Shards of memory

Morning breeze was soothing, disciple thought. He wondered what's next on master's agenda, settling down with two cups of steaming coffee.

"I take it, you are bone-tired."

Master smiled: "I'm sore all over. But not so in mind, though."

"Searching and researching is something in your blood, isn't it?"

Master stared at the disciple's face. It's not just a commonplace statement. It must have took at least a few seconds for those words to sink in.

"Maybe something to do with my genes, you know, my father."

"Your father was a university teacher, you told me once."

"Yes, and he taught mass communication, if that's your next question."

"That's so cool master. You know me!"

"His expertise was creative communication. But deep beneath I saw a jongleur in him."

"A what?"

Master smirked, he sensed this too will come his way.

"A jongleur. Someone like a wandering poet. I see him as a wandering poet in a way. He had a well of stories. I have been tuned to them ever since my kindergarten days."

"Still remember those stories?"

For a few seconds master was thoughtful, stroking the edge of his cup.

"There was an 'Uncle Monkey'. He ate fruits with a kid. I was so lazy to get up for kindergarten. But everyday he would come up with something happening between uncle monkey and kid. I was up once I hear his voice in the morning just to hear what mischief uncle monkey is up to that day."

Master pulled up suddenly and seemed to sink in his own thoughts. He went ahead in a watered down spirit.

"Wish I could recall those stories. But I'm too old, you see."

Disciple was observing his face. He saw creases around master's nose - did they pop out just now or just that he didn't notice it earlier, he wondered silently. Master contemplated what he was to say.

"There were times we didn't actually shake hands. But I remember mother always say how he loved telling stories to me. Even more than my brothers. May be because I was the youngest and he was more matured when I was born. He had more insights to syringe thoughts into stories."

"What are the instances you didn't agree with your father?"

"Don't you think that's something either of us should rather not dig up? Father and I share a bond, we both hardly knew. Even now I can't simply grasp what kind of a bond it is. It outweighs many things, including our differences, that I know for sure." Disciple reached over for a second cup of coffee. Master's was not still over. Even so disciple did not need to disrupt the stream of thoughts.

"Very rarely did we talk about our personal things. Because he always liked to share stories even over our meals together. I have never seen anyone who knew more stories. He did research and all those serious stuff. But he was still a storyteller for me."

"What kind of stories were they normally?"

"Any story on the earth. He collected a lot of stories when he travelled around the world. When others busied themselves hunting for fridges, vacuum cleaners, this and that, he was hell-bent to meet some old man and trade stories. That's why his stories are so worthy. You cannot find some of them in story or folklore books."

"Didn't it sort of disturb his main study area?"

"The thing is he could somehow link it with his subject. He thought stories are the best thing of creative communication and that shapes the man."

"I see."

"Whether stories are made up or genuine, he was least worried. Whatever it is, if it strikes our heart then that story definitely shapes our lifestyle. That's the technique religious leaders followed when they tried to convince something. Parables, fables and sort of things have a big impact on us, he thought. Whenever he researched something he could find a striking story and share it with his students."

"Like father like son, huh?"

"If it's a stroll, I must say father is far ahead, and I am still lagging behind. He is the one who taught me to be up by early in the morning to see sun rise. No matter how late he goes to bed, he made sure he gets up early. And then he would write on and on for hours. Whenever I get up early in the morning, it brings back the memory of my father."

"It betokens his legacy."

"Of course, it does."

Master sipped the cup slowly. He breathed slowly as if he wants to relive the moments of past - shards of memory. Disciple tried to picture the old man who must be master's father. Neither did realize they were tight-lipped letting some minutes pass by.

"Would you mind if I ask you for something."

"Go ahead son."

"Can you share those stories of Uncle Monkey with me?"

"As I told you once, I wish I could remember those stories."

"You said your father made up those stories, right?"

"Yes."

"So then it's no big deal."

"Why?"

"I mean you can come up with your own version."

"Such as?"

"That's up to you, master."

Master was thoughtful for a moment. Disciple's words echoed off and were set adrift in his mind.

"Ok... here we go. Once there was an uncle monkey..."

It started off with occasional pauses. At length, however, words poured out with an ease simply unimaginable.

Disciple basked in that brief blissful instance when master's face beamed with joy.

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