“Goodbye, Dad, I Love You.”
By cheeseburgerbuddha
Thaipusam came and went two days ago. I didn’t make it this year, so I have no idea what really happened. Some say it was a grand celebration, record attendance even, as Hindus gathered from all over the northern part of the Peninsula.
What is Thaipusam?
I’ve asked this before—Google it, sure—but for me, Thaipusam always brings to mind my father. Perhaps it’s because he once told me that he created the one-foot-tall solid gold statue of the deity Murugaya, the very one charioted from its home temple to the foot of Penang Hill every year. This is the deity for whom the kavadi is carried—the great burden of body and spirit borne by devotees in gratitude.
Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been carrying a kavadi my entire life. A spiritual weight across seventy years, barbs in my back, lemons hooked to my chest, walking barefoot through fire. A lifetime of self-mortification. And what for? Gratitude? Redemption?
There’s always been a religious tension in me surrounding my father's creation of the gold Murugan—especially after he converted to Islam. I’ve tried to justify it, thinking maybe he made the statue before his marriage, before his conversion. But the fact remains: he made it. And I’ve carried the conflict like a cross on my back for far too long.
But not anymore.
Today, I choose to move on. Today, I honor the man who told me this as though it was a secret just for me. And yes, I am proud. This revelation has fueled my search for spiritual clarity—my lifelong journey into the unknown.
My father was a boxer once. A Golden Gloves Champion for the state. I remember the old black-and-white photo of him, all lean muscle and pride. He’d show me the scar under his chin, a memory etched in skin. And his hands—those hands crafted masterpieces worn by royalty in Terengganu: diamond rings, studded chains, pendants. I watched him work, squatting on the concrete kitchen floor, cursing in Singhalese as he poured his soul into molten gold. Perhaps he was one of the last traditional Sri Lankan artisans in this land.
When I was fourteen, stretching in the house, he passed by and said: “You must practice Yoga.” That single line—like a seed. It sparked a lifelong fire in me. I practiced alone, no teacher. I read what I could find. And now, at the age he was when he said it, I understand what he meant.
Not the Yoga of Patanjali or Iyengar. Not Osho or Satguru. Just mine. A self-developed path of alignment—body, mind, spirit. A fire that keeps the kundalini alive. A yoga born of necessity, discipline, and broken pieces. It has healed me in ways no master could.
My father saved my life once.
Spring, 1979. I was in Green Bay, Wisconsin. In the kitchen with a whiskey bottle in one hand and a knife in the other. My world was falling apart—my ex-wife was moving to Germany with my son. I was broke, homeless, and hopeless. I wanted to end it all.
In desperation, I made a phone call—to my eldest brother in Malaysia. After seven years of silence, I reached out. But he wasn’t home. The maid answered. I cursed. She snapped, “Why don’t you talk to your father? He’s here.”
And just like that, my father’s voice filled the room, like he was sitting next to me. I told him everything, spilled my pain. And he just laughed. That laugh, full of love wrapped in humor.
“Ah, what’s all this fuss, la?” he said. “It’s my karma, it’s your karma, it’s your son’s karma. I live mine, you live yours. Do your best, go on la!”
Those simple words lifted me out of despair. I left the house and threw myself at the mercy of two Thai students I knew. I crashed at their place, and as I leaned against the wall, I watched my suffering body leave me. I felt weightless, calm. I fell asleep on their living room floor, reborn in that quiet release.
That journey to New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado… it wasn’t just a physical one. It was part of my course assignment under the University Without Walls at UW-Madison. My soul, too, had gone through its own desert pilgrimage.
Later, I sat at a bench in Pamperin Park by Duck Creek and wrote a letter to my father. I showed it to Cheryl Clark, a secretary at the International Students Office. She loved it, made copies. That letter floated around campus for a while, but I don’t think my father ever received it.
When he passed away, I was living in San Francisco. It was ten days after he died that I received the letter bearing the news. I read it in a restaurant, and in my shock, I spilled coffee all over the table, my sketchbook, and myself. That page—coffee-stained and sacred—still remains in my journal.
Goodbye, Dad.
I love you.
Thank you for everything. Your departure was not the end but the beginning of my Sri Lankan Legacy.
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