He proudly shared this incident at the next school assembly.
On one of the occasions when I had to go for cardiac rehabilitation after my heart attack in late 1978, I saw Mr Jesudason sitting on a wheelchair, accompanied by his wife. I was shocked. “Oh my God, he was such an active person. He was a boxer and a black belt judo exponent,” I thought. I saw him sitting there looking so helpless. I went up to him and asked, “Mr Jesudason, do you remember me?”
He stared at my face for a while. “I remember you. I can’t remember your name. You were the one who played football.”
“Yes, I’m Subhas. Sir, what are you doing here?”
“Never mind about what I am doing here. At this age, what are you doing here?” he asked.
I told him that I had suffered a massive heart attack and was advised by my cardiologist to attend rehabilitation classes. He said, “You were such a fine sportsman. What have you done to yourself?”
“Well, sir, when you start working, your routine changes and inevitably there is a lifestyle change.”
“Yes, everybody wants to make money and they forget the greater issues in life. I hope you recover and will be back to your normal self again.” He took my hand and pulled it towards him. “May God bless you,” he said. I thanked him and said goodbye to him and his wife, who was standing behind him and smiling at me.
Not long after that, on a return from one of my business trips to Manila, I was told that Mr Jesudason had died of heart failure. Although I was not close to him, I was quite sad to hear the news. He was one of those who made life in RI a little bit more pleasant for me with all his amusing, sometimes even political, comments. I remember him as a tough man who didn’t treat the sons of ministers and presidents differently from other students. His stint as an RI principal lasted only from 1963 to 1966 and I feel fortunate that my time in RI coincided with his tenure as a principal.
FOUR
UNIVERSITY DAYS
After RI, I wasn’t too keen to go on to university as I felt that I had studied more than enough. With my ‘A’ level certificate, I could have joined the police force. Two of my close friends had done that. My father insisted that I get a university degree though, and he didn’t really care what I read. I still remember his words: “Son, when I die, I will be leaving you nothing except the education I give you. I am not rich, but I will make all of you university graduates.”
I noted the steely determination in his voice even as I argued with him. If my father had relented, I suppose I’d be a retired policeman by now. I told my father that it would be difficult to travel all the way to Bukit Timah Road where the university campus was located. The journey to RI had taken about 90 minutes, and I couldn’t contemplate another long period with the same travel time. I demanded a car even though I didn’t have a driving licence yet. My father just kept quiet and reminded me to send in my university application forms.
It was a choice between business administration and law. Since I had no business acumen, I picked law and was accepted by the University of Singapore. When I showed my father the acceptance letter, he just smiled. A few days later, he bought me a car—a brand new Austin 1100. The registration number was SM 8788. I learnt he had withdrawn money from his CPF to buy it.
The next day, I hung two ‘L’ plates on the bumpers of the car and drove it around with my friend Ah Teng who had a licence. We were driving along very comfortably, radio blaring, until we turned into Mandai Road. We then ran head-on into a Malaysia-registered Peugeot. It was unbelievable. We weren’t travelling that fast. But Mandai Road used to be one of those long and winding roads where you can sometimes veer onto the wrong side of the road at the bends if you’re not careful.
As a driver with zero experience, I guess an accident was on the cards. Both cars were badly
On one of the occasions when I had to go for cardiac rehabilitation after my heart attack in late 1978, I saw Mr Jesudason sitting on a wheelchair, accompanied by his wife. I was shocked. “Oh my God, he was such an active person. He was a boxer and a black belt judo exponent,” I thought. I saw him sitting there looking so helpless. I went up to him and asked, “Mr Jesudason, do you remember me?”
He stared at my face for a while. “I remember you. I can’t remember your name. You were the one who played football.”
“Yes, I’m Subhas. Sir, what are you doing here?”
“Never mind about what I am doing here. At this age, what are you doing here?” he asked.
I told him that I had suffered a massive heart attack and was advised by my cardiologist to attend rehabilitation classes. He said, “You were such a fine sportsman. What have you done to yourself?”
“Well, sir, when you start working, your routine changes and inevitably there is a lifestyle change.”
“Yes, everybody wants to make money and they forget the greater issues in life. I hope you recover and will be back to your normal self again.” He took my hand and pulled it towards him. “May God bless you,” he said. I thanked him and said goodbye to him and his wife, who was standing behind him and smiling at me.
Not long after that, on a return from one of my business trips to Manila, I was told that Mr Jesudason had died of heart failure. Although I was not close to him, I was quite sad to hear the news. He was one of those who made life in RI a little bit more pleasant for me with all his amusing, sometimes even political, comments. I remember him as a tough man who didn’t treat the sons of ministers and presidents differently from other students. His stint as an RI principal lasted only from 1963 to 1966 and I feel fortunate that my time in RI coincided with his tenure as a principal.
FOUR
UNIVERSITY DAYS
After RI, I wasn’t too keen to go on to university as I felt that I had studied more than enough. With my ‘A’ level certificate, I could have joined the police force. Two of my close friends had done that. My father insisted that I get a university degree though, and he didn’t really care what I read. I still remember his words: “Son, when I die, I will be leaving you nothing except the education I give you. I am not rich, but I will make all of you university graduates.”
I noted the steely determination in his voice even as I argued with him. If my father had relented, I suppose I’d be a retired policeman by now. I told my father that it would be difficult to travel all the way to Bukit Timah Road where the university campus was located. The journey to RI had taken about 90 minutes, and I couldn’t contemplate another long period with the same travel time. I demanded a car even though I didn’t have a driving licence yet. My father just kept quiet and reminded me to send in my university application forms.
It was a choice between business administration and law. Since I had no business acumen, I picked law and was accepted by the University of Singapore. When I showed my father the acceptance letter, he just smiled. A few days later, he bought me a car—a brand new Austin 1100. The registration number was SM 8788. I learnt he had withdrawn money from his CPF to buy it.
The next day, I hung two ‘L’ plates on the bumpers of the car and drove it around with my friend Ah Teng who had a licence. We were driving along very comfortably, radio blaring, until we turned into Mandai Road. We then ran head-on into a Malaysia-registered Peugeot. It was unbelievable. We weren’t travelling that fast. But Mandai Road used to be one of those long and winding roads where you can sometimes veer onto the wrong side of the road at the bends if you’re not careful.
As a driver with zero experience, I guess an accident was on the cards. Both cars were badly
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