COMMENT | Thirteen years is a long time. Have we progressed or regressed as citizens living in a plural society, where universal values were part and parcel of our lives? Or are we doomed forever as an exemplary secular society?

On Oct 16, 2004, I lost my daughter, Sumitra, in a tragic car crash in Petaling Jaya. The hours that followed were something I treasure because it taught me several lessons in humanity. Friends, and even people from all walks of life I had never met before, and of all races and religious beliefs, showed their spirit as Malaysians in their own small ways.

With a heavy heart and compelled by conscience to share the actions and deeds of ordinary Malaysians, I then wrote about the tragedy and the events that brought some respite to a hurting heart:

This scribe has never believed in using his tools and the space provided for any personal agenda. On the rare occasion it was used for something he went through some 20 years ago, his interests were declared. Otherwise, it has been and will continue to be issues that affect society as a whole.

This week is no exception but is related to the personal trauma and anguish I have gone through for the past five days. As I write this, I had just sent off the parents of Kughanesan Mageswaran, who too was killed with my daughter Sumitra in the accident early Saturday morning. Kughanesan was driving while Sumitra was seated behind him.

Personal grief, someone once told me, tends to give one a different perspective of things. Close to 2am on Saturday, as the police Land Rover arrived at the Universiti Malaya Medical Centre with a body bag, I was hoping against hope and saying a prayer that it would not be that of hers.

Like a man lost in a desert seeking an oasis, I asked:

“Ini dari accident di mana?” (Which accident is this?)

“Jalan Selangor, Encik.” (Selangor Street, Mr.)

“India?” (Indian?)

“Ya.” (Yes)

“Perempuan?” (Female?)

“Ya.” (Yes)

“Boleh saya naik cam muka dia?” (May I identify the body?)

He helped me on to the vehicle and followed me with a torch. I opened the body bag to see the blood-stained, lifeless face of Sumitra. The policeman helped me down and led me to a seat to do my crying.

I have on several occasions talked about inconsiderate and crooked policemen. Here was a man who was not obliged to help me, but went out of the way to do it.

He could have told me to wait until the investigating officer arrived and go to the mortuary to do the needful the next morning.

No. He understood the plight of a father who lost someone close to him.

That was lesson No 1.

As I drove home to break the news to the family, I called friends who were close to us. As the family huddled together and shared the grief, they turned up.

By dawn, a small crowd had gathered and words of comfort and their handshakes and hugs gave some solace. Each offered to help in their own way. Despite the unearthly hours, they were there when you needed them most — lesson No 2.

At the mortuary a few hours later came lesson No 3. The pathologist on duty said there were four bodies in the morgue...