It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
THE sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows as my car ambled into Kampung Bra’aang Payang in Padawan near Kuching.
Everything about the place whispered familiarity, from the soft chirping of the crickets to the gentle rustling of leaves; every sound, every scent, it was as if the village was saying, “Welcome home.”
It was home, really, where my story started. “Look over there,” I said to my wife and kids, pointing out the window.
“See that old wooden bench?
That’s where magic happened. Babai (grandpa) and I would sit there, counting the day’s takings — pepper, bananas, durians, cocoa — all laid out.” I laughed; my voice thick with nostalgia.
“Mind you, no calculators … just old newspapers and well-worn pens. And at the end, if Babai’s eyes sparkled a certain way, I knew we did well.
“‘This is how we do it, Desi.
This is how we make sure you go to school,’” he’d say, tapping the side of his head with a sly grin. I paused, picturing his face, each line and crease holding a story from a time gone by.
And boy, did I hang on to his every word. But isn’t it ironic, about making tough choices, about dreaming big and working hard for it?
My voice softened, “It’s those very stories, you know, that made me dream of that university in the United States. And those same stories gave me the courage to walk into the towering offices of Goldman Sachs.”
At 16, when my parents announced my move to the city for schooling, everything changed. Life, with its ambitions and chaos, had become front and centre.
Days turned into months, months turned into eighteen years, and with each passing moment, Babai became a mere dot in the rearview mirror — until that fateful Sunday night. My phone buzzed. It was my mother.
Seeing “Mi Madre” pop up on the screen, I thought it would be another one of our casual chats. But her voice, usually so vibrant, was different.
It quivered, almost as if it was holding back a storm of emotions. “Babai’s been in the hospital since Friday,” she muttered. I could hear the hushed voices of family members in the background. “Oh!” I replied, hoping to keep my voice steady. “… I’ll visit him.
He’ll pull through, right?
He always does.” I was buying time, trying to ignore the hint of panic creeping up. There was a pause at the other end. “Desi,” she finally said, her voice thick with emotion, “you really need to be here. been asking for you.”
The familiar city lights seemed distant and unimportant as I drove to the hospital, my heart pounding in my ears. When I arrived, Aunty Collin — my mum’s sister — with her eyes red and swollen from crying, looked at me.
“He wanted to see you, just one last time,” she murmured, her voice breaking.
Stepping inside the ICU, I saw the familiar machines, their blinking lights and constant beeping, standing guard around the frail frame of the man who once seemed invincible to me but now looking all too mortal.
Summoning what little courage I had, I turned to my wife, who — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.
Grandson’s remorse over lost time’s burden stood there, clutching our kids, their innocent eyes filled with questions; questions
I wasn’t ready to answer. All those years of absence bore down on me; every broken promise, the countless “I’ll call tomorrow”, seemed to mock me. My uncle, kneeling beside the bed, beckoned me to step forward.
“Come here, pray for him, Desi.” The room, filled with silent sobs and hushed whispers, waited. My throat tightened. “I … I don’t know any prayers, Uncle,” I confessed, feeling more lost than ever. Taking a deep breath, I leaned close to my wife. “He can hear me, can’t he?” I whispered.
Her nod gave me the strength to approach him. I took his cold, pale hand firmly in mine. “Bai, it’s me, Desi, it’s been too long.”
Each word was hard, drenched in emotion. “I’m here …. I’m so sorry for everything,” I whispered, praying that he’d hear.
As tears formed under his closed eyelids, I realised my apologies would never compensate for lost time.
The next hour felt both infinite and fleeting. I clung to every beep of the monitor, counting them as if they were borrowed moments. As the beeps grew longer and farther in between, a cold reality began to set in.
At 1.29 am, a monotonous tone announced the inevitable. I could feel the wetness of tears forming in my eyes, though they refused to fall. I leaned close, embracing him for the last time.
“Goodbye, Babai,” I murmured, sealing it with a kiss on his forehead.
It has been two weeks since that night, but the ‘regret’ still gnaws at me. I sometimes catch myself thinking, “What if?”
What if I had visited more often?
What if I had called?
What if I had made more time?
So, to you, reading this, I have a simple plea. If there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you to reach out to someone, don’t shove it away.
Don’t wait for the stars to align or for that ‘perfect’ moment.
Because let me tell you, that moment? It’s now, right this second.
Don’t let it slip away. Don’t be caught in a web of “What ifs?” like me. Cherish the now because sometimes, now is all we’ve got. Make it matter.
