Fathers Day: GC Watch Editor on the gentleman who raised him

He’s the one who continues to teach me how to prepare for life. Not in the survivalist sense (though I suspect he could still make fire with a matchstick and a stern look), but in the art of being ready. Ready to meet people with grace. Ready to walk into a room and leave an impression—not with noise, but with presence. And most of all, ready to stand tall, even when life offers no handrail.

He showed me how to choose friends with care. “Observe how they treat waiters and parking attendants,” he’d say. “That tells you everything.” He taught me that trust, like shoes, should be earned before being worn in. And that not everyone deserves a seat at your table—especially if they don’t know how to behave at one.

There were no dramatic lectures on integrity. Just quiet, consistent displays of it. Like the time he returned a small excess balance from a cashier who hadn’t noticed the mistake. Or the way he always greets our gardener with the same respectful tone he uses with his boss. In his world, dignity isn’t performative. It’s simply… proper.

Even his fashion has purpose. He may live in humid, tropical Malaysia, but turning up to college in shorts? Absolutely not. “Because how you dress is how you carry yourself,” he’d say, inspecting my collar. “And how you carry yourself sets the tone before you ever speak.” Somewhere between his brogues and pressed shirts, I learned that polish isn’t vanity—it’s preparation.

Curiously, he’s never scolded me for being late. And Lord knows I’ve given him reason. But I’ve come to realise it’s never been about timeliness—it’s always been about readiness. He cares that I think ahead, anticipate outcomes, and carry myself with the poise of someone who respects other people’s time.

Among the many things he’s passed down, one stands out more than the rest: a watch. Not just any watch, mind you, but his old TAG Heuer. Worn, weathered, with a distinct patina and the kind of character no boutique showroom can replicate. A relic of the ’90s, it once took a swim in the sea—a mistake he never forgave himself for, but a story he always tells with a grin.

When he handed it to me, I didn’t just see a timepiece—I saw a memory. A legacy. I spent two months restoring it—buffing, replacing, reviving. Every scratch remained, by choice. Because every faded edge tells a story. Today, when I wear it, I don’t just wear time. I wear his time. His values. His sacrifices. His resilience.

This Father’s Day, I don’t need a speech or ceremony. Just a quiet moment to honour the man who still shapes the person I am becoming—not by holding my hand, but by showing me how to walk with my head held high. A gentleman of the old school, whose influence continues—steadily, silently—as strong as ever.

To my father: thank you. For the standards. For the stubbornness. And most of all, for standing so firm that I had no choice but to learn to stand, too.