He never knew his own father, because his father passed away when he was still a toddler; too young to remember anything. I can only imagine what he felt when he held me - his first born son - in his arms. A feeling that I can only dream of experiencing myself.
With bursting enthusiasm, he set out to be the best father he could be; with what little he knew from growing up fatherless himself. He taught me to read at an early age; by cradling me with every morning paper that he read after breakfast. By age four, I was looking forward to read The News Straits Times with him every morning.
As a child I was always learning things independently. I was eager to learn more and would always try to outwit and trump adults way older than me. Nobody could teach me anything because I allowed nobody to be the teacher of me. It was different with my father. Every instance where he would teach me something was endearing to me. I remember when he promised to teach me the 'Solat' but forgot to; and I cried and my little heart was crushed. He finally got around to teach me, and to this day I still remember every moment of it.
Fast forward to my school-going years. My father had always given liberty as far my aspirations and ambitions was concerned. As a result, throughout primary school I had changed what I wanted to be when I grow up with each passing year. First it was an astronaut, then a tahfiz, then it changed to an architect. When we went to live in the UK, I had settled on being a singer/entertainer, courtesy of watching Michael Jackson's Moonwalker a hundred million times over; and besides, I was always inclined to sing ever since I was toddler (or so I have been told). Little did anyone know that that was a sign of me being a child afflicted with ADHD.
All good things must come to an end. Our wonderful life in the UK had to be cut short after my father had completed his Masters. Back to Malaysia we flew and with it, puberty hit. And boy, did it hit me hard. All those raging hormones conflicted with what I felt was a sense of longing for Good Ol' England. I missed my friends back in Greenwood Dale High School; Paul, Craig, Valbert and Corina - but most of all, I missed the whole scholastic experience that had so stimulated my pre-pubescent mind. Education was something I associate largely with school, where I could learn so much from the system and from the teachers themselves. It was obvious that I felt I belonged there.
It soon dawned upon me that the whole stimulating educational experience that I left behind was severely lacking in the school I attended back home in Skudai. So it was natural that I turned to something else that stimulated me perfectly well - my peers. I don't know quite exactly why, but I gravitated towards the bad apples; trouble-making kids who did as they please and most of the time, gets away with it. I must confess, I wasn't much of a saint myself; I shan't divulge on the little horrors perpetrated by me so as to earn a reputation as a little devil amongst my immediate family members.
To cut things short, secondary school was a time when I had substituted the school for the streets as my place of learning. I was a chronic truant; and by 15 I had cultivated a love for "the chronic". Marijuana was only available if I hung out with the older crowd and the dropouts; and for some reason they chose night-time to congregate. I had to sneak my way out of the house every night and stay out until it was late - and I mean late - until it was dawn, and I had to sneak back in to get ready for school. Naturally that did not sit well with my parents especially my mother. It still puzzles me why my father never made a big deal out of it; unless my mother's nagging really got to him and he had to get physical on me and deliver the obligatory beating.
-to be continued-
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