Life at The Parsonage…Uncle Philip (Sibling 6 …Kochuttychaen)

here My mum managed to get 5 of her siblings across to Singapore. Three brothers and two sisters crossed the Bay of Bengal to make their lives and 14 of the 54 first cousins grew up together in Singapore.

neues von binare handel We did everything together. We moved like geese with the Christ Church Parsonage at 118 Keng Lee Road, as anchor and home to family and friends, who passed through Singapore.

otaku dating forum My Uncle Philip, was one of the 5 siblings who went to Singapore with my mum. He  lived with us, in The Parsonage and he was devoted to my Mum. He helped her around the house and did all her chores for her. Asked and unasked.

go here Uncle Philip, used to work in a Government Office from Monday to Friday. On week days, an open lorry with a tarpaulin covering, would pick him up from the gate. He would climb into the lorry with his colleagues, sit on one of the wooden benches, soldered in rows, one behind the other and ride to work. Every evening he would be dropped back at the gate. Many of his colleagues, like my Uncle Philip, worked in Singapore and sent their savings back to their families in India. Many were young men, who spent their youth away from their young families. It was a wrench to be away from their homes, their wives and their children. Most of them stayed huddled in bachelor quarters and cooked their own food. Some stayed with their relatives. Either way, all of them were consistently lonely. However, the Singapore dollar earned with such tremendous sacrifice, converted well into Indian rupees and they often retired to a life of well earned, comfort back in India.

follow site Every Saturday morning, on his day off, my uncle Philip would go to the Tekah market with my mum’s shopping list and every Saturday afternoon there would be World War 3 at home. My Mum would inspect everything he bought and grumble loudly about his shopping. He would groan and swear that this was the last time that he would ever shop for her.

opzioni binarie demo senza deposito trackid sp 006 Look at these brinjals….My mum would say
They look older than me
Where does he find these specimens …she would ask aloud. He in turn would go ballistic, as his retorts fell on deaf ears.

see Bad enough that I have to cycle all the way up and down 
I need my head examined
This is the last time I will ever do this
I swear…..

Of course by the next weekend, all would be forgotten and the bicycle and shopping basket would come out and he would be on his way to the market.

Every Saturday night, my Mum and my Uncle Philip would sit up late to Butter, Jam and pack mountains of sandwiches, for the Fellowship Coffee after the 8 am, Communion service at Christ Church. This was a ritual.

On school days, my Mum, would make me a bread and butter sandwich in the mornings, before going to work and leave it covered on the dining table with a boiled egg.  It was Uncle Philip’s job to see that I ate it, as he went to work only after I had left for school. I hate bread, or perhaps I hated the monotony and would sneak the sandwich and egg out of the house to throw it in the canal outside our house, on the way to school.

Most days, with practice, my aim was perfect and the sandwich and egg would float out of my life forever, to lie forgotten on the silt bed of the Singapore River. Some days I would miss and it would land on the grass verge and as luck would have it, my Uncle Philip, would find it and bring it back to the house as exhibit A.

On returning home from school, my Mum would ask me .. Did you eat your sandwich this morning?
Oh yes.. I would say with great enthusiasm not suspecting a thing.
Really?  she would ask…
Yeah, yeah…I would say, confident that it had disappeared into the Singapore River…
Hmmm…that’s funny, Susie, I wonder what this is? …my Mum would ask…
And then to my acute consternation, exhibit A, the boiled egg, with or without the jam sandwich, would be produced.

Once, I stuffed the wretched hardboiled egg into my school bag with my books, so that my Uncle would not pick it up from the grass. I forgot that it was in my bag for days, till the foul smell of hydrogen sulphide from the rotten egg ruined my school bag and caught me out. I am still living it down, as this anecdote comes up as a favourite, in family gatherings,

With his Grecian chiselled features, height and lean frame, he was also the best looking of the Uncles, when he forgot to frown. Unfortunately, my Uncle Philip frowned a great deal as he was in charge of disciplining the 14 Singapore Cousins. How he acquired this mantle of absolute authority, continues to be an unsolved mystery. It did not matter whose progeny you were, it did not matter, if one or both your parents was older than he was, if he snapped his fingers, we clicked our heels……Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir….
When he said Jump! we meekly asked How high?

He went to church every Sunday, not to meet the Almighty. He went to church only to ensure that his nieces and nephews behaved themselves. I doubt if he ever closed his eyes in church. He managed to spot every fidget and twist. If we breathed in church, he frowned, if we whispered, he pulled our ears from behind. He had eyes everywhere. Uncle Philip was the Sergeant Major in our lives.

Years later, when I was doing medicine at Vellore I was shocked to see another side to my Uncle Philip, a side I had never seen.

He must have been a young man, when he left his wife and three small children Ebby, Lalitha and Ammini, to venture out to Singapore to seek his fortune. He had lived away from them for long spells, with short and infrequent holidays that allowed him hardly any time, to see his children grow up and become young adults.

Later, when he retired, he returned to India and built his home in Kodukulanji. Both his daughters had been married by then. Unfortunately one of them, Lalitha, had a Molar pregnancy and she developed a fatal Choriocarcinoma with secondaries in the brain that had left her a hemiplegic and paralysed on one side.

He brought Lalitha to CMC hospital, where I was training, for treatment and I saw my tough Uncle Philip in an unfamiliar avatar, as a broken man and a desperate father. I had never seen him in this particular role when I was growing up as I had never seen him with his kids. He seemed so tough when he lived with us.

My heart went out to him, as we did the rounds with all the consultants. He had missed out on so much in his children’s lives. He had gone back, to spend the rest of his life with them and catch up on lost time. Now, it seemed as if he was losing his daughter, before he had gotten to know her. He was not ready to lose her yet.

We went to see the neurosurgeon, Dr. Jacob Abraham, who discussed Lalitha’s diagnosis with us. The prognosis was not good. There were metastases everywhere. My Uncle Philip sat slumped in his chair, tired and utterly defeated. I felt so terribly sorry for him. As we got up to leave at the end of the discussion, my Uncle Philip turned to him, struggled to control the catch in his voice, blinked back his tears and said….

Thank you, Doctor…Thank you for everything….
I am not my daughter’s owner
I am only a privileged keeper.
She belongs to God

I have often remembered these words that my Uncle Philip uttered with unfaltering conviction and faith all those years ago.  When I had kids of my own, Motherhood taught me, sometimes the hard way, that I was only the keeper, accountable and privileged perhaps, but only a keeper nonetheless. Our Children belong to God……

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