The boy from number 48 looks out as picks up his ball. Cars are slowing down. Is it the time of the day when walking is faster? It must be. His mother beckons him into the house. Reluctantly, he follows. His steps heavy, the young boy resents the intrusion of traffic into his private sphere. “I wish that there were no cars in Bangsar. Well, just on Tempinis Street.”
Many cars form a line in perfect echelon. Bumper to bumper they sit. All eyes are locked onto the lights. Only one pair moves. He sees the boy from number 48. He feels for him and his heart goes out to him, but only for a moment. For he once knew someone from number 48. Like the boy, the man from number 48 stayed on the same street, but in a different town. There’s a bit of the man from number 48 about the boy. For a start, he is good looking and he doesn’t believe in the star system. All the boy wants is to continue playing.
The man from number 48 loves to play too. But it’s been so long, he’s forgotten how. For the man from number 48 is scarred beyond recognition. A stranger even to himself, he constantly searches for something to believe in. He searches for meaning. He has faith in God but unlike other Christians, he wants more. He hears stories of people being touched by God. Like those people, he too, was touched. And he loved it. He still loves it. And he will always love it. But for now, he doesn’t feel it. And the silence is killing him.
He remembers the first time he moved to the city; a young man bearing the burden of expectation. A glittering past coupled with a sense of loss only adds to his weight. A sense of loss only those who have been betrayed can know. For the man from number 48 grew up in church and learnt everything from church. He experienced the loftiest of heights and the deepest of sorrows. He’s lucky he doesn’t have vertigo.
There was a time when the man from number 48 lived only for vengeance. Like Samson, he prayed so that he could regain his strength for just one moment so he could die with his enemies. And the heavens heard him. But when he looked into the eyes of his oppressor, he only saw himself. And the man from number 48 let him go. For war doesn’t determine who is right; only who is left.
To everything there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. The man from number 48 knows this. He had a time to love. And it was then when he became a man. He remembers the moments in time. He smiles at them and writes them on the pages on his heart. He remembers a time when he made his way through the rain with food for the lady of his affection. Waking her up, she cries out, “God, you’re cold!” Smiling devilishly, he replies “Its ok, luv. In bed, you can call me *******.” But something else was written for the man from number 48. The ghosts of the past had to return for some overdue consolation. And he learned that sometimes, love means knowing when to let go.
He sees the good and bad in things. He sees that what is often called an excellent reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying. He refuses to be indifferent to the world around him for indifference is not only a sin, but a punishment. He waits for the girl with crimson nails with Jesus around her neck. He waits for an answer in response to his faith. As in his youth, he can’t stand the silence of his Creator and he waits. And above all else, he wants to play again.
Many cars form a line in perfect echelon. Bumper to bumper they sit. All eyes are locked onto the lights. Only one pair moves. He sees the boy from number 48. He feels for him and his heart goes out to him, but only for a moment. For he once knew someone from number 48. Like the boy, the man from number 48 stayed on the same street, but in a different town. There’s a bit of the man from number 48 about the boy. For a start, he is good looking and he doesn’t believe in the star system. All the boy wants is to continue playing.
The man from number 48 loves to play too. But it’s been so long, he’s forgotten how. For the man from number 48 is scarred beyond recognition. A stranger even to himself, he constantly searches for something to believe in. He searches for meaning. He has faith in God but unlike other Christians, he wants more. He hears stories of people being touched by God. Like those people, he too, was touched. And he loved it. He still loves it. And he will always love it. But for now, he doesn’t feel it. And the silence is killing him.
He remembers the first time he moved to the city; a young man bearing the burden of expectation. A glittering past coupled with a sense of loss only adds to his weight. A sense of loss only those who have been betrayed can know. For the man from number 48 grew up in church and learnt everything from church. He experienced the loftiest of heights and the deepest of sorrows. He’s lucky he doesn’t have vertigo.
There was a time when the man from number 48 lived only for vengeance. Like Samson, he prayed so that he could regain his strength for just one moment so he could die with his enemies. And the heavens heard him. But when he looked into the eyes of his oppressor, he only saw himself. And the man from number 48 let him go. For war doesn’t determine who is right; only who is left.
To everything there is a season; a time for every purpose under heaven. The man from number 48 knows this. He had a time to love. And it was then when he became a man. He remembers the moments in time. He smiles at them and writes them on the pages on his heart. He remembers a time when he made his way through the rain with food for the lady of his affection. Waking her up, she cries out, “God, you’re cold!” Smiling devilishly, he replies “Its ok, luv. In bed, you can call me *******.” But something else was written for the man from number 48. The ghosts of the past had to return for some overdue consolation. And he learned that sometimes, love means knowing when to let go.
He sees the good and bad in things. He sees that what is often called an excellent reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying. He refuses to be indifferent to the world around him for indifference is not only a sin, but a punishment. He waits for the girl with crimson nails with Jesus around her neck. He waits for an answer in response to his faith. As in his youth, he can’t stand the silence of his Creator and he waits. And above all else, he wants to play again.
The boy from number 48 closes the gate behind him. Through the grills, he looks out and for a brief moment, their eyes meet. One wishes that he could grow up faster to be free while the other wishes he could turn back the time and return to innocence. They’re different but yet so alike. And that moment passes as the boy is gone. The eyes return to mimic the soulless crowd. All waiting for the amber; all waiting for the green.
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