willing them to open and bring good news.
As I handed the completed forms to the receptionist, my heart pounded in my chest, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety. I tried to steady my breathing, but every attempt felt futile. The wait seemed interminable, each passing second stretching into an eternity. My thoughts were a chaotic swirl, the worst-case scenarios playing out over and over in my mind.
Then, the ICU doors swung open, and my name was called. I hurried forward, my legs feeling like lead as I moved, my pulse quickening. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machinery filled the space.
I was escorted to my father's bed, my eyes widening as I saw the five people surrounding him. Two nurses worked with efficient precision, while the other three, clad in doctor uniforms, stood solemnly.
I felt a shiver run down my spine as I approached the bed, my body trembling uncontrollably. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my hands were clammy, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Each step felt surreal, like walking through a nightmare I couldn't wake from. My father lay still, his face pale against the stark white of the hospital bed.
A male doctor stepped forward, introducing himself as Dr. Samy, his voice calm but tinged with a gravity that sent a fresh wave of dread through me. The other two doctors stood close by, their expressions somber. Dr. Samy looked me in the eye, and I braced myself for his words, my heart sinking even before he spoke.
"The hospital has done all that is humanly possible," Dr. Samy said, his tone gentle yet firm. "But it is very sad to inform you that we can't save his life."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I felt my knees buckle slightly. I grasped the edge of the bed to steady myself, my whole body trembling. A sob caught in my throat, and my vision blurred with tears. The room seemed to close in around me, the sounds of the ICU fading into a distant murmur.
I stood there, paralyzed by grief, as the reality of the situation settled over me. My father's still form, the quiet beeping of the monitors, the hushed whispers of the medical staff—all of it seemed to fade into the background as I grappled with the overwhelming sorrow of losing him.
I didn't know how long I was grappling at the side of the bed, sobbing my heart out. My tears blurred the sterile surroundings, and my cries seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room. The weight of grief felt unbearable, a crushing force that left me gasping for breath.
Suddenly, I felt a few soft pats on my back. I looked up, my vision still clouded by tears, to see Mr. Rajan and Mak Gayah standing there. Their faces were etched with concern and compassion. Mak Gayah, with her gentle yet firm grip, took my hand and pulled me away from the ICU, guiding me to the waiting area.
She sat me down on a bench and settled beside me, wrapping her arms around me in a comforting embrace. Her warmth and solidity were a stark contrast to the cold, clinical environment of the hospital. I clung to her, unable to hold back my sobs. Each tear felt like a release, but also a reminder of the immense loss I was facing.
Mak Gayah's presence was a lifeline, her quiet strength giving me a small anchor in the storm of my emotions. She didn't say much, just held me close, letting me cry out my grief. Her steady breathing and the rhythmic patting on my back gradually helped to calm my heaving sobs.
As I sat there, enveloped in Mak Gayah's comforting embrace, Mr. Rajan stood nearby, a silent pillar of support. The waiting area was quiet, the hum of the hospital's activity distant and muted. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the world outside pausing to acknowledge my pain.
In that moment, surrounded by the compassion of friends, I felt a flicker of solace. The sorrow was still overwhelming, but the presence of Mr. Rajan and Mak Gayah provided a small, crucial comfort. They were there for me, offering their support without words, just by being there, helping me bear the unbearable.
And now, as I sit at his desk this Deepavali, with Chomel napping on the sofa and the sea breeze gently blowing in, I understand the weight of the responsibility he left behind. I'm here to continue his work, to keep his spirit alive in these words, and to honor the life he lived and the love he shared.
I didn't notice her approaching, but suddenly Aunt Clara was sitting next to me. Her arms encircled me, taking over from Mak Gayah's embrace. I could barely make out her words through her sobs, except for the repeated, heart-wrenching "Em Jay... Em Jay..."
Her grief was palpable, intertwining with my own, and we sat there together, both lost in our sorrow. The waiting area seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of us, bound by our shared love for my father and the immense loss we now faced.
Aunt Clara's presence brought a different kind of comfort, her connection to my father deep and personal. She held me tightly, her tears mingling with mine. Each whispered "Em Jay" felt like a tribute to the man we both loved, a testament to the impact he had on our lives.
Mr. Rajan and Mak Gayah stood nearby, their faces showing a mix of sorrow and solidarity. They gave us the space to grieve, their silent support a steady backdrop to our mourning. The hospital's muted sounds—footsteps, distant conversations, the hum of machines—were a stark reminder of the life continuing around us, even as ours felt momentarily shattered.
As I sat between Aunt Clara and Mak Gayah, I felt the strength of their support. Their presence was a lifeline, grounding me in a reality that felt too painful to face alone. Aunt Clara's sobs gradually subsided into quiet sniffles, and she pulled back slightly to look at me, her eyes red and puffy.
"We're here, Isaac," she said softly, her voice trembling. "We're all here for you."
I nodded, unable to speak, but grateful for her words. The weight of grief was still heavy, but their support made it just a bit more bearable. We sat there together, a small island of solace amidst the sea of sorrow, drawing strength from each other's presence as we faced the painful reality of life without my father.
A moment later, a hospital duty officer approached us with a folder in his arm. His face was solemn as he conveyed his condolences, his voice soft and respectful. "I'm very sorry for your loss," he said, his eyes reflecting genuine sympathy.
He handed me a form, explaining that I needed to sign it. My hands were still shaking, but I managed to hold the pen and scribble my signature at the bottom of the page. The lines blurred momentarily as my eyes filled with tears again, but I forced myself to focus, knowing this was an important step.
The duty officer explained that my father's body would be moved to the mortuary. "You can claim the body with a copy of this form," he said, his tone gentle yet businesslike. The reality of the situation hit me anew with his words, and I felt a fresh wave of grief wash over me.
Aunt Clara's hand tightened on my shoulder, her silent support grounding me. Mak Gayah and Mr. Rajan stood close by, their presence a reassuring reminder that I was not alone in this. I nodded numbly to the officer, clutching the form as if it were a lifeline.
"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. The duty officer nodded and took a step back, giving us space to process the information. He left us standing there, a small group united by our love for my father and our shared grief.
As the officer walked away, Aunt Clara's embrace tightened again, and I leaned into her, drawing strength from her presence. The weight of the form in my hand was a tangible reminder of the tasks ahead, the final steps I had to take to ensure my father was laid to rest with dignity.
In that moment, surrounded by the quiet support of Aunt Clara, Mak Gayah, and Mr. Rajan, I felt a flicker of determination amidst the sorrow. There were still things to be done, and I would face them, one step at a time, with the support of those around me.
Mak Gayah then pulled my hand again, and we moved out to the car park where Mr. Rajan was waiting for us. To my surprise, the crowd from earlier was gathered there, their faces etched with sorrow, many of them sobbing quietly. The sense of community, of shared grief, was overwhelming.
Mak Gayah gently guided me into the front seat of Mr. Rajan's car while she climbed into the back. I leaned back, exhausted, and closed my eyes, the events of the evening replaying in my mind like a relentless loop. The hum of the car engine and the murmurs of conversation around me faded into the background as I tried to gather my thoughts.
I barely registered the soft words of comfort from Mak Gayah and Mr. Rajan. The only thing that penetrated my haze of grief was the quiet declaration that we were all heading home. The word "home" resonated deeply, bringing a fleeting sense of comfort amidst the turmoil.
As the car moved, I let the gentle vibrations and the rhythmic sound of the tires on the road lull me into a state of semi-consciousness. My mind drifted, caught between the harsh reality of the present and the comforting memories of the past.
The drive felt both endless and too brief, the passage of time distorted by the weight of my sorrow. Yet, through it all, the presence of those around me provided a fragile thread of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, we are not alone.
Arriving home, I was greeted by the muted hum of activity inside our apartment. The familiar faces of friends and neighbors filled the space, their expressions a mix of sorrow and support. Aunt Clara was among them, her presence a comforting constant in this sea of grief.
She gently guided me to my room, her hand on my shoulder. Once inside, she looked at me with concern, her eyes searching mine. "Have you informed your family?" she asked softly.
Her question pierced through the fog of my emotions, bringing me sharply back to the reality of the situation. I realized then that I had a responsibility I couldn't ignore. My father was gone, but the task of informing the rest of the family fell to me.
I nodded, feeling a fresh wave of anxiety rise within me. The thought of breaking the news to my loved ones was daunting, yet I knew it was something I had to do. Aunt Clara's presence steadied me, her quiet strength giving me the courage to face this painful duty.
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and reached for my phone. The device felt heavy in my hand, a stark reminder of the weight of the news I had to deliver. Aunt Clara squeezed my shoulder reassuringly before stepping back to give me some privacy.
As I dialed the first number, I steeled myself for the conversations ahead. The responsibility was immense, but in that moment, I understood that it was also a final act of love for my father. I owed it to him to handle this with the same strength and dignity he had always shown.
My mom, Sara, answered the call. I pulled all the strength I could muster. "Mom... there's sad news for all of us. Dad is no longer with us. Please inform everyone." My voice broke, and I couldn't continue. I hung up after telling her I would call again soon.
Aunt Clara then gently took my phone from my trembling hands. She started scrolling through WhatsApp and began typing a message. "Lie down on the bed," she suggested softly, as she continued typing. I nodded, feeling a sense of relief at her taking charge.
Moments later, she showed me the message she had typed to her own number. It was concise yet heartfelt, conveying the devastating news with the empathy and clarity I couldn't muster. She then asked if she could send the same message to my mom on my behalf. I nodded again, grateful for her help.
As I lay on the bed, I watched her send the message, feeling a mix of sorrow and gratitude. The weight of responsibility felt a bit lighter with Aunt Clara by my side, helping me navigate this painful moment.
When I woke up the next morning, a crowd had gathered in the hall. The murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, mingling with the scent of incense and freshly brewed coffee. I spotted Hannah among the familiar faces as I made my way to the washroom. At the dining table, Aunt Clara and Mr. Rajan were deep in discussion. I nodded to them, acknowledging their presence, and went to wash up.
Emerging later, I found breakfast ready for me at the dining table. I took a seat and sipped the coffee, its warmth providing a small comfort. Mr. Rajan began to speak, his tone polite but firm, informing me of the things that needed to be done. His words flowed over me, and I found myself unable to comment or even fully comprehend all the details. I felt adrift, lost in the sea of responsibilities and decisions.
Sensing my overwhelm, Mr. Rajan suggested that I speak with my mom to make some decisions. Nodding, I reached for my phone, only then noticing the flurry of messages from my mom, Daniel, Sally, and Melly. Each one conveyed concern and asked me to wait until they arrived late in the afternoon to decide on the resting place for Dad.
I felt a slight relief knowing they were on their way. The enormity of the situation was too much to bear alone, and their arrival would bring not only support but also a sense of shared responsibility. I set the phone down and looked at Aunt Clara and Mr. Rajan, their expressions filled with understanding and empathy.
"We'll wait," I said quietly. "We'll wait for them to arrive before making any decisions." They both nodded, offering reassuring smiles. The day ahead seemed daunting, but I took comfort in the thought that soon, my family would be here, and together we would navigate this painful journey.
The Old Man Em Jay was laid to rest at the cemetery, not far from this apartment. The soft murmur of the beachfront, ever-present and familiar, continues to accompany him, offering a melancholy melody that echoes the quiet reverence of his final resting place.
As I sit here, finishing his work—The Monologue of An Old Man—his last masterpiece, I find myself reflecting deeply on his life and our time together. The manuscript, recently discovered, reveals a side of him I never fully understood until now. It's as if his final words are reaching out to me, sharing insights and sentiments that were hidden beneath his reserved exterior.
Despite the distance between us during my childhood and teenage years, my father was undeniably the closest man in my life. The memories of our brief time together are precious to me, more valuable than I realized at the time. There was a quiet strength in him, a steadfastness that I now see clearly in the pages of his monologue.
I am profoundly grateful for the chance to have lived with him, even if only for a short period. It was a gift wrapped in the complexities of our relationship, a chance to bridge the gap that time and distance had created. As I read through his final work, I feel a renewed sense of connection, a deeper understanding of the man who was both distant and deeply influential.
In the solitude of finishing his manuscript, I find solace and purpose. His words, his reflections, and his thoughts become a lasting legacy, one that I will cherish and uphold. This work, his final testament, is a bridge to the past and a guide for the future. Through it, I am reminded of the value of our time together and the enduring impact he has had on my life.
Sitting here, I am filled with gratitude and a profound sense of peace. The melancholy of the beachfront becomes a fitting accompaniment to his final journey, a gentle reminder of the beauty and fragility of life. As I complete his work, I honor his memory and carry forward the lessons he imparted, forever grateful for the time we shared.
As I close this book, I am reminded that life, in all its complexity and brevity, is a series of moments strung together by the threads of our relationships, our struggles, and our triumphs. The Old Man Em Jay's final words offer not just a glimpse into his inner world but also a reflection on the universal truths that bind us all.
In his silence, he has spoken volumes. His legacy, embodied in these words, invites us to find meaning in our own lives, to seek connection in our relationships, and to embrace the fleeting beauty of our existence. As the beachfront continues its eternal song, so too does his voice linger in the hearts of those he touched.
May this monologue serve as a reminder that every life, no matter how distant or unspoken, leaves an indelible mark. And as we turn the final page, we carry forward the lessons learned and the love shared, forever echoing the silent melodies of The Old Man's life.
THE END.