The Odyssey of a Child

I'm back in my abode in Cyberjaya, feeling relaxed and far from the busyness of a typical week-day at work. The soft strains of a Haydn sonata in the background makes me feel right at home, transporting me back to my childhood days.

So much of our personality is just born with us. As a kid, I enjoyed playing on my own, trampling through the undergrowth in jungle, being close to nature and its many mysteries. The world was simply a playground to be explored. Even then, I've always felt I was continuing an on-going adventure that is life.

So many of the sights and sounds felt familiar to me. I was a child of the universe, as much as I was the offspring of my parents. When you are young and unburdened by the cares and hard realities of life, you felt like you could conquer the world. Nothing was impossible. You felt confident that even the greatest of mysteries are penetrable.

I read, because that was what I thought everyone did. Reading was to me, a mature activity that adults do. I couldn't wait to be able to stick my nose into thick tomes written in a language that I was still struggling to comprehend. My limited vocabulary did not deter me from poring through every page and sentence from cover to cover. For books were the emblem of adulthood and I couldn't wait to become one.

I did not know why a love of classical music came so naturally to me. It was as if I had known all the great composers--Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin--all along. I was just getting reacquainted with old friends. Their music seemed like a part of nature--emanating from the trees, the leaves, the sky and the stars that decorated the night. And wondrous nights they were, filled with the magic of moonlight, the incessant hum of insects and the serenade of nocturnal birds.

Little did I know then, adulthood was like the expulsion from the Garden. And then all subsequent passages of life, are but attempts to return to that lost Eden of childhood.  But Time, in its all-knowing wisdom, sets us up in unexpected ways, turning our odysseys into rites of regret and reconciliation. We become adults, simply by trying in vain to be children again.

But all we could recover were glimpses of that immortality. Nature made a pact with us, turning us into fathers and mothers of children, as a consolation for lost innocence. Though nothing--as Wordsworth so eloquently put it--can bring back "the hour of splendour in the grass, glory in the flower", we resolve to be strong. Thus we grieve the quiet grief of adults, hiding our despair in the vanity of worldly pursuits. 

And in our quiet moments, echoes of those childhood laughter still ring in the mind, coaxing us on, for they seem to lie ahead and not behind. And so we trudge on, with the faith that had been forged in our hearts, that adulthood is but a brief sojourn, and in the end, we shall all return, to reclaim our glorious Garden, as rightful children, born of heaven.

Citadel of Trees

I always think of my childhood home, the place where I grew up as my "citadel of trees"--a place perched on the slope of a hill amidst dense foliage and innumerable trees, a safe haven where I can always find peace of mind and comfort.

Yes, there used to be a lot more trees--the rubber trees loomed majestically in front of my house; it was my playground, my magical forest in miniature where I had imagined all sorts of characters from Grimm's fables dwelled happily in rustic existence.

The rubber estate is sadly gone now. Ugly two-storey houses fringe the edge of hillocks where my elves and fairies had played. My childhood friends have all left to chase the dreams of adulthood; the mornings no longer bustle with the chirping of birds and the tinkling of pianos.

This is the sorrow that every generation has to suffer, coming to terms with the passing of time and the vicissitudes of life. We were too eager to grow up not knowing we'll spend the greater part of our adulthood trying to recapture the happiness that we once had as children; children who had believed in the birthright of their dreams.

I remember a fragment of a poem I wrote as a child, an ode to my beloved trees, inspired perhaps by Shelley and Wordsworth: "from them my dreams nourish, and in years they shall flourish".

Whither those dreams?

The Lost World

I remember a whole without TV, without the Internet, without cellphones. Was it a better world then?

I read a lot as a child because my parents had a lot of books and encouraged me to read; my neighbours read; my friends in school read. To me reading was like breathing, eating and sleeping--it was something natural, something that everyone did.

It was only when I entered the university that I realized how wrong I was.

As a child, I was also fanatical about football. I used to wake up early in the morning, before the sun rose, to play football with my friends. I even recorded the team list and details about all the goals scored in every match we played in a dog-eared exercise book, which I still keep.

I played barefoot for many years before I saved enough money to buy myself a pair of second-hand Puma boots. I remember paying 25 bucks for it, and I still keep that pair of boots back home.

I used to take penalties for my team, because I was good at it. I had a very accurate shot. I spent many hours practicing how to place the ball just inside the goalpost. Most of the time I aim to hit the inside of the upright--if you hit it at that very sweet spot, not even the best goalkeeper in the world could save it. I knew the basics of soccer better than many of my friends because I had learned them properly--from books.

Yes, it was a world without the Internet, without cellphones, without satellite TV. But I had friends who read and friends who shared my passion for soccer--Malays, Chinese and Indian friends. It was heaven to me.

It's a different world now. I spend my days and nights staring at a computer screen. I attend meetings. I listen to podcasts while I'm driving. And I watch EPL matches beamed live to my living room.

I have more books than I could ever read in my lifetime. Why did I buy so many books? Why do I have to suffer the pain and joy of watching Liverpool play every weekend?

I know now: It is to recapture that world which I had lost.