The Hero Whose Story Almost Died

There it hanged, in the middle of the hall in my grandma's living room. The main event surrounded by hoards of other smaller ones. It was the oldest and dustiest. It's black and white appeal paled out to the modern coloured ones.

Funny how the other photographs on the dainty pink walls each had a story to tell. Stories that could possibly speak a thousand words. Mostly jovial stories, depicted from those smiling faces embedded in fine print.

Yet again all the black and white photo got were stealing glances, while the modern ones always had people asking about it. The black and white photo it seemed, had no story to tell. So I grew up in that house, oblivous to that photo altogether, like a dried leaf, being blown further from its home.

You see, the portrait in that black and white is my late grandfather. A volunteer in the second World War. He served under the Royal British Navy and picked up a few medals here and there. But when he passed on in 1975, so did his uniform and medals, being tucked away in a wooden box, and banished in the dark cellar.

I, the writer, was born in 1982, and by that time, no one spoke about my grandfather, except for the very trivial one liners like, "Your grandfather is a nice man", or "Your grandfather would be very glad to see you if he is still around", or "Your grandfather was a hero". But these statements were empty...like a great big museum which once housed treasures of the past.

It was one fine night, shortly after my 22nd birthday, when I was feeling a little peculiar that I crept down the wooden stairway to fetch myself a glass of water, that I paused and took a closer look at that photo. Clad in his white uniform, medals lined his left breast pocket like how the street lamps lined the modern expressways.

That night, I looked at that photo with a different perspective. In his steely eyes, he seemed to want to tell me his stories, stories of the war, stories of the struggle, the overcoming of brutal massacres, and the happiness that came after the spoils of war.

Slowly, I brought my hand and touched my grandfather's face, for the very first time. Though the photo was dusty and rough, I felt the warmth. I felt the bond that never had the chance to surface. And if I let time take its course, all would have been gone should my grandmother close her eyes. For she's the only one left that holds on dearly to the key that can unlock the secrets of the solitary black and white photograph.

That night, I woke my sleeping grandmother up, begging her to tell me the tales of the past. It was History lesson 101, with a special personal touch. Every word she breathed kept me riveted to my bed, and I yearned for more.

She told me about how he escaped a sinking ship and swam to St John's Island, which was back then, a haven for lepers and polio victims. Despite the high chances of him catching the disease, he opted to stay there. To help the dying, the mourners and the hundreds of injured soldiers condemned on that island.

A few weeks later, he was to be stationed at mainland Singapore to reinforce the British. The British surrendered, and so did my grandfather, retreating to his home to protect his family. Life was hell from then on, for the Japanese were brutal animals.

When all the troubles were over and the island people start to rejoice again, the then Queen of England presented to those gallant soldiers several medals to commemerate their undying efforts. For a while, people spoke of it, but then people spoke less and less until it just remains as memories like ashes resting in an urn.

Then, as the city flourished, and people start to amuse themselves with all things modern, forgetting the past, where they came from, who their grandfather's were, and the sufferings they went through. Times when they had to queue many hours for a miserable tub of water, when now, with the turn of the tap, you could just immerse yourself in 20 minute baths.

The next morning, I was late for school and the stories fed to me the night before just seemed like a passing dream. In my rush, I ran into the kitchen to kiss my grandmother goodbye and stopped short as I was running toward the main door.

There, on the wall, was that photo in its full glory. Stories hidden beneath its black and white facade. It looked harmless and boring amongst the pretty pictures surrounding it. I stopped and stared hard at the man looking down on me. I dropped my bag, and saluted the photo...the photo that didn't have much stories to tell but just epics hidden in time.

The stories my grandmother told me that night will stay vivid in my mind for as long as time permits. It will be told and retold to my children, and my children's children. Some things are meant to live forever.