The Conditional Mercy

Mercy is never unconditional. Such has no power to bring a man back to his feet- it makes him idle, slothful and base. True, pure mercy is always conditional, but it is called mercy because its conditions are always in favour of the recipient, and have little or no boon to the giver. Such mercy lends strength to the receiver, and if he fulfils the conditions, makes him a better man and fills his heart with gratitude towards the merciful.

Such it is with God and man, with exaltation and the laws of Christ. When asked by God to repent, then, do not complain that conditions are attached to his mercy. For if it were given freely, then there is no improvement. If there is no improvement, there is no change in condition. If there is no change in condition, one must remain where he is. In our sinful state, can we suppose that we can enter into God’s presence again?

In the immediate term, there is no happiness either. Can a man be content with stagnation? Surely he may be comfortable with inertia, but by experience, no man can loaf without feeling buffeted in his heart. Such are the grounds which ferment anger, baseness and misery, for he seeks happiness in things which just cannot give that peace of mind which every man desires. Wickedness never was happiness, and the soil of sin cannot bring forth the fruits of God. This, then is the sad consequence of seeking respite without change, of pleading for mercy without budging a quarter.

Such it is also with parents and children, developed and developing nations, with charities and donors, bosses and workers. If there be true mercy, conditions must be attached. The only difference between such relationships and that of God and man is that the latter is always just and in true benefit of the recipient. If we, too are to be merciful, even as God is, then we must have no other object except the eternal welfare of those whom we grant mercy too. With such a mind, conditions made will be in the correct spirit.

Some might argue that no conditions should exist when a man donates to the poor. This is not true. When we donate, we expect that the charity will dispense the proper goods and services to the needy. We demand that the money flows directly to them. Now, if in this argument we are referring directly to the poor, then this is our error too. If we give without expecting anything from the poor, and when I say this I mean expecting them to at least make an effort to improve in their lives, then we are really ‘feeding them for a day’ and supporting indolence.

Of course, there are instances when conditions need not, and indeed, should not be present, such as providing meals to those who have virtually no means to help themselves, those who have exhausted every avenue. These are they who deserve every bit of mercy from society, for they have tried their best to improve. It is a known fact that life can be tough, and when a person sows, he doesn’t always get a harvest.

Let us remember before we complain of being laden with conditions in return for reward, that without such, we cannot become better and purer and more prosperous.

The Other Wise Man

This is a story written by the great Henry Jackson van Dyke.

Presbyterian minister, Princeton professor, expert fly-fisherman, poet, author, lyricist, essayist, diplomat, lieutenant commander of the Chaplain Corps during WWI--Henry van Dyke wore many hats during his lifetime.

Yet interestingly, and unsurprisingly, he will forever be remembered by this, the story of The Other Wise Man. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

The Story of the Other Wise Man (1896)

You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how they traveled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who also saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not arrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations of his soul; of the long way of his seeking and the strange way of his finding the One whom he sought--I would tell the tale as I have heard fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of Man.

The story is simple, but lovely. It essentially derives from the Biblical verse: "Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me" (Matthew 25:40). Artaban is a Parthian, a follower of Zoroastrianism, living in the ancient Persian capital of Ecbatana. He has come to believe that the fruition of a great prophecy is at hand:

["I]t has been shown to me and to my three companions among the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched the ancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It falls in this year. We have studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two of the greatest planets draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which is the house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new star there, which shone for one night and then vanished. Now again the two great planets are meeting. This night is their conjunction. My three brothers are watching by the ancient Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I am watching here. If the star shines again, they will wait ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together for Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born King of Israel. I believe the sign will come. I have made ready for the journey. I have sold my possessions, and bought these three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl--to carry them as tribute to the King. And I ask you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together in finding the Prince who is worthy to be served."

And so he sets forth to meet his fellow Magi, but his journey is interrupted:

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face showed that he was probably one of the Hebrews who still dwelt in great numbers around the city. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.

He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to that strange burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts of prey slink furtively away. When they are gone there is only a heap of white bones on the sand.

But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped the hem of the Magian's robe and held him fast.

Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.

How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger? What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassion or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reach Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had given up the journey. They would go without him. He would lose his quest.

But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If Artaban stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his faith for the sake of a single deed of charity? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from the following of the star, to give a cup of cold water to a poor, perishing Hebrew?

"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the holy path, the way of wisdom which Thou only knowest."

Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand, he carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree.

He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above the sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals near by, and moistened the sufferer's brow and mouth. He mingled a draught of one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in his girdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and poured it slowly between the colourless lips. Hour after hour he laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last the man's strength returned; he sat up and looked about him.

"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of the country, "and why hast thou sought me here to bring back my life?"

"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a great Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon my journey, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart without me. But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine, and here is a potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find the dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon."

The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.

"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper the journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired haven. Stay! I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that I can tell thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity upon the sick."

By the time Artaban gets to where he was to meet Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, they have had to leave without him. So he must sell the sapphire and equip himself to follow alone.

Such scenes are repeated throughout his life, as the need to care for others deflects him from his quest and eats away at the riches with which he set out. Finally, the story finds him in Jerusalem on the strange and mournful day:

Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he was still a pilgrim and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that covered them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull as embers smouldering among the ashes.

Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy city before, and had searched all its lanes and crowded bevels and black prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make one more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he might succeed.

It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far lands, had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of tongues in the narrow streets for many days.

But on this day a singular agitation was visible in the multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous gloom. Currents of excitement seemed to flash through the crowd. A secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of sandals and the soft, thick sound of thousands of bare feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that leads to the Damascus gate.

Artaban joined a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews who had come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of the tumult, and where they were going.

"We are going," they answered, "to the place called Golgotha, outside the city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heard what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with them another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priests and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out to be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said that he was the `King of the Jews.'

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to him mysteriously, like a message of despair. The King had arisen, but he had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he was already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?

Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of his enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for his ransom before he dies."

But even this is not to be, as one more good deed intervenes:

So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.

"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God of Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than death!"

Artaban trembled.

It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.

Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?

One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helpless girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the soul?

He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of the slave.

"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I kept for the King."

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and shuddering tremors ran through the earth heaving convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.

What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope of finding him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in that thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting on the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she saw no one.

Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:

"Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Three-and-- thirty years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King."

He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faint and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood the words:

"Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me."

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips.

His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.

This Christmas, let us remember that all things must surely pass away with the sands of time, except one thing- Pure love, which is immortal.

THE END

'2050'

18^th September 2050

Fertility Rate At Dangerously Low Levels

The Department of Statistics has released a glaring warning to the people of Singapore- the fertility rate has plunged to an all-time low of 0.5. This is way below the needed replacement rate of 2.4.

'What this means is that we had better start reproducing, if not we are in dire straits.' said Mr. Tan Chow Bing, 2^nd Minister for Manpower and Minister of Health.

The fertility rate started its steady decline in the 1970s, when the Government had instituted a 'stop at two' policy to reverse the post-World War II baby boom. Despite attempts in the past by the Government to institutionalize family-friendly policies such as compulsory and extended maternal leave and baby bonus packages, the trend has not seen even a plateau.

Commenting on the reasons behind the downward trend, expert on social behavior Prof. Goh Wee Gan of the Singapore School of Geopolitics cited 'education, wealth and competition' as the most potent causal factors. 'We are looking at a country whose education is world class. Girls and boys are trained from young to compete for the survival of Singapore. Naturally, being so well-equipped to enter the working world necessitates the prioritizing of careers over family life.'

Indeed, Prof. Goh's analysis of the phenomenon seems to concur with many Singaporeans. 'Look, it's not that I don't want to have children. It's just that if I go and have a kid, my boss will fire me. I have bills to pay, and if I can't do that, how can I support a child?' says Mrs. Wang, a 35 year old accountant married for 5 years.

A low fertility rate has great consequences for the country. Indeed, the most obvious has been the rapidly ageing population and the increased dependence on the young. Singapore's population now comprises 48% elderly (65 and above), and has an adult-to-elderly ratio of almost 1:1. Mr. Faiman, CEO of Graceful Ageing, the chain of 4 retirement homes in Singapore, says that 'the chain is currently running near full-capacity'. In response to who foots the bill, Mr. Faiman candidly exclaims that it is 'mostly, very much mostly the children'.

Social workers have reported an increased prevalence of depression and nervous breakdowns amongst the working population. The 'quandary that many of their clients are in', Ms. Chang, manager of hotline Samaritans of Singapore, 'is that they have to support their aged parents, deal with working demands, and at the same time try to maintain their relationships with their spouses.' She adds, 'most feel guilty that they have resorted to putting their parents into retirement homes, but they always say that it is the best that they can do.'

The Government has pledged to adopt a multi-pronged approach to address the matter. To solve current manpower needs, Mr. Tan announced yesterday at the Tanjong Pagar GRC dinner that 'it is planning to raise the retirement age to 66 (from 65), lower the barriers to immigrants and easing adoption laws further'. In ensuring that 'Singapore remains Singaporean', it is 'contemplating a compulsory 'at-least-one' child policy for all married couples'.

Mr. Tan refused to answer further questioning on the viability of its compulsory child policy, saying that 'it will be discussed further in Cabinet before more details are out'.

A pop survey on people's views on the policy has revealed a generally negative response.

'We are already working so hard, now the Government is increasing competition in the workplace by allowing more foreigners in.' said Mr. Eng, a manager at a local engineering firm.

'Raise my retirement age? What next, raise my CPF retrieval age?' said a shocked taxi driver who refused to be named.

Dr. Vanessa Tay, head of cardiology at the Jurong West Hospital for the Aged said that, 'a compulsory one-child policy would certainly affect the women more than the men. What will happen to the quality of our work? How can we compete?'

However, some noted the benefits of the strategy. Said Ms. Goh, an entrepreneur, 'If we do not replace ourselves, someone will come in to fill the gap. We are at the stage where every path is a bitter one. Better to swallow the medicine now than to have a painful operation later.'

When Parliament convenes on October 15^th, the country will certainly be watching the developments.

Vindicated

Funny how in life's short day
A smile can turn the frowns away
And even more awesome is the sound
Of a friend who makes you turn around
A whisper or a firm appeal
To change the direction of one's zeal
In this is man a being free
From chains of weakness and disbelief

Funny how in life's short day
A smite often comforts and allays
Deep seated fears and insecurities
Manifesting themselves as incongruities
Joyful is the honest word
Wonderful is the healing purge
Shackles fall from laden arms
Soothing is the uncommon balm

Funny how in life's short day
Relieved we are by unusual ways
The voice we hope we will ever hear
Does nothing but dam back hidden tears
Deep in the recesses of our hearts
Lies a plea to God to tear it apart
Lightness there is in words of sharpness
Darkness there is in tongues of sweetness

Though men may not say,
All men do pray
That someone may come hailing
And show them their failings
For though it seem we be cast in the abyss
Yet for a fact we do know this
Temporary is the laceration
And liberating is the vindication

Mysteries of Life Which I’d Like to Know The Answers To When I ‘Move On’

How is it that man’s mind can move so fast as to construct perfectly grammatically correct sentences and whole paragraphs of information in a seamless fluid fashion?

How is it that a man can infuse and balance emotion and fact into a delightful blend in everyday conversation?

Why can people, in remembering something, forget it the very next instance (like 0.039 seconds later)?

Why is it that the more we seek for happiness and love, the less happiness and love we get? How is it that by just living righteous lives of productive service we can get them as by-products?

Why is it that when a man is inspired by vision and a better cause that he can rise to limits he had never ever thought he could reach? It’s like vision erases all pain, making the effort worthwhile, dragging out from the man his inner gifts and talents.

Why is it that people dance best when they don’t think of what move they’re going to do next?

Why is it that when I just think of God, I know I’ll be ok? Ok, I know the answer to this one, but it just amazes me all the time.

Can a person grow to love someone, and is that true love?

How is it that I can feel so tremendously happy when I give something without thought of reward? Perhaps the reward is in the smiles and the hope (not knowledge) that the person’s life has been bettered.

Why is freedom so important, if security can be guaranteed by the loss of it?

Why is it that in not asking so many questions, man can be happier? =)

I Love

I love

The music of the heart.

The brightness of the soul.

The courage of the voice.

The keenness of the mind.

The tenderness of touch.

The height of humility.

The grace of guilt.

The release of rest.

The release of rest.

The release of rest.

Happie Mother's Day Mommy!

On this very special day

I just really really want to say

A few nice things to my dearest Mom

The one who picked up all my crumbs

When I was just a little kid

Now I’m older and bigger but still my Mom

Goes around picking up my crumbs

Of life’s silly mistakes

She takes little breaks

I’m proud of my Mom yes I am

My Mom is medium-sized and pretty strong

Her mind is quick like an Olympic ping-pong

And she can tell when I’m feeling down

She always tries to turn it around

Oh my heart is so glad!

She toils everyday, 24/7

She isn’t looking forward to any pension

She drives and writes and thinks and feels

She cooks really yummy scrumptious meals

I am incredibly grateful for her

Sometimes I offend my dearest Mom

I’m not a super wonderful son

I do things without thought

I take her for naught

I’m sorry for the bad things I’ve done

I’m glad that I have my special Mom

Thinking of her makes me want to hum,

‘I wouldn’t ask for a different lady

To take care of me when I was a baby

I’m happy the way that she is’

On this very very special day

I want to shout out and acclaim

To the woman who taught me to be kind,

‘I love you so much all the time!’

Happie Happie Mother’s Day

A Lesson

I was standing in a train one day

An elderly lady stood not too far away

And at one stop the moment arrived

That a seat was vacated before my eyes

I glanced around and saw the old lady

Carrying bags of groceries which were large and heavy

And thus I started to motion to her

When she did something very very peculiar

Looking straight and not at me

She stiffened a little and stood more straightly

Her hands clenched her baggage with old gnarled hands

Her feet firmly planted, as though making a stand

And though I waved almost frantically

The old lady refused to budge even ‘miniscule’ly

And then in an instant I realized why

I gazed at myself in the mirror and sighed

For I looked a haggard with my eye bags deep

And truly I hadn’t had any sleep

For days on end preparing for tests

I must have looked like I needed some rest

And so with resignation I sat down on the seat

And rested my aching weary feet

And slowly I closed my stressed-out eyes

Preparing to enter dream land but my

heart wouldn’t let me rest one bit

I tossed and turned bordering on a mini-fit

My mind turned continually to the old lady there

Standing, laden with goods- didn’t I care?

So rising from my seat I began

To walk towards the dame and act more like a man

I opened my mouth and started my speech

I think it went something like this,

‘Dear lady, you have been most kind

In letting me sit down to rest my behind

But truly you would be doing me great service

If you would take my place- it’s ok, no worries.’

She stared at me for a little while

And then slowly slowly opened her mouth

‘My dear boy, what were you thinking?

Why did you give up that seat you were taking?

Perhaps you thought I was behaving generously

But when sitting my joints hurt most painfully

Now if you would just turn behind

You would notice the seat is now occupied’

I turned and looked and lo and behold

There in my seat was a man- a fat oaf

His eyes looked at me with wicked glee

He chuckled a little- ‘hee hee hee hee’

And so I learnt a painful lesson that day

When I have a seat I shouldn’t give it away

I should hoard it like a thief to his gold

I should hold it selfishly and be bold

Never again will I give way to old dames

The experience I had was nothing but pain

To see my seat ending up with an obese oaf

Who giggles maliciously and does nothing but loaf

So there is my lesson

I share it with you

That you might not be

Another victim too

Streams

In a man there are many streams

From which crystal waters flow

And from these waters do his brethren drink

And rise renewed and whole

Some streams are large and very deep

Others are small and shallow

Some have abundant water flowing

Others have but drops to show

So seeth the man his many streams

And putting his arm to the hoe

He diggeth up and deepens one

By the sweat of his brow

And thus by strength of arm he reaps

The fruits of his hard labour

And drinketh of the stream he digged

Now freshened, full of fervour

But alas he finds his other streams

Which he had just forgotten

Have dried or lost their waters

To the stream which he had just deepened

Painstakingly he works his hoe

And deepens all his streams

But after deepening he realizes in horror

That none have water to the brim

Then pondering on the situation he understands

That his waters are but limited

One stream deepened, full of water

Leaves another shallower

Then kneeling down and praying

He calls upon His Holy name

For waters come from many streams

But ultimately from the rain

And thus did waters precipitate

From the heavens in response

And his streams did flow abundantly

Right from the truest source

For Whom The War Memorials Stand

Adapted from a true experience, with names changed to maintain the anonymity of the characters

The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki has always haunted my thoughts and stirred within me deep feelings of unsettlement. I first heard it in a history lesson in my youth. I vividly recall the descriptions of those who survived the initial detonation- it was said that their flesh hung loosely from their muscles, and some had eyeballs dangling by the lone optic nerve. Those who lived to tell the tale suffered the agonizing effects of radiation. Many of the succeeding generation literally felt the pain of their fathers, the scars of the past engraved on body deformities and impaired mental development, a gift from radiation which hung ominously over the cities for many years to come.

Being an American, I was well aware of the ‘infamy’ of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Without warning, the Japanese had attacked the unsuspecting sailors and their ships, effectively destroying most of what constituted the harbor. The lives of these young men and women were lost in a chaotic episode of ‘blood and fire’, their bodies sinking to the depths of the sea. But the carnage of the attack paled greatly in comparison to the thousands who perished from‘Little Boy’ and ‘Fat Man’, the nuclear weapons thrust upon men, women and children who had little to do with the war.

It was with such a mindset that I vowed never to visit the Arizona War Memorial until I had first seen Hiroshima or Nagasaki. This was in spite of the fact that I had lived in Hawaii for over 8 years, and Pearl Harbor was but a 45 minutes drive from where I stayed.

I had such an opportunity to do so early in 2001. Having some business to do in Hiroshima, I made it a point to pay a visit to the Peace Memorial Park.

It was a somber place, almost sacred. As I walked the grounds, I noticed that hardly anyone spoke. Approaching the centre of the park, I saw the cenotaph which listed all the names of those who died as a result of exposure to the bomb. A heavy heart was all that I left with, a silent grimace of inner pain and sorrow for those who had suffered a cruel fate.

Returning to Hawaii, I did not visit the Arizona War Memorial for 2 years.

One sunny July afternoon, I received a call from my office in the university in which I worked.

‘Mr. Stevens, would you mind hosting a visiting Shinto priest from the Meiji Shrine? He just arrived and would like to be shown the Arizona War Memorial.’

I paused to contemplate this invitation. I was reluctant to visit the memorial, the memory of Hiroshima still deeply engraved in my heart and mind. Furthermore, the Shinto priest only knew how to speak Japanese, and I, English. Nevertheless, my professional instinct urged me to take up the offer, and I asked the secretary if she could find my good friend, a professor of the Japanese language, to accompany us.

We travelled to the memorial with me driving and the two men in the backseat engaged in conversation in fluent Japanese. As I turned round a bend the memorial came into view, and immediately a hush fell over both. Not wanting to break the silence, I drove on.

We arrived at the memorial late in the afternoon, with the sun midway on its descent and a quiet breeze blowing from the sea. Stepping inside, we looked down at the transparent floor and saw beneath our feet the remains of the USS Arizona. The sunken destroyer lay at the bottom of the sea, the bodies of hundreds of sailors still remaining within its stronghold of rusted metal and coral. Retrieving the bodies would mean the surfacing of environmentally-damaging oil, and hence the absence of any effort to reclaim them.

We trudged in silence along the whole length of the cabin, a somber mood similar to that in Hiroshima descending upon us. It was a short visit, and as we left the memorial, the priest stopped and prayed. His face bore a look of serenity, with a hint of sadness of pain.

Driving back in the car, I asked my friend, ‘So, how did you feel going back there again?’

My friend replied simply, ‘Ah, that was my first time.’

I was shocked. I had been living in Hawaii for 8 years, but he, 30. All this while he had never gone to see the war memorial.

‘What a sad thing my fathers did to these poor sailors,’ my friend said.

‘Ah, but what about Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’

There was a slight pause, after which he said, ‘I was at Hiroshima when it happened. I was 6 when my whole family was killed. The ambulance picked me up, my clothes all shredded by the bomb blast.’

Silence occupied the car the rest of the way to the university.

A swarm of emotions overcame me, and when I returned to my office after bidding the priest and my friend adieu, I stopped work to pause and reflect on what had just transpired. In my anger and shame, I had extrapolated the war to the present. I had literally waged a personal battle against those whom I deemed to be guilty of greater atrocity. And yet, these men who literally suffered the effects of the war showed no signs of vengeance. My mind flashed back to the quiet observation of old American and English men in Hiroshima, bowing their heads silently before the cenotaph in the Peace Park, eyes closed and bodies still as if in fervent prayer for forgiveness. No doubt some had cousins, relatives or even brothers and sisters who were lost on the fateful day of Pearl Harbor.

As I sat thinking in my chair, my gaze fell upon the picture of my family on the right corner of my desk. My mind flashed with the light of inspiration, dispersing the cloud of regret and confusion I had.

The wars of the past are past. The present is where I live now, and I had a future ahead of me. My duty was not to linger on the wrongs of my forefathers, but to leave a legacy which my family and future generations would be proud of.

Walking to the window of my room, I gazed out to the sea and saw the memorial in the distance, a lone white structure sitting on waters crystal blue.

I left my office early that day, and returned home into the arms of my loving wife and children.

THE END

The Little Boy

Once there lived a little boy who came from a well-off family. His home was a large mansion with lawns stretching for a mile, embellished with beautiful flower beds and gurgling fountains. Yet the family was charitable, treating all beggars kindly and giving much to those in need. The little boy was the youngest of the family of 8, and the most innocent of them all.

One day, the little boy chanced upon the family’s library room. He was amazed by the sheer volume of books in it. The shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling, which reached 4 metres high, and the whole breadth of the room. It was an oak room, with a reading table and light, perfectly suited for intense study.

The little boy was more mature than most his age. He walked into the room carefully and drew out a volume from the lowest shelf. It was a book on science, and as he flipped the pages, he was thrilled by the many pictures and descriptions of chemicals, plants, human anatomy and such. Enchanted, he vowed to himself that he would finish reading all the books in the library.

The next day, he strode purposefully into the room, took out the same volume, plopped it onto the desk, turned on the reading lamp, and started reading. Soon, he was completely absorbed into the book. However, as he flipped page after page, he slowly realized that he was impossibly far from the end. Pausing, he turned to check the number of the last page of the book. It read, ‘2490’. He was aghast. Looking up, he saw the great volumes of books before his eyes, stretching from the floor up, and from one side of the room to the other. Despondent, he sunk into his seat and, not knowing what to do, started sobbing.

His mother, walking in the corridor, heard her son and peeked into the room. The little boy didn’t notice her until she came up to him. With loving eyes, she asked, ‘Son, what’s wrong?’

Choking back tears, he said, ‘Mama, I want to read everything in this room. I love it. But there’s just so much and I cannot finish it.’

His mother looked at him with pride and gently said, ‘Well, why don’t you do it step by step? I’m sure you’ll be able to finish it then.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. You know how the grandfather clock in the hallway ticks and ticks away through the day and through the night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, don’t you think that he probably felt the same way as you when he first started ticking? He probably thought, ‘My my, I have to tick 60 times a minute, 360 times an hour, 8640 times a day, and many more times for years on end!’ But then he realized that if he just took it step by step, tick by tick, he would be just fine. That’s his secret.’

The little boy realized the wisdom in his mother’s words and, wiping his tears away, beamed brightly and gave her a hug. As she left the room, she blew him a kiss which he caught and returned, a smile on his face.

And so the little boy continued day by day, reading page after the page.

Winter came, and the little boy started to feel a little queasy. It first started out as a little cough. As the days wore on, it became increasingly severe. He started losing his appetite, and he grew paler. One day, while reading in the study, he coughed up a clot of blood. The family doctor had longed suspected it, and now the diagnosis was confirmed as tuberculosis.

As the little boy lay in bed, sickly and nigh on death, his family members stood by his side. His mother sponged his warm forehead as he slept fitfully. Opening his eyes, he saw his mother and, with his tiny voice, uttered sadly, ‘Mother, I’ve done what you’ve told me to do.’

His mother, startled, asked kindly, ‘And what is that son?’

‘I’ve been reading bit by bit each day for a long time.’

‘Yes you have son, I’m proud of you.’

‘But,’, the little boy choked, ‘I haven’t been able to finish the whole study. I’ve only managed to read 1 book.’

There was a short pause, after which the boy said, ‘Ma, may I have a book to read?’

She immediately got up and fetched him a book from the study.

He propped himself up on the bed, opened the book, and read. As the sun went down, he struggled to keep himself awake, his little frame shaking from the effort.

Finally exhausted, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.

‘I wonder if, sometimes, the grandfather clock doesn’t ask himself what would happen if he just couldn’t tick anymore?’ his mother whispered quietly.

The little boy didn’t respond. Bending forward, she hugged him gently and kissed him.

THE END

THE STATUE

Once upon a time there lived a statue, a lonely marble statue in the centre of an aging garden which always shed autumn leaves. Small pools of fetid, stagnant water surrounded it, collecting on indentations of the rough stone tiled floor on which it stood upon. Its right hand pointed accusingly at the sky, the other hand clenched tightly and put against its left hip. Its right leg stood bent at the knee in the direction of its right finger, and the left was ramrod and straightened out. Its face was an expression of calm, its head parallel to the ground, its eyes piercing forward, lips pursed slightly.

One day, a lost man stumbled into the garden. He didn’t notice the statue at first, being more concerned with avoiding the puddles of fetid water. Then, stepping into its shadow, he noticed something amiss and looked up. There, before his eyes, lay the statue, a figure of queer beauty. He had never seen anything like it.

What does it mean? he pondered.

The finger pointed towards the sky, now a darkening expanse with emerging stars.

Perhaps it means that one should look forward to the future, he thought.

He saw that its eyes looked forward too and thought, never let your eye off your goals.

He glanced to the statue’s left and saw the opposing hand, tightly clenched and put akimbo. That must mean that one should be assertive in getting one’s goals too, he said.

Looking at the feet, he remarked, that must be it- striding forward into the morrow.

He stepped back and gazed in awe at the statue. What a masterpiece! He said to himself.

As he took another step back, his heel bumped into an object on the floor. He turned and looked, and there lay a broken marble fencing weapon, like the rapiers of old. He glanced back up, looked again at the marble foil, and realized that it was originally placed in the outstretched right hand of the statue.

He looked at the statue and reflected on his ruminations, smirking as he thought of them. Laughing at himself and shaking his head, he walked away into the darkness.

THE END

What Seek Ye?

Once there lived a man, an exceedingly rich man of the East. Whatsoever he wished, he obtained.

One day, a certain beggar appeared at his door. His clothes were neat and comely, and he leaned slightly on a gnarled walking stick. He asked if he could stay the night, and the man agreed.

He showed the beggar to a small room, and gave him a simple blanket, pillow and mattress to rest on. As he was about to depart, the beggar turned about and asked, ‘What seek ye?’

The man was puzzled and slightly startled by such a question. He was about to give a general reply when he noticed the kind intent and eagerness in the eyes of the beggar. He felt that he could trust him, and thus stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him.

‘I seek to become the richest man in the world.’

The beggar continued looking at him, a kind smile on his face.

‘Well, I suppose I seek to have the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want.’

The beggar didn’t say a word.

‘I think I also seek security in my properties and wealth.’

The man paused, and felt a soft glow in his heart as he recalled the better times. He remembered how he grew up in the slums, collecting scraps from people’s meals. He remembered looking afar off over the great city on the East side, and promising to himself that one day he would be like them, and that he would help the poor.

Wistfully he uttered, ‘I seek to help the poor with what wealth I have.’

The beggar then cried, ‘I am a poor man who pounds the street everyday for a meagre meal. Then give me some of your wealth, upon your word and honour!’

The man was shaken from his reminiscing. He quaked angrily as he realized the deception and cunning of the beggar, ‘You have had no other intent but to rob me of my riches! Be gone!’

The beggar stood his ground firmly and said, ‘You have professed to seek to help the poor. Am I not one of the lower castes?’

‘Indeed I have sought to help the poor, but you have only sought to obtain a portion of my riches!’

The beggar proceeded to say, ‘You mistake me. I only asked for some of your wealth. I never mentioned in what way I should receive of it.’

The man was hushed.

The beggar said, ‘You claimed to be charitable. Yet your response has only served to reveal what you really seek.’

The man could not utter a single word.

‘I stand before you still. Will you yet withhold your hand of providence from me?’

The man, trembling, reached into his purse and withdrew a few gold coins, placing it into the hand of the beggar.

The beggar received it quietly and put it into his leather pouch.

The man, having more confidence now, asked, ‘So, what seek ye?’

The beggar turned around, looked him in the eye and smiled slightly, ‘I seek to become the richest man in the world.’

THE END

INNOCENCE

The child looked with big googly eyes at her counterpart in the pram. He stared back with a look mixed with curiosity and excitement, hands shuffling to push himself a little forward on his seat.

She tugged her mother’s arm, and the woman glanced down at her, instinctively spotting the object of her child’s fascination. She beamed proudly and warmly, beckoning her to go forward and say the proverbial ‘Hi!’.

The woman with the pram stopped ruffling through the T-shirts in the rack, and bent down so as to be next to her child.

‘She wants to say hi to you!’, she whispered excitedly.

He leaned forward and grabbed the banister of his pram, bringing himself closer to the girl who was now toddling over to him.

With awkward, confident steps, she approached him. Then, stopping in front of him, she opened her arms.

‘Awww…’ both mothers exclaimed spontaneously with affection.

‘Come on, give her a hug!’

He opened his arms in return, and she stepped closer. She embraced him tightly and he did likewise.

Then, glancing upward as if savouring the moment, she bit him on the cheek.

THE END

Soil and Flower

Once upon a time, there lived a patch of soil. It lived under the blue, blue sky with its fluffy clouds and grinning sun.

One day, a seed fell from the sky and landed on it. It ambitiously declared, ‘I wanna grow here. I like this place. Magnesium, check. Potassium, check. Crumbly-feel, check. I want to grow here.’

The soil paused, then said, ‘You want to grow? Here?’

The seed said impatiently, ‘Yes, I want to grow. Duh. I’m a seed. And I do want to grow here. It feels good.’

The soil said nothing for a while, then slowly started, ‘You are free to grow. But I just want to tell you that you will experience life, and death.’

The seed snapped, ‘Ok already wise guy. Just let me germinate in peace.’

And so the soil said nothing. Within a few days, the seed grew its rootlets, reached towards the sky, and shed its seed coat.

‘I feel great! Why, you didn’t tell me that life would be so marvelous! I grow taller and taller each day. All you see is the blue, blue sky with its fluffy clouds and grinning sun. I, for your information, can see more and more everyday. I see trees, large and strong. I see houses of brick, imposing and sturdy. And I see people, tall and wise and lean.’

The seedling glanced down at the soil, and spat out in disgust, ‘You don’t see much, do you?’

The soil said nothing.

Weeks passed, and the seed grew taller, firmer and greener. Soon, it shed forth beautiful flowers.

‘I feel positively fantastic! Why, you didn’t tell me that life would be so enjoyable! My flowers are a brilliant hue of sapphire and flame! My phloem and xylem couldn’t be having a better time transporting glucose and water (respectively). Bees swarm me everyday, gathering my sweet and delicious nectar. I think that beauty couldn’t find a better soulmate than me. But what are you?’

The flower looked down, staring at the soil. After a momentary pause, it spat out with venom, ‘Aren’t you just a patch of black soil?’

The soil said nothing.

A month passed, and soon the flower began to feel different.

‘I’m feeling dreadful. Why, you didn’t tell me that life would turn out this way! My stem is starting to feel a chronic strain. My flowers are losing their colours. I’m fading to dull maroon! The bees have left me. And each day, I see less and less. Where have all the people gone? Why have all the trees grown taller? Some look dreadful too.’

The flower looked down, and said, ‘But aren’t you still the same old patch of soil? Ha!’

The soil said nothing.

Soon, the chills of the North flowed across the plains, and the sky turned a frosty grey.

‘I’m feeling…why didn’t you tell me that life would turn out like this? I have nothing left. Nothing…’

The flower glanced to its side (it now lay prostrate on the soil), and said weakly, ‘Haha, but you have nothing too. You never had anything.’

The soil paused. It then said, ‘Now, I have you.’

The flower was taken aback by the sudden show of kindness.

‘But, all I’ve ever done is to insult you…wait a minute…’

As the truth sunk in, the flower’s wilted petals stood on end and it uttered a piercing cry of fear.

The soil dragged it down and feasted upon it.

THE END