I never thought that love could be expressed in numbers…until now.
My parents have always been secretive about the family’s financial status, always telling us that we have no money and no we can’t have the cool stuff your rich friends have because we are broke. I do smell the occasional rat when on certain rare occasions they drew out a large sum of money from seemingly nowhere, like the time when they paid RM 27,000 for my Proton Saga in cash. “But it was just a Saga! Besides, it was on sale,” they had insisted when I grilled them about being able to make the payment in cash and not in installments as everyone else would have normally done.
To be frank, I have always somewhat resented the fact that we are financially inferior, or so as I was led to believe. Money was almost always an issue, and when you have an expensive hobby like bodybuilding it strains the pockets even more. I know this sounds childish, but the resentment probably stemmed from the fact that I didn’t get to party as much as I would like to with my other rich friends in Penang, or that paying for fuel for the car seriously bit into my spending (someone actually expressed shock that I managed to last for two months on a full tank…well now you know. Not everyone could gallivant all across KL just like that, you know), or that I have trouble maintaining actual relationships because I could not pay for dates that often (pretty much an oversimplification of the previous relationships, but that’s an entirely different matter).
In a nutshell, yes I do sometimes resent the fact that I didn’t get an unholy allowance as I would have liked.
So I have been busy gathering the documents and information necessary for my UK visa application during the past week, the visa requirements demand that I show financial evidence that I am capable of sustaining myself in the UK, tuition fees, living costs and all.
Boy, I thought. This is going to be tough. In late 2008 my parents bought £10,000 when the UK currency dived, but a closer review of the costs involving the top-up degree and subsequent Masters course calls for a staggering £20,000. Of course, working part time while in the UK could contribute a lot to that number, but the bleeding visa officials nevertheless demand that we show evidence of such financial capability or risk being rejected for a visa. Fuckers.
I made a call to my dad regarding this matter, who listened quietly while I explained.
A short silence.
Fine, he said. I will have the documents sent to you soon.
True to his word, I received mail which contained the necessary financial statements two days later. I shook the contents out of the envelope, and two items dropped onto my lap.
A bank statement from CIMB, confirming the £10,000 in fixed deposit, and…an Amanah Saham Malaysia bank book with my name neatly printed in a typewriter font. Funny. I didn’t even know I have an Amanah Saham account.
I flipped the book open and…oh God. The numbers, they just pounced at me. I stare in disbelief at the pages, marked with numerous transactions printed across the pages which dated back to the year 2000. I was only Form 1 in the year 2000 for chrissakes.
Words fail me. All these years of saving up with the security of my future in mind. All these years of denying not just me, but themselves of little luxuries that they could very well afford just because they wanted to fortify that little bank book a little bit more. All because they could one day hand that little bank book to me and proudly tell me here you go, here’s everything you need to build yourself a future and make sure you make good use of it.
The day that little bank book dropped into my lap I grew up a little bit more. My unfilled desires for material goods; the one terabyte external hard disk, the top notch gaming computer, the Vios, the seemingly bottomless fuel allowance, the dinners at fancy cafes, they all seem so painfully childish now that the little bank book lay open in my lap, its seemingly insignificant numbers dancing across my line of vision. Whaaaasup, they seem to say. It’s good to meet you after all these years hidden in the back drawer of your mom’s closet, so let’s get down to business and prove a thing or two to the visa officials, shall we?
How do you express love in numbers? My parents did it through a little bank book, saturated with the years of transactions that was made in hopes of buying me a future they never had. Something tells me that they got a few more of those stashed somewhere in the house with my other siblings’ names printed on it, waiting for the very moment when the numbers in them are needed.
UK, here I come.
