“The Day I Shot Grandpa”

“Did he go to war?” Seth asked me, when he saw the old photos of Goong Goong on the repeating slideshow on the video screens at the first wake service yesterday. I guess black and white photos with sepia tones mean World War II, in his seven-year-old media perception.

“No, son, but the war came to him.”

My grandfather lived in a tough time, when war was a reality, money was scarce and the computer was not even science fiction.

Goong Goong was a simple man with few possessions, though lots of books. That was what I loved about spending my days before or after school at my grandparents’ place. Lots of books.

Other than books, though, there are three things of his that I want to highlight, that remind me significantly about him.

My grandfather’s violin.

When I was little, so long ago I don’t remember how long ago — maybe I was about my son’s age, eight or so — someone in the family mentioned that Goong Goong played the violin. Immediately, I asked, Where’s his violin?

I was told by these adult voices — like the voices in a Charlie Brown cartoon that hover above one’s head — that he didn’t have one.

We should get him one, I said. It wasn’t right for a violinist not to have a violin, in my child’s mind. Thus began the family quest to buy my grandfather a violin.

He would trot it out at every family gathering at home, and play a song or two. Sometimes with the bow, most times by plucking on the strings.

(I have told a friend before, that my favourite orchestral sound is the pizzicato — the plucking of the strings. I never made the connection until last night, at the first wake, when I was thinking about my grandfather. How much else of who I am is because of the unconscious influence of my grandpa?)

I’ve asked around in the family, but no one seems to know where he learned the violin.

Or the piano. He also surprised the family when he sat down at uncle Tin’s piano one day and just started playing.

My grandfather always looked like a stoic man of letters and discipline, but there was a significant side of him that was about art and play.

As a child, this resonated with me, and I wanted to see this side, which is why I suppose I instinctually knew it was wrong for a violinist not to have a violin; a situation that had to be made right.

This tendency to “make right”, to have things “proper”, is a trait that I see continued in my father, and myself.

My grandfather’s motorcycle.

As a child, I was fascinated by my grandfather’s violin. As an adult, I’m still fascinated by my grandfather’s motorcycle.

In those days, there were no superbikes. Or, you could say, in those days every bike was a superbike. There were no kapcais.

My grandfather did not have a practical station wagon or minivan equivalent. Only later did he get a car. In his early days of transportation, he rode a hog.

Eventually, my father would also ride a big bike, back and forth from KL to Kemaman where he was posted as a teacher — where he met my late mom.

I do not ride a big bike, and this is one thing that I feel that I need to “make right”, as my family heritage.

A story I have heard about my grandfather’s big bike is how he fetched his children two by two from their home to the Lake Garden. I don’t think all ten children were born by then. By the time there were ten, the stories I hear are about how they all packed into a little Morris Minor.

Nevertheless, fetching the children two by two to the park would have taken multiple trips on his bike, but he did it. In this story, I see the confluence of his famous sense of duty, and his less apparent sense of play.

My grandfather’s study.

And then there was his study. It was an awesome place. Not because it was physically impressive, but because it was where The Man dwelt.

He would spend hours sitting in there. Reading, writing, sometimes listening to the radio. Most of the time, his radio listening took place on the balcony, in the evening. It was his window to the world, even more than the television. This would be true of him to the end, when he would listen to the radio every evening to stay abreast of the happenings in the world.

(I note with interest that I’m suddenly aware, as I write this, of my long-standing desire that my home must have a balcony. Even when I lived at my dad’s place, a two storey house, I drew plans in my mind of how a balcony could be installed. What other things from growing up with my grandparents have I unconsciously absorbed?)

In the last months before his passing, Goong Goong was aware of China’s geopolitical situation and the fact that President Obama, a Democrat, had been saddled with a Republican Congress. This stuck in my mind, because most people I know, don’t know — and more significantly, don’t care. Maybe they needn’t care. It all works out anyway. Nevertheless, my grandfather knew and cared and exercised his mind with such things.

My grandfather’s study was the place where he wrestled with his thoughts, penned his many letters and wrote his three books.

It is also the place where I shot him.

I have a vivid picture of him, awash in a golden glow from the sun pouring in through the windows. He’s asleep in his lazy chair. I see the back of his head, specifically the spot behind his right ear.

Then I have another vivid memory of lying with my head in my grandmother’s lap, alternately sobbing and sleeping.

Between these two memories, I have no image memories, only a vague memory of a sensation of fear, like being chased by a lion in the savannah.

What I know of that gap is what I have been told repeatedly at family gatherings.

Apparently, I shot my grandfather in the head while he was napping, with my water pistol. Us kids had many of these, thanks to my grandmother and, at that time, Hong Kong’s cheap manufacturing industry.

What happened after that shot was a high speed chase through the flat. At some point, my grandmother intercepted me and carried me off upstairs and locked the door.

The Minotaur rampaged without.

Eventually, he calmed down.

All these years, family have asked me, Why did you do it?

I never really knew. The best I could come up with was, He was there.

But I think that’s it. He was there. He always seemed so somber. Yet I, as a kid, instinctively knew that there was something in him that wanted to play. And I wanted to play. So I shot him.

Toward the end of his life, he changed significantly, letting go of perceived slights that he had held on to for decades. He came to realise, I like to think, that these slights that seemed so big at the time, were of no more import than that of being shot in the head with a water pistol by a preschooler.

As his days drew to a close, he became more affectionate, more forgiving, more expressive of his feelings. Softer. Gentler.

Some say he changed.

I like to think that he changed back. Back to a happier, more childlike self in preparation for the coming Kingdom of God — which, Jesus said, belongs to children. Back to himself, before a hard life and a hard world made him have to be tough for his children, his students, and his people.

I’m sure he’s more himself now than he ever was.

Goong Goong, I will see you again. And I’ll be coming at you on a hog, with a water pistol. I expect you’ll be doing the same to me.

My grandmother and grandfather passed away recently, within two weeks of each other. This is the eulogy I delivered in remembrance of my grandfather, at his second wake service tonight.

Originally published at planbpilgrims.com.