Little does he know that I am nervous myself.
“Ma, what’s the meaning of ‘kemaslahatan’?” he asked as he chomped on his breakfast.
It was his final revision session before sitting for his first SPM paper – Bahasa Melayu on Monday.
“I have no idea. Let me Google it for you,” I said as I quickly browsed the Internet for an answer.
“Found it! It means benefit or ‘faedah’,” he said, adding, “I don’t understand why they make us study all these strange words that we end-up never using. It’s so silly, Ma. But I am glad this will be the last time I study Bahasa!”
Before we left home for school that first morning of his SPM examinations, I made my boy a bottle of Ribena. A quarter cup of Ribena with three cups of mineral water – that’s how I made it on his first day to school, some eleven years ago.
“Ribena? Thanks Ma,” he grinned as I placed his bottle into his school bag.
As he squatted to tie the shoelaces of his black leather prefect shoes, I ran my fingers through his hair. He looked up and smiled at me. My seventeen-year old boy still looked very much seven to me. He may have grown to be a six-footer, yet in my eyes he was still my little boy.
Almost instantly, memories of years past gushed into my head. The image of him crying his eyes out at school on the first day, second day, third day and pretty much every day of the first month began playing in my mind like a slide show. I remember asking him at the end of the month why he was still crying, and he answered: “I miss you at school.”
And then there was the time when Mrs Alexia, his class teacher, phoned me frantically, saying she could not find him in her class or at school. I hurried over and together, we searched every inch of the school compound before finding my boy crying pitifully on the stairways of the highest floor of one of the school blocks.
“Why are you here, sayang?” Why aren’t you at class?” I asked, worried.
“Cikgu said I cannot cry in class. But I miss you and I really wanted to cry. So I came here,” he replied.
On that day, I discovered I could laugh and cry at the same time.
As time passed, my boy stopped crying and became more creative. He took instead to faking a tummy ache at home so he didn’t have to go to school, or faking a tummy ache at school so he could be sent home early. Seriously, if there was a Guinness Book of Records for the person with the highest number of tummy aches, my boy would win hands down!
While I learned to handle his mischievous ways, I also had to make annual trips to his school to explain my son’s blood disorder to his teachers. I remember having to console him when he realised his teachers prohibited him from participating in school sports due to his haemophilia, fearing fatal injuries. And I also remember finding him with bruises all over his body when he had secretly played ping pong, football, futsal and badminton with his friends.
As he grew older, he avoided kisses, hugs and any physical contact with me when in front of his friends and schoolmates. And when he grew a little more, he himself would lean over for kisses and more hugs, every single day – no longer embarrassed to show how much he loved me.
At one point, I was jobless and had to join a direct selling company and work late into the night. One day, while making a delivery to a pharmacy in Jalan Pahang, I found a little note tucked in my work bag – it was from my boy. It said: “Ma, are you going to be late again? I miss you so much. Please come home early. I love you.”
Being a single parent was never easy. From delivering that first kiss in the morning to becoming a punching bag in times of distress – I have been there for my children, trying my best to keep their world together. But I soon realised that no matter how much I tried, no matter how much effort I put into it, soon it would be no longer up to me to shape my boy’s future.
Being born a minority in this country has its effects in shaping one’s future. What more if the minority is born into a lower middle class family. My boy is very well aware that there are obstacles to achieving his dreams. He knows being an Indian, he cannot demand much – and he is not entitled to much.
While his friends have already made plans to further their studies at public and private universities and colleges, and some are even going abroad to pursue their dreams, my son is still clueless about his future. He knows mom can’t afford to sponsor the physics and astronomy studies he is so keen to pursue, almost as much as he realises how slim the opportunity is for him to enjoy scholarships for such studies.
We call Malaysia Bolehland, yet I may have to tell my boy “tak boleh”. But how do I do that after giving him everything he ever needed in life?
As I park my car across the street, I see my boy alight from the car, cross the road and walk towards his school. At the school gate, he turns around and gives me a broad smile. It is as if he is ready to win the battle and bring glory to his name. He feels he is a step closer to achieving his dreams.
I feel a huge lump in my throat. How do I tell him that it isn’t that easy to achieve one’s dreams?
Oh, how I wish I could turn back time and return to the school stairways where he sat crying years ago. I would sit with him and cry together as we both finally realise that dreams do not easily come true in this beloved country of ours – not our dreams at least.
But knowing my boy, I certainly know he will not give up that easily – after all, he is a minority. And like many minorities, we fight to get ahead in life. That is the only way we are entitled to realise our dreams.