Secondary school was a rite of passage, one of self-discovery. Or so my teacher reckoned. “The best way to discover yourself,” he said, “is through writing, be it to yourself or to another.” Thus, our journals were born, wrapped in an array of coloured paper and stickers. When all were stacked together, the books formed an artificial vertical rainbow, albeit a pretty short one. Little did I know that this additional piece of homework could turn out to be the catalyst for some stirring realisations that followed me up till this day.
Every week was the same struggle. A fresh page in front and a twirling pen in hand. Add a dazed look on the face and you get an uninspired student who was dying to grab a football and commence a five-a-side game below my block of flats. However detention was too strong a deterrent and I found myself forcing radical ideas into my mind, hoping one of them could make the cut. One particular weekend, my routine trance was unceremoniously interrupted by an unusually loud cough. It had happened before, but I didn’t really pay attention to it. Now that my attention was on it, the cough had a hoarse feel to it. It wasn’t your usual phlegm induced cough. It sounded more like raw and rough air being rushed up your windpipe, leaving in its trail an irreconcilable damage. It sounded painful and I remember a cringe when I heard the second one came about.
I wrote furiously. I was scared of something that was always there. I was scared to lose a cherished and loved entity-but I was helpless. I figured since teachers were supposedly know-it-alls, I could engage him in an informal correspondence through this idea of his.
Mr Kam,
My daddy smokes, and its bad. His coughs are loud and painful sounding. I know it is because he smokes, for my coughs do not sound like that, nor my brother’s. I wish he could stop…I can promise him to study hard and get four ‘A’s. If only he promise me he’ll stop smoking.
Hsien Wei
Mr Kam left me a reply. “Make him the promise,” he said.
Honestly, if only it were that easy. It’s an addiction. Television taught me that the kicking of an addiction could bring about an indescribable agony. I pasted my Dad’s face on the actor in my memory, who had spasms on the floor and white foam emerging from the corners of his mouth. I didn’t make that promise.
The following weekend I went into my semi-conscious “uninspired” trance again. I stopped twirling my pen and slammed it onto the table. Maybe a shower can do me some good, I had thought.
Still drying my hair with the Manchester United towel I always used, I froze at the sight of a man sitting at my table and holding up the book that had David Beckham and Ryan Giggs gracing the cover. I hid behind the door and peeked. He was at a page where there was a hint of red at the bottom of the page. Red ink? As the realisation dawned upon me, I stuffed my fist into my mouth, hoping to stifle the gasp that threatened to emerge from my mouth.
After a few practices at feigned nonchalance by the mirror, I ambled my way into my room, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that my room was intruded upon while I was having a mini-concert in the steamy confines of my shower.
Daddy turned in a smooth swivel of the chair and looked intently at me. It was bloodshot but no sign of any tears anywhere. He reached for my hands and patted the top of my palms before proceeding with the traditional pinky hook. Without saying a word, he stood and left. I stared at my book, which now emitted a magical glow. It was then that I saw the smudged ink from my previous entry. Smiling, I closed my book and took out my science textbook. I had a mission, and while I scouted for journal ideas in my imagination, I could begin fulfilling my promise.
In the weeks that ensued, my dad started a new “addiction”. He began a compulsive habit chewing a funny looking gum. The more he chewed, the less frequent the trips to the Marlboro selling uncle at the neighbourhood provision shop. It was June, a good five months before I could produce solid evidence of my keeping of the pact made with my father. However, he seemed to have embarked on his promise fulfillment prematurely. Not that I minded!
“I haven’t touched a single cigarette stick this whole week,” he mused, “I did my part and now it’s your turn!”
Daddy ruffled my hair with his hands. It was a pretty stressful statement for him to make, considering my atrocious common test grades. However, Daddy kept his promise and I had to abide by mine too.
Before I realised it, the calendar was at the November page. A week after the final paper was handed in, I found myself standing outside the metal grilles outside my house, report book in hand. I had inserted the key into the lock when I froze myself in an awkward position- I had caught the slightest whiff of cigarette odour.
After the childish bawling that followed, I grasped the reality of the situation. I had kept my promise, but so had Daddy. The cigarette odour that had diffused to my nose had indeed originated from a stick that my daddy lighted. However, he had only picked up the habit again after a major client from his business had offered him a stick. Could I really blame him for being a victim of circumstance?
Daddy still smokes now, but restricts himself to a minimal number of sticks per day. Occasionally I still hear the cringe-inducing cough that sparked our pact eight years ago. I still harbour the hope that he can break the habit for good one day. The journal had failed if I choose to think in lieu with its literal task, which was to stop my daddy from smoking. However, it allowed my daddy a sneak peek into my innermost emotions. Within the sea of words in blue ink, I am sure he heard me loud and clear.

& 2:13 PM