Today I remember Hari

Nine years ago today, on 2nd January, Harinder Veriah, a prominent Malaysian lawyer died in Hong Kong. I met her very, very briefly, but I had come to know her more and more over these last few years. The story below appeared in the NST today.

Hari’s legacy

by Zaharah Othman

NINE years ago today, at the start of the new millennium, life for promising young Malaysian lawyer Harinder Veriah ended in Hong Kong.

Hari, as Harinder is called, had just turned 33. She left behind a 16-month-old son, a devastated husband and a legacy that touched many lives.

I went to meet her husband, journalist and writer Martin Jacques, in his apartment in northwest London, to talk about her legacy.

It had been too raw and too painful, I gathered, to talk about it when we last met four years ago. Four years on, nothing much has changed but many things have happened.


As expected, it was an intense and emotional few hours with Jacques as he relived the moments when his wife of only a few years was snatched away from him after an epileptic attack.

It was as if it was only yesterday; the pain obvious in his voice, betrayed in sentences left hanging and etched on his face as the man whose work is with words struggled to find them to express the loss that he feels every moment of his waking hours.

At times when it looked as if he could not go on, the session was salvaged by the soothing rendition of a piano piece drifting in from the living room where Ravi, now 10, was practising his music.

Ravi has unwittingly become his father’s saviour, best friend and companion — the one obvious legacy from Hari. Or in Jacques’ words, the best gift from Hari, the love of his life, the reason for his continued existence.

It was in Tioman in 1993 that Jacques met Hari, the daughter of Malaysian left-wing politician, the late Karam Singh.

It was a meeting that was to change the course of their lives, the beginning of a love story so brief yet sweet and intense.

What began on the idyllic tropical island continued in London when Hari came to join Jacques and continued her Law studies. Later, as an employee of Lovells, one of the top City law firms, they moved to Hong Kong.

It was ideal. Hari worked in its office there while Jacques worked on his book. But fate intervened just as they were celebrating the millennium. Hari was so ill that her birthday cake had to be brought in to her.

She was taken to Ruttonjee hospital where she died on Jan 2, 2000, but not before uttering words to her husband, that not only confirmed Jacques’ suspicions that she was victimised because of her skin colour, but also words that made headlines and highlighted the issue of racism in Hong Kong.

Jacques was determined to challenge the courts to establish that it was not epilepsy that killed his wife.

During the first inquest in Hong Kong, he repeated what Hari, on her deathbed told him: “I am bottom of the pile here. I am Indian. Everyone else here is Chinese.”

Hari’s case and Jacques’ crusade finally saw the introduction of anti-racism laws in Hong Kong.

“This is one legacy, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. Hari paid with her life,” said Jacques, the anger which he had tamed over the years surfacing again.

Determined not to let Hari die in vain, Jacques with a partner from Lovells, Graham Huntley, set up the Harinder Veriah Trust in 2002, which enables young Malaysian lawyers “from non-privileged backgrounds to work for two years at the London office of Lovells”.

The first recipient, Murali Ramakrishnan, started in January 2004. This year will see the third and last recipient to benefit from the Harinder Veriah Trust. A reception for the Trust was hosted by Cherie Blair at 10 Downing Street, an event which saw baju Melayu and songkok.

Closer to home and perhaps closer to Hari’s heart is the financial aid, meals, books and tuition that a group of students from Assunta Primary School Two are receiving.

What is known as HVT II started in mid-2005, where needy students, regardless of race and background, are given help for the advancement of their education.

Hari was a former student of Assunta, and helping this project is Hari’s elder sister Jasvinder Kaur and friends including Shariza Noordin.

“I think this is what Hari would have wanted: to help children regardless of race,” said Jacques.

He had just completed the book on China, whose progress was interrupted after Hari’s death.

Coincidentally, it will be launched in June at the same time when the trial on Hari’s case is supposed to start in Hong Kong.

For the past nine years since Hari’s death, Jacques’ life revolves around Ravi; overseeing his studies, piano and violin lessons and Mandarin.

All these are conducted with the presence of Hari in their everyday conversation and in every decision that they make.

And for the past nine years, since Ravi could speak, Jacques had compiled everything that Ravi had uttered about his mummy.

“There are 7,000 words which he has said about Hari,” said Jacques, who still remembers days and dates vividly.

It was a Tuesday night, when Ravi was just 16 months 10 days old, that he mustered all his courage to tell his son that his mother had died.

Ravi was hardly three years old, and sitting on the toilet seat when he remembered that he fed the ducks with his mummy.

Hari still lives in every room in their spacious apartment in Northwest London. Her pictures adorn the mantelpiece and her favourite wooden furniture stands in the living room where Ravi plays the piano.

But it is in Ravi with his mop of black hair and impish wide smile that we see the legacy of Hari.

Kak Teh also remembers Hari here:
My Diwali Story

More stories here on Harinder Veriah Trust

My Diwali Story

My dearest R,

This Diwali, I suddenly thought of your mum. I met her at a friend’s house. Her vivacity and warmth just meant she stood out in the room full of people. I took an instant liking to her. She was intelligent, friendly and she was pregnant - with you. The evening went too fast and soon it was time to go.

It was at our hostess’ door that we kissed goodbye. Patting her belly, she said, I want you to teach my child Malay. I want him or her to be able to speak Malay, at which point I laughingly said, yes, sure, call me when you are ready and we said goodbye. Our last goodbye.

We had heard of the move your parents made, taking you away to foreign shores, where they worked. But what stunned us most was the news of your mum’s sudden and untimely departure, leaving you when you were only sixteen months old. Your father, needless to say was devastated.

I had forgotten the promise we made in jest at the door of our friend’s house, a few winters back. But promises, even in jest, tend to find it way back. I received a call from your Dad who had heard that I dabbled in this and that and part of what I dabbled in was teaching Malay. We reminded each other of the time we met when your mum was still around, and foolishly, I agreed to give it a go – teaching you Malay.

When I first set eyes on you, I fell in love with you the way your Dad fell in love with your Mum. You had those big round eyes of hers and the biggest and sweetest smile, that is, when you chose to share your smile with me. The smiles became more frequent when you became more comfortable with me.

It was understandable that you were suspicious of my presence in that huge apartment of yours. After all, after your mum’s death, you only had your Dad, and K – your nanny. I was after all a stranger who only knew you as that bulge in your mum’s tummy. It took a while to win you over.

After work in central London, I’d make my way to north London. In summer, the walk up the lonely path to your place wasn’t too bad, but in winter it was a struggle. But I persevered because that huge smile waiting for me at the door was well worth the walk and the cold.

To say the two hours spent with you were lessons in Malay would be a violation of the job description. We played with your train set, read your books and messed about on the floor of that spacious apartment. We went to the playground where I pushed you on your bike and chased you around, pointing out to you, ‘daun’, ‘bunga’, ‘anjing’ and ‘kucing’. I think we had more fun in the garden than in the apartment.

The apartment was more like a shrine for your mum – she was everywhere, her pictures, her things – it was as if she never left. She would have been proud of the handsome son you were growing up to be. You were also very intelligent.

But as we became closer, it also became more difficult for me to leave. Already I was struggling emotionally. The few times that you cried when you saw me leave left me an emotional wreck. I couldn’t help you who definitely needed your mother, nor could I help your Dad who was still struggling to come to terms with your mum’s death.

To this day, I remember the last evening we had together. You wanted me to stay for dinner. While K placed the plates, you arranged and lit the candles on the kitchen table; one for Daddy, one for Mummy, and one for Zara, for that's what you called me. I choked back tears I shouldn’t be showing in front of a four year old. And then when dinner was over, you cried and pleaded; Please don’t go Zara.

When I left late that night, I knew then I couldn’t go back. I cried all the way back in the train full of rowdy passengers. And like a coward, I phoned your Dad to say I couldn’t teach you anymore.

I am sorry.

Today, as I write this, I know you must have grown to be a handsome young boy. I was sorting out some old pictures and found some pictures of yours. I also googled and found some on the net and read your Dad’s beautiful story of his love for his young wife, snatched away from him so soon after their marriage. And I remember one Hari raya or was it Diwali celebration in London when I bumped into your Dad and you looking so handsome in that Indian Kurta.

This Diwali, I felt the need to write to you to explain why I left without a goodbye. But I will never forget that dinner by the candlelight when you begged me not to leave.

Your Mum was a true Malaysian. Even on foreign land she wanted her son to learn Malay. So here’s a few more Malay words “ Selamat Menyambut Diwali, R.” And take care of your Dad.

Zara.

And Happy Diwali to all my Hindu friends.