Farewell, my fast and furious nephew

How do you write an obituary of an ordinary person, who never joined any social media sites or had an Internet presence, let alone had a passing mention in the news… until his death, that is?

I have written obituaries and tributes, but a week after last Sunday, the worst day of our lives, one which served as a shocking reminder that death is real and present, I still find myself at a loss for words. It is probably because human language cannot describe such sorrow that it is expressed in the bodily fluid that flows from our eyes.

That cold night, my eldest nephew, the eldest grandchild in our family, died in a horrific crash, in an incident which made it into news reports, mainly because of the type of car he was driving.

Siji, as we fondly called him, lived by the car and died by the car.

Ever since he had attained the sense of sight, he set his sights on automobiles. I knew of many who grew out of their childhood passion, but Siji held on to his.

He would make paper cuttings out of car advertisements, and memorise every model of every damn car ever produced.

He would boast about his dad’s old, beat-up car, or his uncle’s first car, which he bought second hand. He would propose this and that addition, which we would dismiss before telling him to grow up.

Fast forward two decades, grow up he did. He also quickly grew out of all his L and XL shirts, passing the 1.8m mark (“How’s the weather up there?” was a frequent question to which he had no answer). But still, he did not grow out of his craze for cars, and would apply it to almost every facet of his life.

Up to his death, he ran his own car sales company specialising in luxury car models. His dream of driving fancy sports cars had finally come true.

A few days before his death, he was sharing his idea for a car café, whose construction had started, but has now been abandoned.

"Such a vain pot", those who didn’t know him would have reacted upon seeing his penchant for cars. And it’s true. Vanity was probably his side mirrors, so to speak. Not only of his car, but of his looks, taking second and third looks in the mirror, making sure he was in his best appearance.

When he was born, the 10-year-old me would brag about my little nephew. Being the youngest in the family, having a newborn was a new experience for me (though a tiring one these days).

No baby cuter than him, I used to tell others as I pointed to his most recognisable feature, his big round eyes, which we used to make fun of and compare with those of a toad.

As the first grandchild in both his parents’ families, his childhood was followed closely. He was the toddler who gave all of us nicknames, meaningless utterances created by a child who had yet to talk, but they soon stuck and were used by all of us, including the two dozen cousins to this day.

This single achievement probably put him on top of a ranking, as I imagined, of the most influential person in the family history.

And who would forget his baby talk and genius observations? Such as when he concluded one rainy day that lightning was God snapping pictures?

He lived life to the fullest. With success came wealth, and he would spend big amounts of money on shopping, holidays and treats, which he would throw for the flimsiest reason.

Siji laughed at all my jokes. Stupid jokes, even. It is the sound of his laughter that kept me awake yet again last night. These days, the cold nights are no longer welcome, after it was rudely interrupted by the sound of my mobile phone a week earlier.

Some jokes he took seriously, like when I told him to buy us a twin baby stroller after the arrival of our twins. A few days later, he came with one, and a pair of car baby seats. I told him I should have added more to my wish list.

Hours after the tragedy, pictures and video clips of a ravaged Aston Martin, reduced beyond recognition to a web of metal and wires along the New Pantai Expressway (NPE), soon made it online. Many would conclude that this could not have happened if not for the speed.

A car on a clear road with an insatiable thirst for speed could never have travelled within the speed limit, no matter what the final GPS record would tell.

At that speed, only a Hollywood stunt could avoid a motorcycle coming against traffic in the middle of the highway. Never mind his confidence behind the wheel. Death is everywhere, and that night it waited for Siji at a concrete pillar as he smashed onto it, his 1.8m body thrown out, his new yellow shirt he bought with his wife the other day still on him, his face down on the rough surface.

His end reflected his life: at full throttle. He was fast. His life was marked by speed. He wanted everything to be done fast.

He got married at 24, when most adults could not (or were barred) from entertaining such ideas. The same year, he became a dad. I was not impressed with this act of manhood, even telling him to stop making me look old by making me a “grand uncle”.

My vain nephew is dead, but we soon found out his life was not in vain. At the burial ground, we found out the kind of man he was.

A stranger recalled how he had contacted Siji after being given his number, asking him for help with treating his small child who had kidney failure. Siji had told him to wait at the hospital, and promised to settle all hospital bills, which he did.

Another man told how Siji brought him out of his illicit business and gave him two cars to be given for rental. Today, that man owns his own car sales business.

We all know the automobile business is one of the many businesses littered with crooks. And more so when it deals in luxury vehicles, with politicians and tycoons making enquiries of the latest brands to carry their ego and Datukship emblems, and probably their secret concubines and stashes of cash.

Siji dealt with all that and still came out a generous, charitable person. He didn’t tell us that. To us, he kept bragging about cars.

He probably wanted us to remember him as a man of speed, not a man of charity who would readily part with his cash, not because there is no tomorrow, but quite on the contrary. A tomorrow in the presence of his Creator.

In his final seconds, Siji probably had no patience, and God knew he wouldn’t want to wait. If he could speak now, he would have probably remarked that his death was in style.

More so, when it was exactly one year to the day Paul Walker, the star of Fast & Furious, was killed in a horrific crash. But while it is the kind of ending to mark a true car enthusiast, it is the kind of tragedy that no parents or spouse should endure.

That Monday afternoon, just before the final funeral prayer, the whole house erupted with sadness, the sound of grown men weeping in between the instructions being exchanged by the people handling the coffin, which we so often hear at a funeral.

I stood there looking at the bandaged face, dead, cold, the nostril stuffed with cotton. I laid a kiss on the forehead, something I have never done for more than two decades.

It was the same forehead I kissed 30 years ago, after I eagerly rushed home from primary school to see this novelty called “nephew”. Only this time, the toady eyes were not the same, the face disfigured, probably hastily reconstructed in time for burial.

But what use is a face, compared with the good deeds that remained intact with his soul.

Goodbye, my fast and furious Siji. I hope God has speed limits in heaven. And by the way, how’s the weather up there? – December 7, 2014.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insider.