Uncle Li and Sarah Wong

n my work with women worldwide, I hear countless compelling stories of life and death - and love. Human emotions are the same the world over. The heartfelt yearning for understanding, forgiveness, acceptance and continuity of generations is universal as revealed in this human drama unfolding in Singapore - it could have been played out in the hearts of anyone anywhere in the world.

On this particular sundrenched morning, I made my way to my favorite coffee shop. Eating breakfast in a coffee shop on the way to work is quite the norm in Singapore. I sat at my customary table enjoying the steaming hot sweet coffee and pau. a popular Chinese bread. Screwing up my eyes against the glare, I looked out the door where I could see the corner of the sidewalk.

Something was missing - the usual vendor was not there. He was always there - his dilapidated bicycle propped up against the lime-green Chinese shops, his pile of newspapers stacked neatly by his side. I’d miss his toothy grin, his cheery “Chou San” (good morning) if he did not arrive in time for me to buy my morning paper.

Most of us regulars at the coffee shop felt a real affection for him and called him “Uncle,” the Chinese term of respect. His seeming poverty did not hide his wisdom and graciousness. His wizened frame and beard made him look like a sage. Uncle Li seemed to lend an air of stability and constancy to my life. He may have been merely a newspaper vendor, but his cheeriness - like the song of an earlymorning bird - set the tone for the day. His “Chou San” brought a smile to all who bought a paper from him. Lighthearted banter constantly floated from his corner into the coffee shop.

Studying Uncle Li and his customers was my favorite morning pastime. A lovely young Chinese woman was the most interesting of all. Always immaculately dressed, she’d park her black car by the sidewalk, hop out, daintily run over to Uncle Li, buy a paper, and with a smile and greeting, away she’d go.

The emotions that crossed Uncle Li’s wrinkled face when she appeared intrigued me. His smiling face soft ened, and then gaiety gave way to a deeper emotion, one that I was familiar with yet could not define.

So, each morning, like Uncle Li, I waited for the arrival of the beautiful young woman. Black glossy hair, bobbed and fringed, encircled a creamy magnolia-colored, heartshaped face. Her dark eyes gave her a demure look. The most striking detail of her beauty lay in her smile, which lit up her face. Each day when she left, Uncle Li’s face looked like the sun shadowed by a cloud.

That morning, suddenly brakes shrieked, shattering my reverie and alarming the traffic on the busy street. Commotion followed. I craned my neck for a better view. What had happened? Who was hit? A crowd quickly gathered, obscuring my view. The babble of voices told me nothing, and I could not determine what had happened.

Curiosity urging me, I edged my way into the spectator crowd on the sidewalk. The first thing I saw was a bicycle tangled like a piece of modern sculpture. Loosened news papers caught by the wind scattered across the street. Passers-by picked them up; others crushed them under-foot in their eagerness to get closer to the scene. “God, please don’t let it be Uncle Li,” I prayed. Like a coward, I retraced my steps into the coffee shop and sat down to view the frenzy through the door.

Police and ambulance sirens soon added to the hubbub. A young woman upheld like a rag doll between two police-men entered the shop. It was the young woman who drove the black car! I couldn’t believe it. The policemen gazed around the room imploringly. I gently took the girl’s arm and guided her to my table. The policemen explained that witnesses said it was not her fault, for the old man had lost control and swerved into her car. I further gathered that they could not locate his relatives, but she’d agreed to pay hospital expenses.

The young woman signed a form the policemen put in front of her. They then disappeared into the crowd, and I was left with the devastated woman. With trembling hands, she grasped the cup of coffee. Closing her eyes, she drank deeply from its comforting warmth.

Only moments before, I had felt on the fringe of events like any other spectator. But with the distraught young woman seated before me, I was drawn into the drama. Her face crumpling like a child’s, she broke the silence, “I can’t understand how the accident happened. The bicycle struck the car; it seemed to come from nowhere. Why did Uncle Li lose control?” Shaking her head, she whispered through her tears, “How could this happen?”

Looking at me she implored, “Please, come with me to the hospital.” I agreed and rang the office on my mobile phone to explain I’d be late. She kept speaking, “I have to see him. I just have to see him and tell him how sorry I am.” I could understand that for peace of mind she needed to see him comfortable, out of pain and alive.

She was not in a fit state to drive, so we took a taxi. It wove through the busy office traffic to the Singapore General Hospital. During most of the ride, we sat locked in our own thoughts. I pondered the morning’s events and realized I knew very little about the striking young woman, not even her name! So I introduced myself and asked her name.

“My name’s Sarah Wong.”

“Do you have family, and is there someone I should call?”

“No, I was an orphan and brought up by a wealthy old lady. I call her Aunt.”

I learned her life had been secure with nothing disruptive or hurtful except for the void in her heart because she’d never known her parents.

“My aunt is quite old, and I would not wish to distress her about the accident.” Sarah fingered the little diamond cross in front. No doubt a gift from her aunt, a symbol of her love and generosity.

We eventually got to the hospital. Sarah was as nervous as I was - concerned at what had happened to Uncle Li. We made inquiries and were told he was in the operating theatre. Our hushed wait began. My heart ached at the sight of Sarah’s pinched, pathetic face. She caught my sympathetic gaze, a tremulous smile touched her soft, young mouth; I really wanted so very much to allay her fears.

Before long, a blue-robed doctor, his mask drawn down capping his chin, approached the waiting room. We got up to greet him as he looked expectantly around the room. He must have been informed about Sarah. The doc tor explained, “Mr. Li’s rib-cage is badly injured, but we have managed to stem the internal bleeding.” The doctor continued, “The old man is frail, and his life hangs by a thread. If he lives, he’ll live with pain through his rest of life.”

Sarah softly asked, “Can we see him?” The doctor allowed us to visit Uncle Li in intensive care.

Puzzled with guilt and sorrow, Sarah was blaming her self and wondering how she could have avoided the acci dent. Her body shuddered. I put an arm across her shoulders as we came to intensive care.

We were directed to Uncle Li’s bed. Numerous tubes protruding from his body made him look like a collapsed puppet. His breathing labored and harsh, I expected at any moment to hear the death rattle-rumble from his throat.

I had wanted so much for Sarah’s sake for Uncle Li to live. But now for his sake, I wanted him to die. He’d never ride his bike again, never sell newspapers. We’d never hear again the cheery “Chou San.” I dug into my pocket for a crumpled tissue to wipe away my relentless tears while my young friend stood motionless, immobilized by sorrow.

Uncle Li struggled to open his eyes. They flickered and gradually opened. I saw a hint of a smile. I also saw something else - the emotion that had eluded me seemed to come alive as he peered at the young woman’s face. I felt like an outsider, intruding on an intimate moment. Feebly he lifted a hand. She reached out and held it, too choked to utter words she’d rehearsed in her mind. The old man’s face gathered strength, and the emotion I’d witnessed before was now reflected strongly in his face. He said to Sarah, “Ngo ke chai” (my child). Emotionally she responded, “Ahpah” (father).

The puzzle piece fell into place, and I recognized the elusive emotion. The indefinable had become definable. It was beautiful, like the brightness of the evening star. In an unfor getable moment, love passed from a dying old man and filled the void in a young girl’s heart - like the love of a father for his child. Smiling peacefully, Uncle Li fell into a contented sleep from which he’d never awaken.

Sarah and I became friends, bonded together by that fateful morning. We visited Uncle Li’s sister, his only remaining relative. In her home, beside his picture, was the photograph of a young woman. I was startled. The resemblance was striking! I could have been looking at Sarah. Uncle Li’s sister explained that the woman in the photograph was Uncle Li’s wife. She’d died at childbirth, and their baby girl was stillborn. He’d loved his young wife dearly. He would have loved and treasured his daughter. Sarah had brought them both to life again, and in return Uncle Li had given Sarah a legacy of love.

- Audrey Bowie