The melancholic strains of Bach’s sarabande in Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor filled the living room, a poignant counterpoint to the old man’s usual state of mind. For him, youth had always been a permanent fixture in his mind, a given, a conviction not required, despite the quick marching of time. Years of declining physical fitness, the persistent aches and pains that had become unwelcome companions, and his Mrs’s constant, albeit gentle, reminders that he was “not the young man he used to be” had done little to dislodge this deep-seated belief. He had even, on occasion, been told to “behave his age,” a directive he usually met with a blank face. His worsening eyesight, a consequence of a torn epiretinal membrane – perhaps from an ill-fated early morning dive into a monsoon drain with his bicycle during his teenage years, or simply the unavoidable erosion of time – had also failed to truly convince him of his advancing years.

But this morning, something was different. The rich, resonant tones of Bach blared from his Mrs’s iPad, and several minutes into the YouTube stream, he stopped reading his book. His gaze drifted upwards, unfocused, towards nothing in particular. The sarabande, with its profound depth and measured grace, had by then enveloped the room. It was like a ghost, not of fear, but of profound nostalgia, streaming in from the distant past. It pulled him in with a gravitational force, drawing him into a deep abyss of time. He was no longer in his comfortable armchair, but transported to a period when he was a young father, his sons still in their early teenage years, their eager hands learning Bach pieces for cello and violin. Bach’s six cello suites, a must in their repertoire, became a daily spiritual sustenance.

A sudden, disorienting sense of being lost in time washed over him, and a prickle of tears stung his eyes. “Oh, my three sons,” he murmured, the words barely audible. They had left their nest so young, so long ago. Their dimples, their bright, inquisitive eyes, their unrestrained laughter that had once filled these very rooms, their eager and warm welcomes when he returned home from work – all flooded back with overwhelming emotional force.

The room, long filled with the muted hum of everyday life, now resonated with a different kind of energy. It was the warmth of those bygone years, a golden glow that seemed to emanate from the very air, a palpable presence that settled around him. Not just a memory, but a true sensation, as if the past had walked in on silent feet. This wasn’t a sudden, jarring intrusion, but a gentle, welcome guest, bringing with it the echo of a carefree existence. He could feel the weight of sadness lift, the mourning for his dying mother, their matriarch who would soon be 102 years old, replaced by the lightness of a period of uncomplicated bliss. A smile, unbidden, touched his lips as he savoured the fleeting return of an era when worries were few and joy was a constant companion for his sons. Yet, like all cherished moments, this embrace of the past was a transient one, a beautiful memory destined to recede into the recesses of his burdened mind, leaving behind only the lingering scent of nostalgia.

In that moment, it was Bach, not the physical aches or the fading vision or his Mrs’s gentle chidings, who finally convinced him. His youth had indeed left him. The memories, imbued with the timeless beauty of Bach’s music, had once filled his house with an overflowing sense of love and a deep, abiding spirituality. Now, they pierced his soul, not with sorrow, but with a sudden, powerful summons. They invoked a revival, a vivid recollection of a history teeming with reachable hopes and vibrant excitement, a history that had seemed so distant, almost forgotten. But in this awakening, a profound realisation dawned: the healing of his body and soul suddenly felt imperative, a necessary journey. And with that, a rebirth of the meaning to life, a renewed sense of fatherhood, seemed rewarding and meaningful again.

In the relentless rhythm of his days, the mundane daily grind stretched into a lifetime of toil, each sunrise mirroring the last. For countless years, his singular purpose had been to be an achiever in life – a concept that was hazily defined. In fact, it turned out to be the simple idea to provide – food on the table, a roof overhead, and the unyielding sense of security for his young family. This unwavering dedication, this ceaseless exertion, had long served as his impenetrable shield against the often-heard, seemingly idealistic pronouncement: “money does not buy happiness.”

“Well, money at least gets us a deposit for a mortgage!” he would retort, a familiar argument ready on his lips. His words were not born of cynicism, but of a deep-seated pragmatism honed by the harsh realities of existence. He understood the tangible, the immediate, the vital role of financial stability in building a foundation for life. To him, the notion that happiness could exist independently of such fundamental provisions was a luxury only those untouched by true hardship could afford. His own mother’s parsimony he had witnessed from young struck a familiar cord once he had his own young brood to bring up.

He would often find himself in a quiet, internal debate, acknowledging the hypocrisy he perceived in certain circles. He wouldn’t be surprised, he mused, that those who so readily condemned “the love of money” as evil would simultaneously view their own earnings as the righteous fruits of their labour, not as ill-gotten lucre. This distinction, he felt, was a convenient narrative, a way to reconcile their own pursuit of wealth with their moral pronouncements. Kerry Packer, once Australia’s richest man, famously remarked that “wealth is a huge burden, but it is not a burden I would gladly off-load to others.” For the old man, there was no such pretence; money was a tool, a currency not necessary for survival in a social welfare state like Australia, but a means to execute his responsibility as the bread winner and, if he was lucky, a modicum of personal comfort. It was the honest reward for honest work, a means of his sacrifice and commitment to bring up his young family, and a vital element if not a major stepping stone to help fulfil their own dreams.

“Mak beh fa,” the old man’s mother had said to him the night before, her voice a reedy whisper that still held the ghost of its former strength. “Give me some of your hair.” Her request, so simple yet profound, hung in the air for him, laden with unspoken anxieties.

“Ahma, you have lots of hair still,” he replied, with a casualness in his tone, a thin veil to hide the sharp sting of guilt. He remembered the other day, the careless remark, tossed out without a second thought, about her thinning hair. He had unthinkingly alarmed her, and the image of her sudden, fragile distress had haunted him ever since. He could still see the tremor in her hand as she instinctively reached up to touch her silvery strands, sometimes tugging at them, a silent confirmation of his thoughtless observation.

The old man visited his mother four times a week, a duty he undertook religiously, his devotion unwavering. He never relied on the nursing home’s food, even though he knew that it was nutritious, very possibly balanced by dieticians. But the colourful balls of pureed food, meticulously shaped and presented, were, to him, repugnant, tasting the same whenever he tried the leftovers. They tasted the same, a monotonous blend of the same predictable spices, a culinary echo of the sterile environment. “Give her good food,” he told himself, within earshot of the Mrs to hear. That was all she had left in life to look forward to, a small, tangible pleasure in a life that was rapidly shrinking around her, assuming, of course, that she still possessed the alertness, the cognitive clarity, to even think ahead, to anticipate the next meal.

As he watched her, a wave of regret washed over him. “You’re supposed to be giving her peace. Serenity. Calmness. Comfort.” he chided himself, his internal voice a harsh, unforgiving critic. 

“I wasn’t thinking. It was just a passing comment, just small talk,” he rationalised, his internal monologue a desperate attempt to soothe his guilty conscience. He argued with his other self, the one that held him accountable, the one that saw through his flimsy excuses, the one that never bought his lies. It was a battle he fought frequently, between the son or husband who wanted to do right and the man who, despite his best intentions, often stumbled.

So, there he was. Instead of giving his mother the loving care she so desperately needed, the gentle reassurance, the quiet comfort, he was, in that moment, forgiving himself. He was caught in the familiar loop of regret and self-absolution, a cycle that offered zero solace to his mother. The weight of his guilt pressed down on him, a heavy, invisible burden.

Giving and forgiving – these are acts of love to be cherished but it is easier said than done.