Losing my dad on Father’s Day
I was 9 years old when my dad and mum separated. Growing up with a single parent, I had the profound realisation that anguish sharpens children like me, who have to come face to face with the realities of adulthood too soon. Needless to say, I knew from a very young age that being in love is never truly easy.
My dad was a man of his own ways, and his life plans did not necessarily include me. His absence during my growing up years led to a chain of events in my 20s – including episodes involving a thinly-masked “brave” girl with daddy issues. I failed to process the rationale behind my parents’ separation until recently, when I discovered that just like it takes two to tango, it takes two to make a relationship work.
As birthdays passed, I slowly began to accept that certain things happened to me because they had to. Living without a dad for 21 years, only to hear of his passing on Father’s Day, was one of those things. Having discovered lessons I never would have encountered in school textbooks, here is my story about losing my dad and what his absence during my formative years taught me.
When life takes a drastic turn
Uncle Aru, my cousins, sister, and I.
Image credit: Yusintha
On the morning of 17th June 2023, I received news of the passing of my uncle Aru. Much like a father figure to me, his passing shattered me. I remember curling up in a ball, trying to digest the loss of someone I called uncle but known as a father in my heart.
Little did I know that the very next day, my life was about to take a drastic turn – and my already sinking heart was about to drown.
Appa and I on my 2nd birthday.
Image credit: Yusintha
At 6.45am the next morning, too unmoored to recall that it was Father’s Day, I got myself out of bed. As soon as I did, I heard a knock on my front gate.
It was a police officer standing outside my home, his patrol car behind him. It was there and then that I just knew – something happened to appa. I remembered the conversation I had with the police officer like it was just yesterday:
“What’s your name?”
“Yusintha.”
“Who is Othaya Kumar?”
“My dad.”
“Come out for a moment. Who is at home?”
“Just my sister and I.”
“I’m letting you know that we just got a message from Kuala Lumpur Hospital. Your father has passed away.”
Those last five words were the last ones anyone would want to hear on Father’s Day.
Losing a father figure & my biological father on Father’s Day
Appa at Kota Kinabalu, Sabah.
Image credit: Yusintha
I’m known to be an emotional wreck at times. But for some odd reason, the aftermath of hearing about the passing of my father wasn’t how I’d pictured it to be. I did not cry, crumble, or melt like a candle dripping its wax. Though, I knew there was a scream bubbling up inside me and if I let it out, I could probably wake the whole street up. Just not now.
My sister and I rushed to the hospital to see appa after the police left. I still remember the thoughts that raced through my mind during the 20-minute journey: Was my dad thinking about us when he took his last breath? How are we going to break the news to amma? These questions rang on in my head like an alarm clock that refused to snooze.
Appa with former Prime Minister Abdullah Ahmad Badawi.
Image credit: Yusintha
When we finally arrived at the hospital we met Dr. Yasmin, who treated my dad. Thankfully, my sister had more medical intelligence than I did, because I couldn’t focus on what the doctor was saying right then.
As soon as we could, I saw him.
There he was, the man whom I called ‘father’ – a word hardly uttered by me growing up. The first man who ever broke my heart yet loved me with all of his. What tragic love this must be, I thought, to see him after so long on Father’s Day, lying breathless.
Appa during a business trip in Brunei.
Image credit: Yusintha
I sat next to him and touched his cold skin. As if searching for hidden clues to a mystery, I traced my fingers over his body in an attempt to bring back the 21 years I’d lived without him. Here was a man who used to talk up a storm, but his cracked lips were now silent.
I sensed he was resting, something I knew he had needed to do for a long time.
Part of me was revolted at the complete absence of tears in my eyes. But another part within me protested against the thought of crying. Not now, I remember pleading with myself.
My sister and I at Pangkor Island.
Image credit: Yusintha
After losing two of the most significant men in my life, the weekend felt like a truly deadly one. I couldn’t decide which of them deserved more of my grief. Was it my uncle who was like a father to me, or my biological father to whom I owed my existence? At that point, it didn’t even matter much, as they were both now gone.
And then there was my mother’s grief. Her years of heartfelt prayer for her husband to come home were never answered. That alone was enough for me to question the affair I had with faith – it felt like I had been cheated by it.
In a flash, years of silent conversations between my dad and I flooded my soul. Days of having mistaken that I had time. I wanted him to come home, but this wasn’t quite the way I imagined it to happen.
Having to say farewell twice
Appa and my sister at the beach.
Image credit: Yusintha
They say when it rains it pours. And it sure did, because the one bad thing that happened was followed by yet another one. My family and I had to grieve on repeat as we witnessed the funeral of my father not once, but twice.
The first funeral didn’t come as a surprise, because it was only normal for it to take place. My house was flooded with both familiar and unfamiliar faces, a handful of which were the main characters that led to my father’s unexpected second funeral.
On 22nd June, my father’s ashes were buried beneath one of the plaques in my late grandfather’s cemetery lot. On that day, I did not expect to see his remains again after having laid him to rest. But little did I know that I would.
Image credit: Yusintha
As a Hindu, my father didn’t find it to be much of a problem marrying my mum, who was born and raised Catholic. Likewise, my mum took it upon herself not to persuade him to convert simply because he loved her. The fact that he got married to my mum in a church is something noteworthy and I personally knew that religion wasn’t the problem. The issue lay in convincing others that it wasn’t.
Though my mother spent 21 years apart from my father, she stayed loyal to him to the very end. Her outward strength belied the massive weight she bore, having to take on both roles of father and mother. While I would like to believe that her family was her support system, they were sadly a double-edged sword.
A couple of weeks after the passing of my father, we were told to remove his remains due to religious differences, thanks to a handful of my mother’s siblings. I wish it weren’t so, but life cuts you deep where it bleeds the most.
Mum and dad at Velankanni Church, India.
Image credit: Yusintha
On 16th August, 56 days after my dad’s first funeral, my mother, sister, and I once again headed to the cremated remains of my father to remove him from what I thought was his final resting place. As if it weren’t already enough that we’re still grieving his loss, we had to yet again muster the strength to go through a second funeral. This was something I’d never experienced before, and my faith in humanity shrank like a deflated balloon.
With my father’s exhumed ashes, we headed to Templer’s Park, where there is a designated place at a river to release cremation ashes. And we said goodbye to my father for the second time.
What his absence has taught me
My sister and I at Langkawi Island.
Image credit: Yusintha
Gloria Steinem once said, ”The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off”. Though writing down my story may not completely capture the hurt that’s tattooed on my heart, it heralds the truth – which is more often than not left unspoken.
The absence of my father taught me the importance of finding your own path and sticking to it. To be honest, I’m not exactly the definition of a “good” daughter. Like a black sheep, I too have journeyed my way into the wilderness.
But if it weren’t for the journey, I would not have found my own story.
My cousins, sister, amma, and I.
Image credit: Yusintha
It has taught me that none of us start something in hopes for the worst to happen. I am still witnessing the gut-wrenching grief of my single mother. My parents didn’t plan to get married only to be separated from each other. Life as we know it happens differently for all of us.
Image credit: Yusintha
But here’s the silver lining. His absence taught me the capacity to love. While I only have a handful of good and bad memories of the times I’ve spent with him, I chose to love him for who he was and not what he was supposed to be. And it’s a choice I’ll make all over again.
Mum and I on holiday.
Image credit: Yusintha
His absence has also revealed to me that the missing piece I’d been relentlessly hunting is within me. I’d always felt that I needed someone else to give me the courage I needed. It took me several heartbreaks to realise that courage had always been inside me, and that if people want to judge me for a childhood I could not control, it’s okay.
And last but not least – appa’s absence has taught me that I’m not the only one. There are millions of people out there who grew up with the absence of a father or a mother. Perhaps we’re the odd ones for a reason, so we get to share our stories to encourage others to own theirs.
Life goes on
Life has a strange way of reminding us of a loved one. As for me, Father’s Day and Merdeka Day – which happens to also be the birthday of my father – are marked by more than just celebration.
These two days will continue to be yearly reminders of what we went through as a family and the lessons I carry with me in my father’s absence. So, appa, if you’re reading this from up above, thank you for giving me the independence I needed for my soul.
Happy birthday to my dad, and Selamat Hari Merdeka everyone.
Read more perspectives here:
- I grew up in Genting Highlands
- I was affected by the flash floods in 2021
- I didn’t know what ‘Keling’ was until someone called me that
Cover image adapted from Yusintha
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