My Uncle Bong

I've always found Malay nicknames funny. Like my old flatmate who I bumped into the other day. His nickname? 'Bob'. When I asked him why he replied, "well, look at my body."

Sure, the guys quite big and chubby, but I have met many a Bob who wasn't. Why Bob? His real name (which I shall not mention) isn't even remotely close to the word 'Bob'. Where do they come up with this 'Bob'?

One of my uncles also had an odd nickname. His name was actually similar to mine, but no-one called him that in the family. In Malay tradition, different sibblings have different 'family' names according to their order of birth. For example, 'Pak Ngah' means 'Pak Tengah' meaning 'the kid born in the middle'. There re seperate names for the eldest, second eldest, youngest, etc.

This particular uncle, however, was never called by any of the proper family terms.

Everyone called him 'Bong'. I called him 'Uncle Bong'.

'Bong'.

The reason for the name, apparently, was the same as why my flatmate Bob was called Bob. Because Uncle Bong was big and tubby. It's not like he was hitting up mad reefer through a bong at the back of the room, they called him 'Bong' because he was fat.

Weird logic.

When I was younger all the other uncles and aunts agreed on one particular thing: Uncle Bong was the genius. No doubt about it. Uncle Bong was on scholarship at a prestigious university in England studying engineering or something. The guy was a maths wiz, a chess wiz (not to be confused with 'cheese whizz') an every-whizz.

Uncle Bong used to doodle semi-nude sketches of Samantha Fox.

Uncle Bong used to do complex mathematics for fun.

Uncle Bong would watch 'Goldfinger' with me on TV and he'd always have a sly, dirty smile whenever Pussy Galore's pilots got off the plane in those tight sweaters and incredibly pointy bras underneath.

Uncle Bong would enter chess and crossword tournaments and kick everybody's ass in the district without thinking twice.

The only difference between Uncle Bong's real name and my own was one letter. Back when I was a real young kid I was quite the chubby choder boy too.

Uncle Bong came back, studied some more, got a job.

Then things went bad.

Uncle Bong lost it. Something happened.

Uncle Bong couldn't take the stress, they said. He never passed his exams, because something happened. He lost his job because something happened. Clever man, but he can't take the stress.

Uncle Bong took special pills.

People said Unlce Bong was 'sick'.

Uncle Bong never had a job again.

Uncle Bong got tubbier.

Uncle Bong started smoking: 50 JPS cigarettes a day. Deep fucking drags.

Uncle Bong was set up for an arranged marriage. He had two kids. Or was it three. Three kids and not a spark of romance between them.

There he was, tending his father's properties and assets, staying at the same house he grew up in with his arranged wife and kids. All his other brothers and sisters had moved to the city. Not him. He'd smoke his cigarettes and slowly waddle around the house.

Uncle Bong had a heart attack last week. He's still alive, but hearing of the incident made me think back.

Uncle Bong: the genius, the mathematician, destined for greater things and he's the one that ends up getting a heart attack clutching his pack of JPS cigarettes, belly fat and round, lying in a house that was once full of energy and family.

I tell you all this because ever since I was a kid I always thought Uncle Bong was the one uncle I could actually relate to. Both our paths were quite similar. But after the something that happened, after the pills, after people saying 'that kids sick', I'd like to think I took a much different path on the road of life than he did. I'd like to think I took the high road.

Because, as much as I love Uncle Bong, I'll be fucked if I end up like him.