If you walked past the Guan Yin Thong Hood Cho Temple at Waterloo Street during the late 1990s or early 2000s, you would have been swallowed by a sea of thick incense smoke, the rhythmic clattering of divination lots, and hundreds of devotees bowing in prayer. But if you looked closely at the altar, you would have seen a scene that is permanently seared into my memory.
An elderly man in his late 70s, his body worn down by decades of grueling labor at the Chinatown stalls, was kneeling humbly on a red cushion. His hands were pressed tightly together, his eyes closed, and he was bowing his head vigorously before the statue of Guan Yin Pusa—the Goddess of Mercy.
That man was my father.
Back then, nobody in the family asked him what he was praying so fervently for. We never asked if he was drawing divination lots, or what silent burdens he was laying down at the feet of the Pusa as he offered his flowers and fruits. We just watched him from a distance, dismissing it as the routine habit of an old, traditional man.
Today, on this Vesak Day in May 2026, I sit at my desk looking out over the East Coast housing estate, watching the morning light break over Singapore. And as the temple bells echo in the distance, the puzzle pieces of my father’s life finally lock into place.
I think back to the heaps of unwinning 4D tickets we found hidden beneath his bed after he passed away, the discovery that initially filled us with so much anger and judgment. For years, we labeled him irresponsible. But sitting here today, I realize that if any of us had just taken the time to kneel beside him at Waterloo Street and ask, "Dad, what are you asking Guan Yin for?" we would have unlocked the beautiful, heartbreaking truth behind his gambling.
He wasn’t praying for greed, luxury, or a lavish lifestyle. My father was a retiree with no income, deeply terrified of becoming a financial burden to the six children he loved in silence.
When he bowed vigorously before the Pusa, he was begging for good health so he could keep working, and he was begging for that elusive 4D luck, not for himself, but because a lottery win was the only way an uneducated, aging street hawker could secure enough wealth to guarantee our family's future peace. Every bow on that cushion was a desperate plea for the safety of his children.
The True Meaning of Vesak
At the end of the day, Buddhism teaches a core, universal truth: Love and boundless compassion. The true meaning of Vesak Day is not found merely in the lighting of oil lamps, the chanting of sutras, or the release of captive birds. It is found in the lived reality of a person who is willing to diminish themselves so that others can be comforted.
My father didn't just pray to the Goddess of Mercy; he accidentally became a mirror of her. He practiced her compassion every single day. He showed it when he refused to push high-priced items on poor customers , when he spent his mornings helping fellow hawkers handle government disputes for free, and when he knelt in the smoke of Waterloo Street, secretly bartering his own dignity for our protection.
We spent his lifetime judging his actions, completely missing the sacred love that fueled his routines. He didn't need to preach values to us; his bent knees on that temple cushion said everything.
Love Intelligence Reflection:
High Love Intelligence (LQ) challenges us to look at the rituals of our parents not as empty superstitions, but as the boundaries of their love. When people feel powerless in the physical world to protect the ones they care about, they turn to the spiritual world to fight battles on their behalf.
This Vesak Day, as we honor compassion, let us extend that exact same grace to our living parents. Stop looking at their habits with frustration or critique. Take a moment to sit with them, listen to their silences, and uncover the hidden prayers they have been whispering for you in the dark.
This is the seventeenth in a series of articles dedicated to honoring my late father and applying the principles of Love Intelligence to the relationships that matter most.
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