During the committal service, the finality of the occasion was sobering.
They lined the casket up in front of the furnace doors. From dust to dust. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone. There stood a short, Indian lady. Her gray hair and weather-worn face, walking stick, and limping walk told me her age. As the casket was pushed into the gaping maw, I could not help but walk forward, wishing I could stop it, reverse it, or perhaps, one final goodbye. Only she and I moved forward. Up to the threshold of the doors, but if not stopped, she would have gone even further than I.
She came from Ceylon, she said. Studied only till form 2. She was just the lowly telephone operator for RRIM for over 40 years. At the Research Site in Sungai Buloh, with officers and researchers scattered in several buildings, she had an analog plugset to transfer voice calls.
“In all my time at the Sungai Buloh station, only your dad said thank you to me each time I transferred a call.”
She came via Grab all the way from Malacca, and she was waiting for another Grabcar to take her home. She was 81 years old.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
She said, “You sound like dad. Take care of mum.”
1/8/2025
