Third uncle: 174 Series Part 5

He loved my mom to bits. He loved me and my sister to bits. He has two sons and no daughter, and he braved the world’s opinion of girl children and named us his own.

As if we are his blood. Which we are, even in a patriarchal society, we’re claimed to be our father’s daughters.

He had a significantly deep moustache since his young adult days, side parted hairs which always affected people in his perimeter. He may not have had intangible redeemable traits to translate into tangibles, yet he was earnest in his ways.

It expressed on his face when I used to tiptoe into his home while he worked on his computer or played games. We’d spend hours voicing all things unhinged and wise and learn and unlearn.

“If you apply boiled rice water on your face, the acne scars will go away.”

I was a worrisome child with growing pain, searing through my skin, my insides, and my naivete would hinge on anything for the need of respite.

No use.

Out of mom’s siblings, he saw me suffer with dermatitis the most. In my own sea of tears.

I never properly mourned his death. I was 14 when one day he fell to bed, amnesiac one day, cognisant the next in throes of lung cancer.

He recognised us all, until one day he ceased to. Aunt couldn’t believe the white shroud, and nor did mom. Or any of us.

In one lunch time four years later, I mourned his loss. The rice with fish curry gone cold, and all I gazed into is haze.

It was one of the profound moments of perception in my years of battling numbness within myself. It felt like a cage has been unlocked, and all the sensation absorbent demons cascaded as fast.

I cried the same tear I did for dermatitis or forgoing a Barbie doll or a book.

Because he isn’t here.

Yet I remember him when I filter the boiled rice from the viscous water. When a few round scars ink my cheeks from acne. Or when I see Need for Speed.

He is there, in my unfading memory.