Relaxing in a comfortable armchair

CHENG FATT WAS sitting on a high,  hard,  comfortless stool.  His head, with the shock of bristling black hair was tilted, and, at first glance, the boy looked as if he was reading.  Yet, his lips were not moving.  Every nerve of his body was taut.

    A voice from the adjoining room shattered the silence.  It was the loud, husky voice of a middle-aged man - Tan Cheng Tat, the father.  Receiving no reply, he repeated the order,  "Cheng Fatt, bring me today's paper!"  Nevertheless, Cheng Fatt did not reply, nor did he show any sign that he would.  He was still reading.  Noise meant very little to him.  He was oblivious to everything now.  His  roaming eyes and tapering fingers ever on the alert to turn the pages of his book told the story of one deeply absorbed in theexcitement of an unfinished tale.  He was reading a thrilling western comic.

    His father, before firing his order, was relaxing in a comfortable armchair.  Beside him was a book entitled "How To Relax".  Having read the first chapter he was now practising the technique of true relaxation.

    Then out of the blue, a stray thought flew into his mind.  Unique, utterly different, it began to battle for supremacy with the thought of relaxation.  What was this new thought that was so overwhelmingly great?  Nobody could know just then.  Not in the least until his youngest son, Cheng Koh, arrived with the newspaper.  Mr. Tan was so pleased to receive it.  Assuming an air of austerity, he said to Cheng Koh:

    "Where is your brother, Cheng Fatt?'

    "He is in the other room, " he answered in casual tones.

    "What is he doing there?' pressed the father, trying to look as serious as he could.

     Unthinkingly, Cheng Koh replied,  "He is ......." Then suddently he held his tongue.

    "Come on, " boomed the angry man, "out with it!"

    Cheng Koh got the warning note.  His brain raced.  He had to think out a false answer in order to save his brother.  But it was no use.  He was too slow.

    It was his father who spoke next.  Hazarding a guess, he said,  "Honestly, Cheng Koh, it serves no purpose to tell me lie.  I know Cheng Fatt is still at his comics.  Would you, " he asked triumphantly, "deny it this time?"

    The boy did not deny.   He knew his father had only to walk to the next room to confirm it.

    So his guess right, Mr Tan thought.  Nevertheless, he was not contented  with just a guess.  Anger was still welling in him.

    "Damn it!"  he echoed,  "that boy is a nincompoop - a real  stubborn donkey if ever there was one.  Still wasting his time, eh?  And at this time of the year,  too, with Sarawak Junior examination coming soon.  There's no excuse.  I'll thrash him soundly."

    Just then his eyes fell on the newspaper.  "Oh!"  he exclaimed, suddently remembering that his article was still unread.  Uneasily he motioned his son to leave with the words: "You may go now."

    With his son gone, Mr. Tan felt better. In the privacy of his own room he felt secured from intrusion.  He had given strict orders not to be disturbed when reading newspapers.  With a smile of satisfaction, he began the coarse pages. Theb cold, silent stare of the headlines did not hold his rambling eyes.  Impervious to their appeal, he brushed them aside.  For him, there was only one appeal and that was to be found on page 10, column 3.

    Presently, his search was ended.  The page slipped into view.  The gaze of his eyes sharpened.  There was the story he wanted to read so much.  But then he suddently remembered his spectacles were upstairs.  Should he call his son to fatch them?  "No," he declared promptly,  "I'll go faster myself."

    So up the stairs he scrambled.  Five seconds passed.  Then down he came, a little red in the face and panting heavily.  Ten more paces brought him into the room.  Five more to his chair.  Now seated and with his spectacles perched precariously on the tips of his nose, his eyes peered into the paper.

    He was not reading; only gazing at simple sketches.  Lifely, yet without life; moving, yet without movement.These sketches were akin to those found in comic books.  Strangely enough, these cartoons did not merely give Mr.Tan pleasure, they also helped to maintain his dignity.  That was what he wanted and craved for. As long as he dissociated himself from comics in the usual form of arresting booklets, he would not bera the shame of being identified with comics fans. No one would dream that he was more interested in comic strips than news when he was reading newspapers.

    How could he have the heart to punish Cheng Fatt when he himself had fallen victims to the comic's charm?