“I Can Still Hear My Father Correct My English, Feel Him Watch Over Our Family”

(In this “November Special Series,” RVA’s writers share memories of loved ones they have lost — a celebration of their lives, recalled with a tinge of sadness and the hope that one day there will be a reunion…… in a place where there is no death, no suffering, and where God Himself will wipe away every tear. – Editor)

This month, in memory of the dead, I remember a man whose life itself was a prayer, my father, the late Joe Sr.

The National Population and Family Development Board isn’t known for rewarding large families, yet it once honored Joe Sr. with a special accolade. It wasn’t for populating the nation (though with 16 children, he could have fielded a full football team with reserves to spare), but for raising each one of his children well. Not one child was lost to the wave of rebellion that swept through the 1960s, when the temptations of hippie culture and drugs ran high.

Joe Sr. carried the load alone after losing his wife early. The Board’s citation praised his fortitude, a single father who nurtured faith, discipline, and love with unwavering devotion.

Joe Sr. was born in 1912, 26 days before the Titanic sank. Long before Hollywood made the tragedy famous, I heard the story from him as a five-year-old, sitting cross-legged with my siblings in our estate bungalow on a British-owned rubber plantation.

His voice carried both the awe of the ocean and the weight of a lesson: “You see, it pays to be prepared. Death comes like a thief in the night. The people on that ship didn’t know either. Be ready to meet your Creator anytime. Don’t forget to say your prayers before you sleep tonight.”

Every story had a moral; every moral, a prayer. That was my father, a storyteller, philosopher, prophet.

At exactly 7 p.m. each evening, our front door was locked. No one entered or left until the family Rosary was said bead by bead before the home altar. Visitors who arrived had to wait patiently outside.

Sundays were sacred. The family marched to church in unity, where my father sang the Gregorian chants with the choir. After Mass, the family sat for a shared continental breakfast, butter, cheese, poached eggs, and his special French omelette. Even then, there was a lesson: “For goodness’ sake, do not put the knife in your mouth.”

Faith and form were inseparable for Joe Sr. The Rosary, the table setting, the way one folded a banana leaf after a meal, and the proper use of cutlery, all were expressions of order, gratitude, and respect. On Fridays, vegetarian meals were served on banana leaves. Father would teach: “Fold the leaf toward you if you enjoyed the food; away from you if you’re at a wake, to mean you hope not to return for another funeral in that home.”

Saturdays were for Chinese-style meals with chopsticks, and between all that, we learned unity in diversity long before it became a national slogan.

Jack of All Trades, Master of Many

Joe Sr. was, after all, a man of Malaya, a Tamil Catholic who, after reading the English daily, would pick up the national Malay newspaper Utusan Melayu and read it effortlessly in Jawi script, a skill he learned by hiring a private tutor. Equally at home in Tamil, he often recited the Litanies of the Saints and of the Blessed Virgin Mary in that sacred tongue, each invocation rolling from his lips like a prayer learned from the ancients.

Discipline was his gospel. “Thi-ru-da-they, do not steal. Poi-solla-they, do not lie. Pitchay-vangga-they, do not beg.” These were our commandments. Obedience was expected; rebellion, unheard of. But beneath that stern exterior was a father whose sense of humor could melt fear.

He was a healer by profession, a medical assistant on a British-owned rubber estate. To his patients, he was Tuan (Sir). Joe Sr. delivered most of his children himself, except for one born during the Japanese Occupation, when he was conscripted to serve as a medic along the infamous Death Railway in Kanchanaburi. And that was another story he often told us.

Joe Sr. once stared down a rogue elephant while rescuing a wounded laborer attacked by the beast, and on another day, saved a man choking on a rambutan seed with a swift Heimlich maneuver. Then there was the time a cowherd came seeking help for a cow with a retained placenta. Without flinching, Father advised, “Keep the barn clean and dry, and let nature take its course.” The animal recovered in days. He was no veterinarian, yet his vast reading and steady wisdom often began with keen observation and ended, always, in quiet compassion.

He was also a man of wit. During his oral exam for promotion to first-grade medical assistant, the British examiner put a tricky question: “How do you diagnose a stone in the bladder?” Father calmly replied, “Which bladder, Sir, the gall or the urinary?” That was exactly the answer expected. He passed with distinction.

Not as a Stranger

I remember one incident that defined his way of teaching. In 1969, as a curious schoolboy, I was caught flipping through his medical textbook, which carried glossy pictures of the female anatomy. Joe Sr. pinched my ear and asked dryly, “Isn’t it too early for medical school?”

I thought I was going to get a severe beating, but instead, he led me to another book titled Not as a Stranger by Morton Thompson, a story about a young man aspiring to be a doctor. It was the first serious book I ever read. That moment turned mischief into mentorship and sparked my lifelong love of reading.

He often reminded us, “The family that prays together stays together.” Today, I realize it was not just a saying but his survival strategy, a spiritual anchor for a widower raising 16 children through hardship.

Joe Sr. passed away on December 8, 1999, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I have often felt there was divine poetry in that timing. For reasons known only to him, he had always said he wished to meet his Creator on that day. And so it was: the man who had led us in nightly Rosaries was called home on the very feast of the woman whose name he had invoked with every Hail Mary.

On this All Souls’ Day, as I whisper prayers for him, I can almost hear his voice again, that gentle hum of Nearer, My God, to Thee drifting through memory’s corridor.

Joe Sr.’s was an ordinary life made luminous by extraordinary faith. The National Population and Family Development Board’s award in 1998 was only a symbol; the real reward was the legacy he left in us, 16 living testaments to his perseverance and faith.

And so, each All Souls’ Day, I whisper the ancient words of the funerary rite: “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.”

For somewhere beyond the veil, I believe Joe Sr. still hums that same hymn, still corrects my English, still keeps his quiet watch over the family he once led in prayer. No, not as a stranger, but as a soul forever near, close enough, it seems, to be just in the next room.