Last weekend my wife and I brought our family to the cinema. Nothing special about that. However, the selection of the movie was something else. Instead of watching one of the string of children's movies available at TGV (it's the holiday season), at the very last minute I opted for a Malay movie. It's a poorly advertised half-comedy depicting the rock era of the mid eighties, but somehow it caught my attention.

The kids stared at the tickets half-heartedly, hardly able to conceal their disappointment. They couldn't for the life of them fathom why I chose to watch that particular movie instead of other 'high quality' Hollywood movies such as The Chronicles of Narnia .

Rock on dad!

We could have easily settled for other movies like The Exorcism of Emily Rose , or the equally mystical Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam II. The latter, of course, is partly because of the title which could be loosely translated as 'The Flying Banshee of the Nice Smelling Whore'. But actually it's less exotic than that since Sundal Malam is a type of flower, not a whore, but it featured Maya Karin, something that the kids could look forward to see. The kids, not me.

No, this particular movie - ROCK! - we were about to watch didn't feature any prominent cast. No Maya Karin. No Erra or Yusry. How did I explain my reason to my children? I wanted to revisit that particular era. Yup for me, it was all about good, heavy rockin' music; remember the Malaysian Rock Summit known as the Battle Of The Bands? It was synonymous with my growing up years. Naturally the chance to watch a movie revolving around the rock era intrigued me.

The movie itself was better than expected, and even the kids loved it. My wife and I enjoyed each and every scene. I left the cinema, thinking of fond memories of leather jackets and torn jeans, rock music and all the shouting and shrieking which somehow managed to pass as vocals. Memories of district level rock summits at Chinese Assembly Halls, with HA (Hospital Attendants) and Land Office Clerks as the professional juries.

Looking back further, we were lucky to be able to see the evolution of a wide genre of music: psychedelic, mod, rock, punk, new wave, heavy metal, reggae, jazz etc. Of course now it's pretty much the same, but the passion is just not there anymore. When we were in school, we even formed cliques according to that genre of music we listen to. What is it now? Siti Norhaliza? Mawi? Fuh! Little wonder why some adults go for Inul Darastita's Goyang Gerudi instead.

Generation gap

"Were you dressed like that then?" Without warning one of my kids popped out this question, and I was jolted back to reality. That was then. This is the here and now.

"No," I replied curtly, trying to make it sound not too lame, or too harsh, and at the same time, not too judgmental. Deep inside me I wished to tell them that, to a certain extent, I actually did. At the same time I did not want them to get the idea that it's the way to go. I'd hate to see them wear metal studs or whatever it is that's the 'in' thing now. At the same time too I don't want them to be overly prejudiced; falling into the trap of prematurely judging other people by the way they dress up.

"Okay," came the reply, sounding somewhat relieved. "Thought it looked old-fashioned." I wanted to laugh at this. Perhaps it's the same impression I had when I watched John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever or Yusuf Haslam in Menanti Hari Esok . To the kids, it's as obsolete as that old Nokia 3210. Or the BMW 2002ti. All of a sudden I felt like an old tie, more than ever.

After all, there's no point arguing about another person's opinion. It's about personal sense and sensibilities. About our very own unique experiences. Hence perhaps it's better to reserve all the reminiscence among equals. After all, how do you explain that you don't actually look forward to see the Fear Factor ? Or worse, Akademi Fantasia ? How do you tell them that to you, the all time favourite is still Peyton Place, Dynasty or Dallas ? Or that you actually endured those hundreds of episodes in Black & White ?

I was still in reminiscing mode. Hence when we finally got home, I produced some old photo albums, and they eagerly poured their attention on each and every single photo. Not a page went by without excited remarks. I answered all their questions, which were a lot. They asked about us. About our fathers and mothers. And about our grandfathers and grandmothers. Which before this, they never really bothered to know.

Maybe all was not lost. Maybe watching that movie really was the right choice after all. It actually managed to bridge the generation gap between us and our kids. At least now they are able to see us in a new light and, to a certain extent, I sensed a greater understanding and tolerance. No longer did they see us simply as parents, but as individuals with a past.

Mirrors of ourselves

As I looked at them now, I couldn't help thinking about myself. Inevitably, I saw in them my own self as a kid, some 30 odd years ago. I began to understand them better. All the distant memories came rushing back. I found myself gazing at old photos of my late mother, who passed away recently. She looked so young and vibrant then. Like all of us were, once upon a time. I was overwhelmed beyond words.

Suddenly it struck me hard; that everything ran in circles. In fact, that's true of life itself. We have had our time, and now it's the kids' turn. And before long, they'd find that they, too would become parents to their own children. Maybe it would take some time before they could begin to really understand that in its gravity. Or maybe it would take yet another movie to make them realize.

All the memories and emotions came gushing like torrential rain, and without realizing it, tears formed at the corners of my eyes. My kids were still too preoccupied with the photos to notice. Perhaps my wife realized it, or then again maybe her feminine sensitivities simply sensed my pent up emotions. I felt her hand gently squeeze mine, and almost at the same time the swelled tears flowed freely down my cheek like two tiny diamonds.

I looked at her, and we stared deep into each other's eyes in utter silence, as if searching for our souls somewhere deep within. And what we saw there pleased us both. We both knew that we were thinking about the same thing. About the future of our kids. And the interlocked hands signified a resilient, albeit silent vow.

A vow to do our part as parents; and to give our best, no matter what.

~ This article is dedicated to my wife Norfaizah Md. Jaafar and my kids Daniellia Zainisya (11), Hilmi Firdaus (9), Daniellia Zetrisya (7) and Iqmal Firdaus (7).