He left for the U.S. on a Monday afternoon. By the time I arrived at the airport, he was already there, surrounded by friends, their laughter echoing through the departure hall. For a moment, he was one of them, carefree, buoyed by the excitement of a new chapter.
But when he caught sight of me, he paused mid-conversation, and his face broke into that familiar smile. Just one look, yet it reached me across the noise and bustle like a secret meant only for us.
I walked over and took a seat beside his mother and younger sister.
“How’s your knee?” I asked her gently. She had recently undergone an operation, and she sighed as she told me she’d need to return for a follow-up next week. Knowing her daughter would be tied up with college classes, I offered to accompany her. Her eyes softened in gratitude.
His two elder brothers were there too, though they kept to themselves. Married, with families of their own, they came alone this time. I had never asked much about their wives, though I knew enough. His mother often lamented about her daughters-in-law, how they ‘controlled’ her sons, how visits grew fewer only on Deepavali, or if something urgent demanded it.
The excuses were always the same: too busy with work. I never joined in her complaints, though I listened. Suresh himself rarely spoke of them. He was closest to his younger sister, the one in Temasek Junior College. Their bond was easy and genuine, unlike the strained silence that hung around his older brothers. Sitting there in the departure hall, surrounded by family and friends, I felt the weight of what was coming.
This wasn’t just a trip it was a crossing. He was stepping into a different world. And though I was proud, a part of me already missed him.
“In-law issues are always complicated,” I admitted to myself. “And Indian customs well, I was still learning, slowly, step by step.”
“My mother likes you,” Suresh told me once with that teasing grin.
“Why?” I asked, half wary.
“Because you’re a nurse,” he said, matter-of-fact. “She likes nurses. Doesn’t matter Malay, Chinese, or Indian as long as you’re a nurse, she’ll like you. She’s the one who told me I should marry a nurse.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Even though I’m Malay?”
He hesitated, his voice softening. “We’ve not come to that stage yet. But for now… she really likes you. And that’s good for us. She holds nurses in very high regard.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. To be liked because of my profession felt strange as if my uniform had paved the way more than me as a person. Still, I told myself I should be honoured. Her acceptance, however small, meant something.
She was a simple-minded woman, really, with simple expectations. Like many elderly parents, what she longed for most wasn’t wealth or prestige, but to be heard. To sit, to talk, to have someone listen with patience. That was what gave her happiness, what made her feel seen.And I understood that.
It wasn’t always easy especially when time pressed, and I had duties pulling me away. She could be long-winded, circling the same stories, while my mind tugged toward urgent matters waiting.
But I tried. Because what else did she have to look forward to, if not those moments with her children, and someday her grandchildren? Nurses often lament that they are not given enough recognition or respect not from doctors, not from patients, not even from the public.
But I’ve always wondered: is respect something we can demand? Or is it something we must first earn?How can nurses expect others to value us if we don’t value ourselves, our own profession? What have we done to better ourselves, to grow in knowledge, in skill, in presence to warrant that respect?
I’ve seen too many who treat nursing as nothing more than a job. A steady income, a secure posting, a profession always in demand. And it’s true nurses are rarely retrenched, and only the truly hopeless cases ever get dismissed. But that safety net can be a double-edged sword.
Stability breeds comfort. And comfort, if we are not careful, breeds complacency. Complacency that dulls our edge, numbs our compassion, and turns us into clock-watchers instead of healers. Worse still, it can slip into incompetence.That thought unsettles me.
Because for me, nursing is not just about stability or security it is about responsibility. It is about pride in our craft, about carrying ourselves in a way that commands respect rather than begging for it. He came one evening with a gift, neatly wrapped in brown paper. I could tell by the weight and the shape that it was a book the only kind of gift I ever allowed myself to accept from him.
No gold, no jewellery, nothing extravagant. “I wouldn’t know what to do with such things,” I had told him once. “But books books I will treasure like gems.”I peeled back the paper carefully, the way I always did, and opened the book straight to the first chapter.
I loved to read the introduction first, to get a taste of the journey waiting inside. But instead of words, a folded slip of paper fell into my lap.I unfolded it and froze.It was his results slip. His A-level results. My eyes skimmed the page : Full Certificate. Straight As. Every single subject.
Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my cheeks.
“But I passed,” he said quickly, leaning closer, confusion flashing across his face. “Didn’t you see? I got my full cert. All As. Why are you crying?”
I couldn’t answer. I just cried harder, my chest heaving as I tried to hold it back. He stared, stunned, almost lost, as if my tears made no sense to him.But they weren’t tears of sadness. They were the release of everything we had walked through together the long nights, the doubts, the moments when he nearly gave up and I refused to let him.
And now, here was the proof of it all, tucked quietly into the pages of a book. We both applied for places at the National University of Singapore he for Business, and I for either Law or Social Science. Neither of us got in. But we weren’t disappointed. If anything, it felt like the world was nudging us in a different direction.
He cast his net wider, applying to several universities in the U.S. and Canada, and soon the letters began to arrive. Thick envelopes, full of possibilities. In the end, he chose Indiana University, Bloomington.
I had my own plan too. Nursing had always been my path, and I applied for the nursing degree program at Indiana University. To my delight, they accepted me. I owe that, in no small part, to the strong reference letters from my Higher Nursing Officer and Head of Department.
For a moment, the dream was alive the idea of us both flying to Indiana, starting new chapters side by side.But life had other plans. Father suffered another attack this time not only his heart, but his brain. A mild stroke. And soon after, Mother’s health faltered too. Another growth was found in her right breast.
Suddenly, the thought of leaving felt impossible. They insisted I should still go, that I should think of my future. But how could I? How could I chase a degree abroad knowing they were here, battling illness?So I stayed.
And I have no regrets. My time would come, I told myself. But not now. Not yet. For now, my duty was here, with them.As for Suresh, he went ahead. Financing his studies was not easy, but he made it possible. Years of savings from his army pay, added to what his mother had quietly put aside, formed the bulk of it. She wanted this for him, even if it meant tightening her own belt.
I gave him some of mine too not much, but enough to feel part of his journey.It wasn’t charity, nor obligation. It was my way of saying: Go. Do what I cannot do now. Carry both our hopes with you.They needed me here, and so I stayed. It wasn’t resignation it was choice. I told myself I would find something to do, something meaningful, to keep me occupied.
With Suresh gone, the hours would stretch, the silence would grow but perhaps, in that space, I could also grow.I promised myself I would take up courses, improve my skills, open new doors. And then, the very next day, as if the universe was listening, I spotted an advertisement in the local papers: “Be a Journalist!” The words leapt out at me.
My heart gave a jolt. That single line became the beginning of a whole new world I never imagined for myself. He was a popular guy I could see it from the crowd at the airport. Almost all his friends had come, including several of his army buddies. Manoj and Velu, his closest friends from the Ramakrishna Home, were there too.Manoj, now an insurance agent, teased me once that I was his strangest client the first person to call him up on her twenty-first birthday asking for an endowment policy.
That policy is still alive today, and Manoj has since become my financial consultant. Velu, brilliant as always, was working as a systems analyst with HP. And then the moment came.He shook hands with his friends, hugged his brothers and sister, and bent down to touch his mother’s feet, seeking her blessing.
Finally, he turned to me. He leaned in, pressed a kiss lightly on my forehead, and whispered in my ear, soft enough that only I could hear:“I’m off. Hold the fort for me while I’m gone. I will be back… a promise.”
And then he walked away, into the departure hall, without looking back. I stood rooted to the spot, his words echoing in me, watching until he disappeared through the gates.
Several of them, including Richard and Kevin, offered to drive me home, but I refused.
“I’ll go up to the restaurant for lunch,” I told them. His mother, brothers, and sister had already left. I promised his mother I would visit her in a few days. But I didn’t go to the restaurant. Instead, I found myself walking quietly to the departure hall viewing gallery.
I sat there alone, gazing through the wide glass panes at the airplane that would carry him away.Strangely, there was no sadness today. The ache that had threatened to overwhelm me earlier was gone. He had to go and I had to let him.
He looked so happy, so certain that his plan had worked out. And I believed it would. One day, he would return, and everything would be as it should be. We would have our future together.But for now, out of love, I had to let him go.
And if he was truly meant for me, he would come back just as he promised. There were other faces at the airport too friends from his pre-Ramakrishna days. A very different group altogether. The rowdy bunch, as Suresh used to call them.
“They just like to fight and fight,” he once told me with a wry smile. “That’s their favorite pastime. If anything happens, they’ll beat you up first, then talk.”
“Look like gangsters to me,” I muttered once after seeing them in action.
“They are,” he admitted. “And the guy you saw me talking to the other day he’s the leader. Feared by both Indians and Chinese alike.”
I never pressed him further, though I felt uneasy whenever I saw him with them in public. Part of me wanted to ask, Why still keep their company? But another part of me sensed it was better left unasked.
“They’re my childhood friends,” he explained once, catching the look on my face. “We grew up together. I went to Ramakrishna Home. They stayed as they were. But how can I not continue to be their friend?”
His voice carried no excuses, only a quiet loyalty. And though I still felt a knot of unease, I said nothing more. Some bonds, I realized, ran deeper than sense or safety. I didn’t want to be judgmental about others. He was right, they were his friends.
“They just like to fight amongst themselves,” Suresh reassured me with a half-smile. Then he added, more seriously, “If I’m gone, and anybody disturbs you, you can call either one of them. One of them already promised me they’ll look out for you, make sure nobody bothers you.”
I laughed. “Wow, so now I have a bodyguard? Should I feel safe, then? You know I don’t need all that.”
“I know,” he said gently. “But you see… for these people, it matters. I’m not just any ordinary friend to them. We grew up together. And because of that, they feel it’s their duty to protect their friend’s girlfriend. So just let them be. I don’t want to hurt their feelings. They’re the ones who offered. They just want to make sure I can leave with peace of mind that’s their way of showing they care. What else can they give? This is what they can. So I said okay.”
As I sat there, I found myself replaying the moments we’d shared in those last few days the laughter, the silences, even the little worries left unsaid. There was still so much to talk about, especially about our coming separation.
He called it a good thing, in a way “a space for ourselves,” he said, “to be sure this is what we really want.” He was honest about it not being easy. “Long-distance relationships are hard,” he told me. “You should still go out with your friends, even if they’re guys. I trust you completely. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise, especially if you ever feel lonely.”
I understood where he was coming from. He’d told me once about his first girlfriend, an Indian girl he met during SBMT. They broke up because of the distance. Her reason was simple, and it hurt him deeply: she was lonely, and he wasn’t there.
Maybe he was right. It’s difficult to say… especially when you’ve been with someone so much, then suddenly they’re gone.
“Anything can happen to me,” he said quietly. “An accident… death… Promise me you’ll try, if it comes to that… to find someone new, to start a new life.”
Before he could go on, the words broke something in me. Tears spilled before I could stop them. He froze, stunned, as if someone had struck him.
“Please don’t cry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t talk about this again. Nothing will happen to either of us. I won’t do anything stupid, promise. I’ll stay out of trouble just don’t cry.”
But I couldn’t stop, and he only grew more frantic. For once, the man who could make a joke out of anything was paralyzed. He kept repeating, almost like a child, please don’t cry, please don’t cry.
And somewhere in the middle of my tears, I almost laughed. Because he looked so lost, so undone by my tears, it was almost funny. He could handle anger, sadness, even my sharp words but tears? Tears left him utterly defenseless.
A hundred things were swirling in my head. The ward had been chaos that day, several admissions from emergency, one after another. The worst was a Malaysian construction worker, only in his thirties. He had fallen from the eighth floor, brought in with multiple fractures and massive internal injuries.
We tried, how we tried to keep him alive. I stood there assisting with the resuscitation, watching his broken body fight for every last breath. He kept calling his wife’s and children’s names, fading in and out of consciousness, until finally he slipped under.
I had to be the one to watch the monitor, to record the exact moment when his chest rose for the last time… and then stilled. That time would go on the death certificate. I was the witness.We’re told as nurses to control our emotions.
To stay detached. Tears in front of a patient or their family are considered unprofessional. But the truth is… how do you detach when you’re watching a man die whispering his children’s names? How do you detach when you know his family is waiting in another country, hoping he’ll come home with money for school fees, and instead, he’s leaving in a coffin?
I held it in as long as I could. I pretended I was fine. I told myself, I am okay, I am okay. Until Suresh started with his speech about accidents, about death, about what I should do if he were gone. That was the trigger.
Suddenly the dam broke. I wasn’t crying just for him, he didn’t know that, I was crying for the construction worker, for his wife and children, for every migrant who came to Singapore with hope but never made it back home.
How could I explain that to him?
How could I tell him I wasn’t crying for him at all…
