Life is not a coincidence, at least for me. At my age of 67, when I look back and begin to put the puzzle pieces together, I begin to see the pattern emerge. My earliest memories are of me residing at Jalan Tembusu, Assam Kumbang, Taiping. What stands out till today in my memory is the small shrine at the back of the land where the house stood. It was that of Madurai Veeran. But there was no statue of him. Only an oil lamp was lit. He stood guard, keeping us safe from danger. Today relatives have given him a proper home. We had a guardian deity look over our shoulders from a young age. Was this a coincidence, as we were only occupying and sharing a portion of the house with the owner?
Then the Chinese deity in our neighbour's house, who gave me life, comes to mind. Apparently, when my parents lost two of my siblings because of severe diarrhea and purging, and when I succumbed to it too, they rushed me to our neighbor, where the Gods, coming in his trance, saved me, after my parents agreed at that moment to give me up for adoption to the Gods. As I grew up, the Chinese Gods became my savior and Godfather. I remember the Chinese neighbor, shirtless, while chanting, would strike himself with the blunt end of a sword. I could see his back turn red, carrying the brunt of the sword. He would write Chinese characters onto a strip of yellow rice paper in red ink, and burn it, collecting its ashes in a glass of water and having me drink it. I would recover. Was this a coincidence, to happen to be staying within reach of the Gods?
As all seven of us siblings had all grown up, we had to move to another house that could accommodate us. We arrived at Lorong Creagh. While here, I would often visit the Wat Phodhiyaram Thai Buddhist Temple next door to sit and listen to the stories told about the Buddha, chant and pray, and enjoy the free food they served. We used to look for these Buddhist monks whenever we fell sick, where they would chant and tie strings around our wrists. Was this a coincidence that we had "doctors" stand by and just within reach in our neighborhood?
I remember visiting the Indian Muslim Mosques too, where strings were tied around our wrists, accompanied by verses chanted from the Holy Quran.
The first time I visited the hospital was when a relative's dog bit me on my thigh when I was 13. Fearing rabies, I went to get an injection. After that, I weaned off the bottle as they say, and frequented the hospital for all my ailments, which I should say were rare, as I was in the care of my Godfather. As a bachelor, with my mother often reminding me that I was saved by the Gods, I would visit Chinese temples, looking them up and paying homage to them.
Later, as a student at St. George's Institution, a missionary school, I used to sit in the chapel while my friends of the Christian faith prayed. Much later, I took up a Bible Correspondence Course from a Church in Singapore where they would mail me by post course materials, and I would have to read, answer, and send them back to them.
My friends in the neighborhood of Ceylonese roots and I would attend Thevaram classes held by a teacher from Ceylon, too.
Finishing my secondary schooling, I took up a Certificate Course in Civil Engineering at the Ungku Omar Polytechnic in Ipoh. A Pakistani college gardener who had to catch the first bus at 5.15am, just like me, would sit beside me and fill me in about Islam. Was this a coincidence that I should be exposed to all the religions back then and have so many Gods look after me?
My mother, Annaletchumy @ Valliammai Ramasamy, who was fond of telling stories, used to say that as I was her eighth child, I would hold fort in a distant place. Neighbors would come around telling her that they had dreams of Gods telling them that they had visited our home. Was this how the Gods are telling us that they were with us?
Unknown to us, my father, S.N.Avadaiyappa Chettiar, who hailed from Sivagangai in Tamil Nadu, returned to India, apparently to become a monk at an Ashram. A string of bullets from a machine gun fired from a Japanese plane had missed him by inches as he came out from the bank holding hard cash in his hands, for he was a moneylender by profession and a Chettiar by caste. Just like the saint Pattinathar, he dropped everything and sought to know his true purpose. But the head of the ashram, after having him around for some time, told him to go back to his family, as he had responsibilities to see through. His parting words to him were, if God willed, we shall meet again. But it was not meant to happen. It is indeed a pity that I was not inquisitive enough at that tender age of eight to ask him the guru's name or the ashram he stayed in. I do not remember if he told me, too. He must have picked up some secrets from his master, I guess, for when his time was up, he went to a corner of my brother's home where my parents were staying and sat in Padmasana, pupils looking up, and left his body. When my mother came back with a cup of coffee, which he always makes for himself, but exceptionally asked for it that day, seeing him in that state, she placed her hand on his shoulder when he toppled over onto her lap and passed away. The medical personnel who came with the ambulance confirmed his death. Was this a coincidence that my father should leave his home in Sivagangai to travel first to Burma and later to Ceylon and Singapore before settling in Malaya to do business? Was this a coincidence that I should be born in this family that showed us Sariyai and practiced Yoga, probably passed on the merit of their Tavam or austerities?