The Bahari Saga – Volume Two

The Alchemy of Ordinary Hands

"The purpose of my sketchbooks was never to stop time. It was to embrace each moment so completely that, years later, it could still breathe."

As I grow older, I find myself looking less at my own accomplishments and more at the hands that quietly shaped my life before I ever held a pencil.

The first real sketchbook I ever encountered did not belong to a famous artist.

It belonged to my grandfather.

To me, he was already a master.

Long before I was born, he had been commissioned to paint murals on the walls of a Buddhist temple in Penang. Those paintings still greet visitors today whenever the faithful gather to celebrate Vesak Day. Time has weathered many things, but art has a remarkable way of refusing to disappear.

My grandfather was born in Sri Lanka. Family stories tell us that he travelled to Medan, Sumatra, where he met my grandmother through an arrangement made by the Sultan of Medan himself. They say the Sultan and my grandfather were close friends who enjoyed one another's company over many evenings together.

Later, my grandfather joined one of the travelling Bangsawan theatre troupes that toured throughout Southeast Asia, eventually becoming one of its owners. His life was one of constant creativity, whether painting sacred walls or bringing stories to life upon the stage.

Even in old age, his hands never stopped creating.

Until the day he died in Sungai Pinang—known then as Kampung Selut—he continued making delicate birds and animals from papier-mâché.

Only now do I realise he was teaching me something without ever saying a word.

An artist never truly retires.

Creation simply becomes another way of breathing.

My father entered our family not as my grandfather's son, but as his son-in-law.

Yet in many ways, he shared that same devotion to craftsmanship.

He came to Malaya from Sri Lanka to work for DeSilva Goldsmiths, where he practised the old methods of goldsmithing that demanded extraordinary patience, precision and discipline.

Among the commissions entrusted to him was the casting of a one-foot-tall solid gold image of Lord Murugan for the Chettiar community here in Penang.

To this day, that sacred image continues to be carried in procession every year during Thaipusam.

Whenever I think of that, I cannot help but smile.

Thousands of devotees bow before the image.

Very few know the quiet craftsman whose hands once shaped it.

Yet there was another side to my father.

As a young man in Georgetown, he was also a Golden Gloves boxer.

I have always found that contrast fascinating.

The same hands capable of delivering a powerful punch inside a boxing ring could also spend endless hours shaping delicate gold into works of devotion.

Strength and gentleness lived comfortably within the same man.

Somewhere during those years, he won my grandfather's confidence—and eventually his daughter's hand in marriage.

Whether that proved to be my grandfather's greatest decision or one he later questioned is something only history can answer.

Life rarely allows us to judge a person by only one chapter of their story.

Looking back now, I realise that I inherited something far greater than artistic ability.

I inherited a way of seeing.

My grandfather transformed bare walls into places of contemplation.

My father transformed molten gold into sacred objects.

And somewhere between them, without consciously intending to, I found myself filling sketchbooks.

I often think about how remarkable it is that the temple walls my grandfather painted still witness Vesak celebrations, while the Lord Murugan my father helped create still journeys through the streets of Penang every Thaipusam.

Those works have long outlived the hands that made them.

They continue serving quietly.

Then I remember my grandmother.

And my mother.

Their faith was Islam.

The gentle rhythm of prayer, humility and surrender became the atmosphere in which I was raised.

Looking back over my childhood, I realise I grew up surrounded by three great spiritual traditions.

Buddhism smiled at me from painted temple walls.

Hinduism walked past me each Thaipusam in the form of a golden deity fashioned by my father's skilled hands.

Islam became the faith that nourished my heart through the examples of my grandmother and my mother.

People sometimes ask how I became interested in studying different religions and philosophies.

Perhaps I never really had a choice.

Long before I began searching for Truth, Truth had already introduced itself to me wearing different cultural garments.

Over the years I have sat with Zen monks, reflected upon the Bhagavad Gita, bowed in Muslim prayer, wandered through churches, crossed oceans, fished the Bering Sea, lived on organic farms, walked mountain trails, and spent countless quiet mornings filling sketchbooks.

I was never collecting religions.

I was simply following the same question.

How does one live truthfully?

Perhaps that question has always mattered more than the labels attached to it.

Recently my thoughts wandered back to another character from my life—the Night Soil Carrier.

For those unfamiliar with the old world, he was the man who collected what everyone else wished to forget.

Human waste.

Most people looked away.

He understood its value.

Within his humble pots lay tomorrow's harvest.

What society rejected became nourishment.

What others called filth became fertile earth.

The more I reflected upon him, the more I realised he belonged beside my grandfather and my father.

Each of them practised a different kind of alchemy.

My grandfather transformed empty walls into sacred spaces.

My father transformed raw gold into objects of devotion.

The Night Soil Carrier transformed waste into food.

And perhaps I have spent my own life trying to transform moments into memory.

My sketchbooks were never intended to preserve time.

They were my compost heap.

Every joy.

Every failure.

Every heartbreak.

Every miracle.

Every long journey.

Every quiet awakening.

Everything was placed into the same vessel.

Given enough patience, even sorrow begins feeding wisdom.

Perhaps that is what every artist does.

Perhaps that is what every sincere life eventually becomes.

The goldsmith uses fire.

The farmer trusts decay.

The painter begins with a blank wall.

The writer begins with silence.

Different crafts.

The same mystery.

Today, when I look back over seventy-five years, I find myself less interested in what I have achieved than in what has quietly flowed through generations of ordinary hands.

Not fame.

Not wealth.

Not recognition.

Transformation.

Perhaps every craft, whether shaping gold, painting temple walls, carrying night soil, tending a garden, or filling a sketchbook, is ultimately the same sacred act.

It is the transformation of what is given into something that gives life.

If there is a legacy I hope to leave behind, it is not that I travelled widely or filled dozens of sketchbooks.

It is simply this:

That someone, somewhere, may discover that even the most ordinary life can become extraordinary when lived with attention, gratitude and love.

Because in the end, it is not the material that makes something sacred.

It is the hands.

And the heart behind them.

---

"The artist does not merely create beautiful things.

The artist reveals the hidden beauty that was waiting inside ordinary things all along."

Peace.
Salam.

#TheBahariSaga #VolumeTwo #TheAlchemyOfOrdinaryHands #Memoir #SketchbookLife #ArtistLife #CreativeLegacy #Penang #SriLankanHeritage #Thaipusam #Vesak #Islam #Buddhism #Hinduism #SpiritualJourney #Goldsmith #Bangsawan #PapierMache #NightSoilCarrier #Transformation #LivingWithAwareness #CheeseburgerBuddha #LifeReflections #ArtAndSpirit #Legacy #SelfDiscovery #StoriesThatMatter