Tash Aw - Five Star Billionaire

I have never done anything for the sake of public acclaim. Even my books have been written under a pseudonym. I want to inspire people— you —not because I seek gratitude or glory but because I gain immense pleasure just from the knowledge that I might be able to help them, to change their lives. Giving without receiving, that is what truly satisfies me. In all the years of working hard, of the accumulation of huge wealth, I admit that I sometimes lost sight of this sentiment of charity, which is why I sometimes felt exhausted and dispirited and negative — as I suspect you do on occasion after a long, fruitless day at work. Maybe your boss has not acknowledged your talent and dedication. Maybe your clients are late in paying you. Maybe the taxman is being uncooperative. Maybe a colleague you thought was a friend is now brownnosing his way ahead of you. Maybe you’ve come home after a nightmarish day in the office and your partner hasn’t done the washing up or made you dinner. Yes, it is dispiriting. But only if you are working for yourself, if you are seeking praise . Let go of this neediness. Say to yourself: I am not working for glory but for the joy of it. One day — soon — I will be dead, and who will remember my petty little promotion to assistant executive managing subdirector then?

Work to help others.

Elevate yourself from trivia.

That is the only way to true greatness.

All this brings me to the question of how best to leave my legacy without being thrust into the limelight. It is sad that even philanthropy these days is tied to celebrity, but I have to accept that this is the world we live in. Reluctantly, therefore, I might have to accept the accolades that will surely accompany my project. There are still many details to be ironed out before I can announce the nature of my venture, but for now I can reveal that it will be a sort of community center to benefit the young, the poor — all those who need nourishment, for either their stomachs or their minds or spirits.

The idea comes to me because, looking back at my own underprivileged childhood, I realize that the village school that I attended between the ages of six and twelve carried an importance far beyond its modest proportions. Its three classrooms and tin roof were typical of primary schools in rural Malaysia at the time, but it was also supported by wealthy benefactors, which meant that we had generators to power the ceiling fans and provide lighting during the monsoons, when the storms were at their fiercest and the feeble electricity supply most vulnerable to power cuts. There was a paved lane leading to it from the main road that carved its way through the jungle, and at the confluence of the two there was a bus shelter so that we could remain dry from the rain while waiting for the bus, which came by only three times a day. I was lucky, for my journey beyond where the bus deposited me was only twenty minutes long, on paths that rarely got flooded. Others had to walk more than an hour over muddy terrain with tracks that often got washed out by the rain.

None of us was ever earmarked for greatness. From birth, we were the also-rans of life’s great race, kept afloat because we were human and because someone — thank God — could not bear to let us wither away and die. So rich people paid for us to have the basics, salving their consciences, thinking that they were doing the bare minimum and nothing more. They never thought that their small acts of mercy would produce anything remarkable. They did not believe that, among those they had written off as menial and pathetic and worthy of only pity, there would be one who would rise to glory.

Some might say that my beginnings are irrelevant; that, wherever I came from, a man like me would still have been a success. Who I am today cannot be attributed to that little school. But that would be ungenerous, and I wish to acknowledge those early days, because when I look back at them I feel something. Not much, but a faint glow of recognition nonetheless.

Despite the charitable nature of its aims, my project will not be modest. It will not be a modern version of the old village school. Its reach will be wide and deep and long lasting. A hundred years from now, its beneficial impact should still be felt. Every venture needs a physical space, its own village school, as it were. I think I know where mine will be situated — I’ve drawn up a short list of cities — and I am in the process of considering a suitable architect. At the moment I am leaning toward Rem Koolhaas, or perhaps Zaha Hadid. Someone iconic, in any case, whose work, like mine, will last well into the future.

When planning any venture, always think of how it will be remembered by future generations.

Always think of how you will be remembered.

GARY WON A TALENT COMPETITION TWO MONTHS SHORT OF HIS seventeenth birthday. It was a small provincial affair in the north of Malaysia, not very professional, but it enabled him to move down to the capital to take part in a bigger contest, which was televised on all the main channels. The finale was watched by nearly four million people, and more than two million voted by SMS. At the time, Gary was amazed by these figures. He came from a town of two hundred and could not believe that so many people would ever listen to him sing. He performed three songs, one in Malay, one in Mandarin, and the final one in English — an arrangement of a Diana Ross song, the words of which he did not fully understand. He was the youngest contestant and was shining with the innocence of a boy recently arrived from the countryside. His hair was spiky and dyed with flame-colored streaks, which he had done himself. Recently he saw a video of this performance on YouTube and could not believe how bad he looked.

After the first song, the judges said that he had the voice of an angel. But even before that, from the moment he opened his mouth to sing the very first note, he knew he was going to win. He heard the strange pure sound of his voice amplified by the microphone in the vast auditorium, its echoes separated by a split second from the time he felt it in his throat. He recognized that the voice was his, but he felt distanced from it too. It sounded as if it no longer belonged to him. In the audience, young girls were waving multicolored fluorescent batons that glowed in the dark. When he sang the love ballad in Mandarin, everyone screamed as he hit the high notes in the chorus. He felt the noise they made reverberating in his chest and rib cage, and he knew in that instant that his life was going to become confused and messy, full of privileges and sorrows he didn’t ask for.

He won by a landslide.

He did not have time to celebrate his victory, because he was signed by an artists-management company that arranged for him to go to Taiwan two weeks later. He stayed in a hotel with a bathtub, in which he had his very first bubble bath. The furniture was modern and new, with clean lines and leather upholstery. The room smelled of paint, but he thought that it was extremely luxurious. Now he realizes, of course, that it was only a modest and functional hotel used by sales companies wanting somewhere cheap to hold their training conferences. These days, Gary stays in only the most exclusive hotels in every city he visits.

In just under eight years in Taipei, he released four albums that each sold more than three million copies across Asia. In the months following the release of his debut album, Rainy Day in My Heart , he narrowly missed out on winning the Best Newcomer category at the Golden Melody Awards, and he starred in a film as an apprentice cop who ends up accidentally shooting the gangster girl he has fallen in love with. The film was a total failure at the box office, but everyone who saw it remarked that Gary’s face was perfectly proportioned, beautiful to look at from every angle. Maybe you saw it too and came to the same conclusion. Teenage girls began to send him presents — designer clothes, jewelry, watches, homemade CDs, cards with photos stuck to them, and even highly personal items, such as the girls’ own underwear and antiques that had belonged to their families. Every week his record company would receive enough of these gifts to fill a small room. He would stare at this unwanted pile and feel guilty that so many fans wanted to give him such valuable things. He could not bear the thought that all these people, whom he did not know, were thinking of him. They were thinking of him so much that they would spend time and money sending him objects that represented parts of their lives — of themselves. And he felt bad because he was not strong or big or deep enough to accept their love. The record company arranged for it all to be donated to charity or simply destroyed, but still he could feel their desire lingering over him like a rain cloud on a muggy day, refusing to budge.