Eulogies are for the Living
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
Funeral wakes are awkward. What if the deceased eavesdrops on his own memorial, reflecting on the messy, funny, and all-too-human life he’s leaving behind? Honest, cheeky, and unexpectedly comforting, this first-person tale proves that the real drama starts after the final curtain call.
Someone is really moving along.
Those days, I used to say that eulogies were a waste of time.
“They don’t mean anything to the dead,” I’d scoff, holding a cup of kopi-o with one hand and fiddling my mobile phone with the other at the mamak stall with Bala just the other day. “Dead people can’t hear you praising them. Might as well save the oxygen.”
Bala, in his usual fashion, blinked slowly, slurped his mee kari, and said, “How do you know? What if you’re wrong?”
Turns out… Bala knows better. Somewhat.
Yes, I heard every word at my wake. And since I was disallowed from speaking at the memorial service, I had nothing to do but listen.
But let me tell you again, eulogies do nothing for the dead. Nothing much. All that talk about how I was a wonderful neighbour, a dedicated wakil rakyat, a diligent student (from five decades ago!), kind to stray cats and dogs, thoughtful to hawkers, and the best badminton partner this side of Selayang — well, I wasn’t even allowed to smirk. Just lay there with my eyes shut, hands folded like laundry, a frozen chicken on display.
My cousin Shirley made the opening speech, mispronouncing “posthumous,” dragging out the syllables like they were unfamiliar noodles. She suggested the authorities bestow me a belated accolade, perhaps a datukship; after all there are no limits to how many can be given out for unlike some other honorifics like Tun. Seriously, Shirley, why would such a prefix to my name matter to me now? It won't matter even if I am still alive.
And Muthu, my neighbour, saying, “Wah, he looked peaceful… which is a surprise, considering how much he used to grumble.” I’m dead, Muthu. You think I’d be making this face if I were alive? I’d be complaining about the terrible funeral playlist. Hello, “Wind Beneath My Wings” playing in the background? I hated that over-rated song. ABBA’s “Thank You for the Music” would have been better. Or Faye Wong's “The World Gifts Me”.
And then the priest — who clearly earned every sen of his fee — declared I was “a pillar of the community.” A pillar! More like a stool. A short, occasionally wobbly stool with a creaky leg.
I suppose people just don’t know what else to say. I’m not judging. I did the same when Big Brother Leong kicked the bucket. I clutched a bouquet from Jalan Hang Lekir and muttered, “He had a good run.” The old fella died choking on a fishball. So much for a good run.
Anyway, back to my wake. I couldn’t even roll my eyes when a resident from my constituency read a dramatic poem she clearly wrote for herself, but made it sound like it was dedicated to me. Like Elton John tweaking “Candle in the Wind” for Lady Diana. No applause, just the sound of Auntie Bee in the third row snoring like a congested vacuum cleaner.
Even my ex-girlfriend turned up to say something stupid. “We were going to travel the world together, and we never did.” Goodness gracious. You were an ex-girlfriend twenty years ago, not a mistress. You didn’t mention that time I accidentally dyed your cat green, you threw a tantrum and said we should break up?
It pains me listening to them taking turns to make me sound like a saint. “He was always so patient.” Really, Karen? You literally threw a stapler at me during tax season.
And Dave — “He never held a grudge and was a man of unwavering integrity.“ Oh please, I still remember you have yet to return that audiophile CD. Extended edition, Dave! That’s a war crime in nerd culture.
They meant well. I know that. But I know not gratefulness at this hour. Really. Honestly? Too little, too late. Why wait until someone’s gone to say all the nice things? Why can't people be more complimentary when you're actually around to acknowledge it with at least a smile?
Roslan, would it have killed you to say “thank you” when I fixed your gate last year? Or maybe “you've got a nice haircut, bro” while I was alive, instead of saying “he looks ten years younger!” when I was lying in a box with my face all dolled up like an over-frosted cake? You’re hilarious.
Then there was the speculation about how the accident happened. Plenty of talk. None of it helpful.
I can tell you this: nobody will find CCTV footage showing anything conclusive. The truth is simple. I was headed to the convenience store to get some snacks — aiskrim potong, to be exact. I stopped at the curb to adjust my sandal strap — don’t laugh, one side was looser than the other — and then, bam. Lights out. No drama. Just darkness folding over me like a theatre curtain.
I remember the sound more than the impact. The screech of tyres. A thud. Then silence, so loud it hurt.
Now, I know some of you are angry with the driver. Sure, maybe his eyesight wasn’t perfect anymore. But stop blaming him and shouting about banning senior citizens from driving.
You want your father to walk three kilometres in the rain just to get bread because you were too busy to drive him, what with your work and gym? You want to tell Auntie Margaret she can’t go to mahjong because she’s over 70?
It’s not about age. It's about enforcement. Have you seen the mat rempits? You think any of them even have licences?
I wish I could tell you exactly what happened. I think you wish I could too, right? But I can’t. So please, trust the authorities to do their job. The investigation team looked competent. One of them even asked me — well, not me, but my body — “Eh, YB, any dashcam nearby?” That’s hope, isn’t it?
Live with the findings. Trust humanity. Sure, there are crooks — but there are more good people in this world than bad ones.
It wasn’t personal. I don’t even know the driver, and I don’t think he knows me personally. I don't think he even knows that he has hit the wakil rakyat of that area. He didn’t wake up that morning thinking, “Today I shall run over a man in a fake batik t-shirt outside KK Mart.” It was just a silly, sad accident. Like a lost password. These things happen.
Let’s move on.
Now, I’m here. In limbo.
Not limbo like the Catholic kind with floating babies. More like a celestial waiting room — with no chairs, no magazines, and absolutely no free Wi-Fi. Then again, I suppose it doesn’t matter. They didn’t put my Nothing mobile phone in the casket. Nothing. Did Agnes, Weng and Ling forget, or was it deliberate?
Heaven is that way — glowing, golden, very Instagrammable. Like a pasar malam stall selling glowing balloons. I see people getting waved in one by one. There’s an angel — she looks like she moonlights as a stewardess — calling names off a clipboard.
“Orson Thambirajah! Welcome, sir! Right this way — please leave your earthly baggage behind!” Did I hear Orson, or awesome?
He fist-bumped her on the way in. I swear. Angels fist-bump.
Then there’s the other door. Not glowing. Flickering. Like the light in a dodgy public toilet. Sometimes shadowy creatures lean out and whisper, “Pssst. Over here. It’s warm. And we have cookies.” But you know those cookies are made of toenails and regret.
No thanks. I’m in no rush.
So, I wait. Apparently, there’s a queue. No number system. No updates. Just, “You’ll know when it’s your time.” I asked if I could take a number. The glowing angel said, “We’re minimalist now.”
In the meantime, I think. I watch. Occasionally, I sneak back for a peek at the living.
I reflect. On my mistakes. My victories. The time I voted twice in the ‘90s and didn’t get caught. The time I taught my colleague’s son chess and he beat his master in a week. The time I made sambal so spicy that neighbours three doors down the road sneezed.
And then, of course, my family.
Ah, my family.
Thank you — not just for loving me, but for letting me love you.
Agnes, you always knew I was pretending to sleep to avoid doing dishes. And when football was on TV and I didn’t respond, it wasn’t deafness. It was devotion — to the game. But your voice? Your voice was home. Warm, steady, sometimes sharp — but always familiar.
My daughter, who chose performing arts over practicality. I worried you’d end up broke and dramatic. But I’m so glad you never listened. The world needs dreamers. It has enough accountants.
My son, who never liked badminton but still played with me. And when you crashed the car and I said you were a disgrace — I’m sorry. You were seventeen. I was being dramatic. The car survived. So did we.
Weng and Ling, you were wild little things when you were small. Mischievous. Loud. Always full of life. You’d pull my finger when I told you not to giggle when I pretended to be a zombie, and always ask questions like, “Papa, why do your feet smell like peanuts?” What a legacy.
I’m sorry there wasn’t time for a proper goodbye. But if I could say one thing now: be strong. I know you will. You always have been.
Life doesn’t stop just because I did.
You taught me what it means to love without conditions. Now I’m asking you to give yourselves that same grace. Laugh freely. Cherish the ordinary. The smell of coffee. The sound of rain. Each other.
Don’t cling too tightly to grief. Grief’s a wicked companion we don't need. Remember the good times and the bad — but don’t hold them so close they weigh you down. Remember detachment. Yes, detachment.
Keep living. Fully and gently. Don’t let your love for me become a chain.
And... okay, okay — end of sermon. I know you all used to groan when I got preachy. “It’s not Sunday, Dad,” you’d say. “Don’t make everyday sound like Sunday.”
Got it. Noted. For now.
Back to eulogies. I’ve changed my mind about them — they are not a waste of breath. But I still maintain that they’re not for the dead. They’re for the living. The dead can hear but they are not bothered. No longer bothered. It is the living like you who need them. Eulogies comfort you. They give structure to sorrow.
But I wish people would crack more jokes during eulogies. You don’t have to sound gloomy for a tribute ceremony to be respectful. Neither are jokes disrespectful of the occasion. A well-timed laugh does more for a heavy heart than a thousand poetic clichés.
Wait… I think I hear my name being called. Oh, it’s the angel at that door. Yes, that door.
Apparently, once I step through, I won’t remember anything — not you, not me, not life before. They are asking me to drop all worldly mortal baggage behind. That’s the deal.
So, I’m letting it all go. And I hope, in time, you will too.
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