Heart And Soul: A daughter remembers her dad's love for language and newspapers
A daughter remembers her father's quiet strength – in newspapers, words and acts of care. — Photo: This visual is human-created, AI-aided.
Do you have any real-life, heart-warming stories to share with readers? We'd love to hear from you. Please keep your story within 900 words. Photos are optional and should be in JPEG format (file size about 1MB, with caption and photo credit). There is no payment for stories, and we reserve the right to edit all submissions. Email your story to: heartandsoul@thestar.com.my with the subject "Heart and Soul".
Something that reminds me of my father Rajentharan Subbiah even today? His love for newspapers.
Every morning, without fail, he would read The Star – except on Sundays. Sundays were for the New Sunday Times. I never asked why he switched papers, and now I wish I had. What did that change mean to him?
As a child, I watched him read and followed suit – not out of interest, but to imitate him. As an adult, I now keep my own online subscription to The Star.
Even though I no longer live in Malaysia, starting my day with local news feels natural – a quiet echo of Appa (father).
He revered the English language. He took great pride in his vocabulary. Sometimes, he'd quiz me on words – ones that popped into his head or came from books I was reading.
If I got the meaning right, he wouldn't say much – not even smile at times – but he'd often place a gentle hand on my head or shoulder, and I would catch a flicker of pride in his eyes. Those moments meant the world to me.
He lived for words. Many afternoons and bedtimes were filled with stories. He introduced me to Enid Blyton when I was six, and her books became the landscape of my childhood.
His love for language is a legacy I still carry. I read. I write. I seek meaning in words because he gave me the gift of knowing their power – to hold grief, to offer love, to connect.
It's been nine years since he left us. I'm still discovering the ways he shaped me.
Appa also loved food – not with gourmet flair, but in the quiet way many fathers of his generation did. He believed meals brought people together. If we dined out with family, one thing was certain: he would never let anyone else pay.
It wasn't ego – it was love.
Providing was his language of care. And now, in many ways, it has become mine too.
I know not all fathers are present, safe, or kind. Some grew up with distance, absence – even pain. So while I honour my father, I also honour that truth.
Because being a father isn't just biology. It's not a title – it's a role. One that's earned through presence, through sacrifice, through quiet, unseen acts of care.
In my life, fatherhood has come in many forms.
It was my best friend's father who drove eight hours from Tanjung Malim, Perak to my sleepy kampung in Johor, just so he and my best friend could stand by my side on the day my father died.
It was my late English tutor in medical school, who once returned an essay to me – on torn paper – not to scold me, but to praise the writing and gently remind me about self-respect. The lesson he imparted that day, I have carried with me ever since.
It was also my late maternal grandfather Kanagasegaran Subramaniam, who stepped into Appa's shoes when he was too ill.
He came with me on my first day of medical school. He assembled a table fan to keep me cool in the hostel.
He came to my graduation, and after I began working, he'd still call almost weekly to check in – no matter how little time I had.
Fatherhood lived in those gestures, too.
So, in a tribute to all fathers, I remember Appa – not as a perfect man, but as mine.
The man who taught me to love language, who gave without asking, who left too soon, but somehow left enough of himself behind for me to carry.
To those who never had an Appa like mine – or who found fatherhood in unexpected places – I see you.
May we all keep learning how to give and receive love, in all the ways it arrives.
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Heart And Soul: A daughter remembers her dad's love for language and newspapers
A daughter remembers her father's quiet strength – in newspapers, words and acts of care. — Photo: This visual is human-created, AI-aided. Do you have any real-life, heart-warming stories to share with readers? We'd love to hear from you. Please keep your story within 900 words. Photos are optional and should be in JPEG format (file size about 1MB, with caption and photo credit). There is no payment for stories, and we reserve the right to edit all submissions. Email your story to: heartandsoul@ with the subject "Heart and Soul". Something that reminds me of my father Rajentharan Subbiah even today? His love for newspapers. Every morning, without fail, he would read The Star – except on Sundays. Sundays were for the New Sunday Times. I never asked why he switched papers, and now I wish I had. What did that change mean to him? As a child, I watched him read and followed suit – not out of interest, but to imitate him. As an adult, I now keep my own online subscription to The Star. Even though I no longer live in Malaysia, starting my day with local news feels natural – a quiet echo of Appa (father). He revered the English language. He took great pride in his vocabulary. Sometimes, he'd quiz me on words – ones that popped into his head or came from books I was reading. If I got the meaning right, he wouldn't say much – not even smile at times – but he'd often place a gentle hand on my head or shoulder, and I would catch a flicker of pride in his eyes. Those moments meant the world to me. He lived for words. Many afternoons and bedtimes were filled with stories. He introduced me to Enid Blyton when I was six, and her books became the landscape of my childhood. His love for language is a legacy I still carry. I read. I write. I seek meaning in words because he gave me the gift of knowing their power – to hold grief, to offer love, to connect. It's been nine years since he left us. I'm still discovering the ways he shaped me. Appa also loved food – not with gourmet flair, but in the quiet way many fathers of his generation did. He believed meals brought people together. If we dined out with family, one thing was certain: he would never let anyone else pay. It wasn't ego – it was love. Providing was his language of care. And now, in many ways, it has become mine too. I know not all fathers are present, safe, or kind. Some grew up with distance, absence – even pain. So while I honour my father, I also honour that truth. Because being a father isn't just biology. It's not a title – it's a role. One that's earned through presence, through sacrifice, through quiet, unseen acts of care. In my life, fatherhood has come in many forms. It was my best friend's father who drove eight hours from Tanjung Malim, Perak to my sleepy kampung in Johor, just so he and my best friend could stand by my side on the day my father died. It was my late English tutor in medical school, who once returned an essay to me – on torn paper – not to scold me, but to praise the writing and gently remind me about self-respect. The lesson he imparted that day, I have carried with me ever since. It was also my late maternal grandfather Kanagasegaran Subramaniam, who stepped into Appa's shoes when he was too ill. He came with me on my first day of medical school. He assembled a table fan to keep me cool in the hostel. He came to my graduation, and after I began working, he'd still call almost weekly to check in – no matter how little time I had. Fatherhood lived in those gestures, too. So, in a tribute to all fathers, I remember Appa – not as a perfect man, but as mine. The man who taught me to love language, who gave without asking, who left too soon, but somehow left enough of himself behind for me to carry. To those who never had an Appa like mine – or who found fatherhood in unexpected places – I see you. May we all keep learning how to give and receive love, in all the ways it arrives.
