Last week, my grandma passed away. When I arrived in Masjid Tanah, Malacca on Thursday, the prayers had just begun. I changed into a blue t-shirt and black track pants and went along with my dozens of cousins, uncles and aunts with the prayers and the bowing and the kneeling to the chanting. My brother, who is a Christian, did not, because, as we know, the preachers say that Bible says that we shouldn't bow to any form of idols or god or human other than jealous Jesus. If I were Christian by heart, I would not think my almighty God in His infinite wisdom, power and humility would be quite so petty to take offence if I paid a little respect to the mother of my father.

My cousins and I didn't mean to be disrespectful or callous, but we sometimes joked and caught up with each other, even during the obscure and ridiculous kung fu rituals the nuns were performing to ease grandma's passage into the Taoist afterlife. On the last day, though, just before the coffin was to be closed, tears brimmed in the very eyes which had been smiling just hours before. For myself, I did not weep, and so it has been for the last decade and a half of my life. Not even when I was twice nearly destroyed by heartbreak. It seems my tear ducts are resistant to my myriad expressions of pain and sorrow. What does it take, I wonder, to unplug the dam? Blessed be the day when that happens.

When I saw grandma lying in the coffin, there was a thin trail of tears seeping from the corner of her right eye. We don't know if it was the embalmer's oversight or some kind of physical reaction, but grandma wept on the second day of her death, and that was heartbreaking enough. I have personal thoughts of why she would cry, and amongst these was a truth I did not want to dwell upon. On our last round of walking around the casket, through the desperate mess of memories, I know I said a lot of things in my head to grandma that wasn't exactly coherent, nor useful nor exactly prayerful. I hope she understands it though. Good journey, Ah Po.
 

((~  ╪  ~))