It was that constant hovering presence of my mother that helped me fight off the deadly fever. It propped my head up as spoonfuls of broth made from chicken, rice and herbs was encouraged down my throat and tended my slow recovery over two weeks.
My mother did this while looking after the needs of the other nine children and husband and doing all the household chores. I could have died back then. Looking back she had given me my life twice.
My mother, Pakiam, was married off when she was only 14 years old. While such early marriages were not uncommon back in those days, my mother's case, and that of many others, were different.
The Japanese had invaded Malaya in 1941 and the aggressive predatory behaviour of the new ruling masters made life difficult. Women, especially the young and unmarried, were not safe.
She was matched with my father, then a young man who had earlier secured himself a clerical job with the colonial administration. His gift to the family line was his diligence in study and the clerical job which helped take him out of the oppressive plantation economy.
I still have a studio shot of them as newlyweds. My mother in a traditional sari and my father in a dapper Western suit. The progress the family made over the years can be tracked by what I saw my mother use to prepare our meals. The type of fuel used for cooking.
First the smoky wood stove, then the charcoal followed by the kerosene, and finally the gas stove. Each iteration of fuel change making the task of cooking easier. The food was simple with rice the staple, dhal, fish, vegetables, and once a month either a chicken or goat curry.
We never went hungry. Given the 10 kids across a range of ages, the clothes were hand-me-downs with our mother transitioning them with her sewing skills.
As I got older I had opportunities to talk to her about her life as she was growing up. Her desire as a young girl to become a doctor was admirable but sad as the Indian working class in Malaya at that time had little chance of realising such lofty ambitions, let alone if you were female.
She was intelligent but never had a chance to pursue an education beyond primary school level. But later in life, after the death of my father from a heart attack when he was 55, and with the children all grown up, she did something remarkable for a traditional Indian woman. She started dabbling in painting during her spare time. She was good at it.
We had all seen her create the traditional koollum which is a paste made from rice flour and coloured powder. On certain festive days it's used to hand draw intricate patterns on the floor at the front entrance to the house. At the centre of these designs sat a turmeric-paste symbol of Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of beginnings. Including the beginning of the universe.
Her early pieces were extensions of this familiarity. Then, over the months, her work took flight. Always featuring nature, gardens and waterfalls.
Within a year, one of my brothers entered a couple of her best works at the Penang state art exhibition. She won top placing and was featured in the local news. One of the judges queried if she was influenced by French artist Paul Cezanne.
That became a family joke as our mother knew nothing and had no knowledge about that art world. She just painted from her mind's heart. It was an inspirational experience.
An art dealer from Singapore started coming every year to select and buy her pieces. It was wonderful that late in her life she had the opportunity to discover and develop her talent. I can only imagine what she could have achieved if she had had the education she was denied. Happy Mother's Day.
