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Use kind heart, but do the wrong thing
My Father's Wisdom
Use kind heart, but do the wrong thing
It is now near the Chinese New Year. Now I live in Australia, I never have a Chinese New Year’s feeling. I think I need to find that again. So I rang my friend in China, and we have a long chat. I told her my son went back China for holiday. She said you should have come back with your son, I said I wanted to but I needed to work. We talked for a long time. She told me of our friend’s story.
Our friend divorced four years ago. At that time her son was in high school. She didn’t want her son to be sad and worry. She hoped her son can study hard, go to university and have good future. High school is a very important time in China. You must study hard and pass the big university entrant exam. Chinese parents all hope their child can going to university. So she decided not to let her son know about the divorce. She begged her husband not tell to her son. “Just say you must go to other city work, and each big festival come home to live a few days.” They did well, the son believed the father was very busy in another city, he thought his father worked hard just for him so he can have good future. So he studied very hard and went to university last year.
After the son went to university, the husband was sick of this. He didn’t want to go back to his ex-wife’s home again. When the Chinese New Year come, the son from the university go home for holiday. He asked why his father did not go home. His mother decided to tell the son his parents had divorced four years ago and his father had a new family. The son couldn’t understand. He can’t take in what his mother told him. He lost his respect for his mother and father. Why? He couldn’t accept that his parents could lie to him for such a long time. He asked his mother, “why not tell me early? I don’t know my parents. They are just like performers! Now I don’t know what things are true.” His mother replied, “we just for you did this thing. You must understand, we were in turmoil.” But the son couldn’t understand. He left home. Until now he hasn’t gone home to see his mother again.
When I heard this story, I was sad for the mother and sad for her son too. The mother only wanted to protect her son and ensure he had a good future. However, she did not try to see it through her son’s eyes.
Her son could only see that his parents had lied to him for a long time. That special trust between parent and child had been broken. He too, could not see it through his mother’s eyes.
I remember, my father told me that sometimes people just use their kind heart to do something for another person. They do not stop to think how that other person will see it. With all giving comes the responsibility of thinking how the gift is received. Is it wanted? Could it do unexpected harm?
We must from the other person’s eyes try to see the gift.
The mother thought she was giving her son the gift of a good education. She did not see that gift through her son’s eyes. He only saw the breakdown of trust.
My father also said, that if you have bad news to tell, then most of the time it is best to tell it early. You may think that not telling is kind, is a gift. It is not. The person will still have to get over the bad news no matter when you tell them, and will wonder why you did not tell them early. They will think that you have not been honest.
So, parents, keep that precious trust between you and your children and always be honest, even when it is hard.
My Father's Stories
Use kind heart, but do the wrong thing
You can't see the mountain because you are in the mountain
From malt sugar remember the story
"What do you see as rich?" I asked
A genuine friend is happy when you are successful and happy
Why do you make yourself upset when other people do the wrong thing
From a small thing, know the other person's moral standing
You must first respect yourself, if you want other people to respect you
When people do a little thing for you, don't expect it, feel pleasantly surprised
Don't make your children become what you wish, what they are not
The responsibility that comes with giving
Graeme has been using ChinesePod since 2007
"I highly recommend ChinesePod, I haven't found any Online teaching programmes that come close."
Set in Zanzibar in 1910, it is the story of two people from different worlds falling in love. Susan immerses herself in Zanzibar. Asim falls in love with this woman from the nation that killed his wife. Susan is a spy. Asim is the chief advisor to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Germany and France are holding secret negotiations to form a Pan European alliance, which would isolate Britain and destroy her power. Susan and Asim are caught up in all this and their love is finally dashed on the cold, hard reality of international high politics.
Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages
Chapter One
Zanzibar
'A maharaja’s ruby cast on a Persian carpet by the blackest of hands'
Their souls danced, honouring his promise.
The ancient dhow stirred in the soft morning breeze. Like a sleepy lion, it began to move through the water, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour; some scurrying, some at anchor, some darting before a brief gust of wind. The lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.
Aft, the woman's eyes searched the skyline, drinking in the architecture of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul.
Abruptly, her eyes ceased their restless searching, jagged by an invisible hook, transfixed by the grand buildings on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, Palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar. The distinctive architecture captured in the tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black.
A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on.
Without warning the captain threw the rudder over. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. Imprisoned in the baskets, rusty cockerels, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, snapped at her, cried out to her; their raucous din overwhelming her, drowning her.
Dimly, through the fog of noise, the strident swearing of the sailors in Kiswahili seeped into her conscious. Understanding, she smiled mirthlessly.
The coffin had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.
London 1910
“Hello, who are you? I am Oliver, is Edward at home?”
The words were spoken by a tall, impeccably dressed young man as he rushed into Edward’s flat shaking off surplus water and calling for whisky while shoving his umbrella into a stand. It was a blustery, grey, bitterly cold February afternoon in the heart of London. He brushed a curl of soft auburn hair from his forehead and smiled charmingly.
Susan laughed, her hazel eyes dancing with the exhilaration of the new. “Yes, he is having a bath. I think he is trying to get warm. I’m Susan, Susan Carey, his sister.”
“Ahhh yes, from Australia. How do you do?” said Sir Oliver, smiling broadly and offering his hand. He noticed the laughter in her eyes, and the depth, particularly the depth, intensified by jade flecks that made them striking and alluring. “So, you have arrived, good trip I trust.”
“I am very well thank you, and yes, it was a good trip,” replied Susan.
He laughed and glanced at the sitting room, “whisky?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, please come in…….. that was silly of me, after all, it is your flat.”
Oliver smiled and gestured for Susan to lead the way. He followed her into the room, and after helping himself to a generous portion of whisky, walked over to the fire.
Shortly after, Edward, wrapped in a huge ruby-coloured dressing gown and wiping soap from his ear strode into the room. He was of similar age to Oliver, late twenties, well built, if slightly podgy, with dark auburn hair and a full moustache. Susan looked up and smiled to herself, she could see now where he had picked up some of his new mannerisms.
“Thought I could hear voices. I see you two have met, no need for introductions then.”
As he was speaking, Edward walked to the side table and grabbed a whisky decanter by the neck. He glanced at Oliver who nodded. A long finger snaked into one of the tumblers followed by the distinctive clink of crystal. He swept the decanter off the table and carried it to where Oliver was sitting. After pouring the whisky, he sank into a lounge chair and sipped from his glass, enjoying the warm glow as it spread through his body.
Suddenly he sat up exclaiming, “Sorry sis, would you like something to drink?”
“Kind of you to remember, but no thank you, and yes, Oliver has already inquired.”
Edward nodded and sank back into his lounge chair.
They chatted, tentatively at first, getting to know one another. Edward had not seen Susan for two years and was unsure how his sister would take his new relationship. Oliver was intrigued by Susan. An attractive, self-assured young lady of high intelligence with a degree was a rare find. And, as fate would have it, she was also a trained and experienced teacher. He suggested a picnic at Oxford, which was met with ready acquiescence. Arrangements were made for the following Sunday.
“I’ll see if the Rolls is available,” mused Oliver. “Must ring father, haven’t spoken to him in ages.”
Oliver, Sir Oliver Marchmaine, was an unaffected young man of intense intelligence who saw life as a great adventure to be lived to the full. He was also unyieldingly loyal to his country, England, which is why he had joined Military Intelligence on leaving Oxford.
It was 1910 and Europe was stirring. It was a time full of interest, intrigue and danger. The European chessboard was becoming increasingly complex, the moves more subtle. A time when an unexpected move or feint could have profound consequences.
Regaining her balance, the woman’s eyes were drawn, hesitantly at first, resisting back to Beit-al-Ajaib. She wondered if it was still the same. Still the same centre of power and intrigue that had been so much a part of her life all those years before; that had defined her life.
She remembered those first few moments, remembered standing in the foyer of the palace, .………… remembered the breathtakingly beautiful Persian tapestry ........
The sea breeze stirred her clothes. She smiled a little sadly, and in her mind the tapestry gently swayed. Two small apparitions ran giggling up the stairs: two small exquisitely rich burkas disappearing along the first floor landing. Childish squeals of mischief and joy left in the air.......
“Move to seaward, you accused of Allah! Move!”
Her thoughts were clawed back to the dhow, the captain crashing the tiller over to avoid another boat on the crowded harbour. The woman instinctively ducked her head to avoid the heavy boom as it swung over her, the rusty cockerels squawked their raucous indignation, their heads straining through the latticework, relentless.
The collision avoided, the dhow continued on its way. The cacophony dying down to the occasional command by the captain or the cry of a seagull.
The woman's thoughts returned to Beit-al-Ajaib
…………. laughing and giggling, girls of seven or eight. A door on the first floor slammed and all sounds of them disappeared. Silence. The woman smiled. She could see herself, a young woman, dressed plainly, unselfconsciously, her sexuality tantalisingly just out of reach, hidden beneath the thin veil of her clothing. She remembered standing alone in the foyer, looking around, perplexed. Asim came through a door to the left of the tapestry.
“Salaam.”
The woman started and looked around. Then, realising, was cold again. Alone again. Alone, rocking to and fro to the rythm of the sea. Alone, beside a rough-hewn coffin.
Now Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages
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