IN 1957, ON THE DAY THE COUNTRY achieved independence after four hundred fifty years of foreign rule, my father was shot by an unknown gunman. The assassin fired twice from close range but did not succeed in killing him. This was not the first attempt on Father’s life — he had survived one previous attempt during the war, in 1944—but it had a marked effect on his appearance. Whereas the first attack had merely left him with a scar (a pale puckered star on his left calf), this one shattered the bones and muscles in his right shoulder. Even the best doctors in the Valley were not able to prevent that shoulder from hanging awkwardly at a downwards-sloping angle for the rest of his life.
The shooting happened as the nation gathered around television sets to watch the Independence parade in KL. Those scenes, which have become fixed and stale in our memories, were fresh and startling then, newborn images in our newborn world. The stadium was a boiling sea of banners and bodies. We had never seen people dancing in public before. Not like this. Men with men, women with women, men with women even. They did the joget, swaying and step-stepping in little circles, lifting and dropping their shoulders to a strange, shared rhythm. They held their new flag above their heads, letting it catch the wind: thirteen stripes, a sickle moon, and a star. There, too, was the tunku, the Father of the Nation, raising his hand and repeating the word “Merdeka” three times, the people on the padang echoing back, the chant coming through the television sets as clear and sharp in our ears as breaking glass. Independence. Freedom. New Life. That is what the word meant to us. And although the innocent dreams we had for our country have died in the years since then, suffocated by our own poisoned ambition, nothing will ever diminish what we felt. Nothing will rob us of those stuttering sepia-washed images of Merdeka Day.
It was at this moment, after the third cry of “Merdeka,” that Father’s would-be killer struck. We had driven into Ipoh for the afternoon. Father attended to some business at C. Y. Foo’s and left me to wander the streets on my own. I sat, as I always did, on the steps of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank. I enjoyed doing this because from here I could see all the streets spreading out before me. Everywhere was silent, deserted. I sat still and looked for movement; I saw only a stray dog trotting aimlessly round the block. It kept appearing in different places, halfheartedly sniffing the ground, before wandering out of view again. I could not work out what it was searching for. Occasionally someone would emerge from a doorway, break into a run, and then vanish into another building. The whole town had, it seemed, shut itself away for that day, never venturing far from their television sets.
Father and I arranged to meet in our usual place, the nameless Hainanese coffee shop on Sweetenham Street. Frankie, the old man who ran it, used to embrace Father whenever we walked into the shop. Father would raise his arms stiffly, bringing them round to touch Frankie’s back. After all these years, I remember Frankie because he was the only person I ever saw Father embrace.
On the way to Frankie’s place I heard the crackle of wireless sets and caught a glimpse of the odd television screen. The parade had started; I realised I was late and quickened my stride. By the time I got there I could see, over the heads of the many people gathered there, that the great celebrations were drawing to a climax. The tunku was just leaving his seat and approaching the microphone; the Union Jack had already been lowered. The cheers rang out from the television, each louder than the previous one. A few of the men in the room raised their fists in unison with the people on the television. I looked for Father and found him peering intently at the screen. He was leaning forward, his chin resting on his upturned palms. From the back of the room I could see that many of those present were mouthing “Merdeka” slowly, as if unsure how to pronounce this unfamiliar new word.
It was all part of this scene for me, part of these new and unreal images. A man stood up in the middle of the room with his arm outstretched. No one else looked at him; only I saw the gun in his hand. He stood there poised like a temple statue, calm and utterly still. As the third shout rang out from the TV, the man cocked the pistol and Father suddenly turned round. Perhaps it was to search for me, to make sure that I too was witnessing this occasion, or perhaps it was his instinct for survival, so deeply and mysteriously a part of him, which alerted him to the quiver of danger.
