I ran through the graves, looking for a name. One by one the tombstones passed in a blur. My pace quickened and my heart beat harder. My feet were getting wet from the morning dew on the grass in the cemetery.

But nothing distracted me as I was looking for a name. THE name.

I saw the last three tombstones at the end of the cemetery section. My heart beating even faster, I ran toward them, leaving my family far behind.

I got to the last three tombstones.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. There, on a cold and windy June morning in Liverpool, England, was my grandfather’s lost grave.

My father buried my grandfather in Liverpool in 1966. My grandfather was a seaman, working on ships and travelling the world, only to settle down in Liverpool in the 50s.

Ever since I was small, my father kept trying to remember where the grave was, but over the years, he forgot the location.

And so, 42 years later, when I was in the UK in early June, I made it my mission to try and find it.

With a few clues from my father I researched hard, mostly by going on the net on my Blackberry. But it was non-stop research. Over breakfast, lunch, touristy sights, car rides, train rides, Disneyland Paris.

After a few days I became well-versed with the stories of the Malay seamen who made Liverpool their home in the 50s. I was awed with their discipline, bravado and adventures all over the world.

I chanced upon a blog written by a Kak Teh in London, who herself has met a few of these old Malay seamen, those alive are now in their 70s, 80s and 90s. I saw she mentioned 7 Jermyn Street as the place where the Pakcik-Pakciks would hang out.

Googling ‘7 Jermyn Street’ I was led to a research by Dr. Tim Bunnell, whose research was about the ‘transnationalisation of Malay seafarers in the 50s”. Would you believe it?

After exchanging a few e-mails, he mentioned that Malay seamen who died in Liverpool in the 60s were probably buried in Anfield cemetery. I lighted up at this information.

I got this great clue as I was boarding a bus filled with Beatle fans. The bus was part of The Magical Mystery Tour, visiting the childhood haunts of the great Beatles.

I kept researching hard. Hey that’s George Harrisons’ house. Picture, picture, quick back to the bus, quick, surf the net again. Hey that’s Strawberry Fields.

I was getting nervous. Even though I started researching a few days before I arrived in Liverpool, by the time I got to Dr. Bunnell, I only had a few hours left in Liverpool before I had to head back. In my mind then, I figured that I would have to go to the big mosque in Liverpool or go find some Malay club somewhere and just ask around to see if I could find an old Malay sailor who just might remember my grandfather and where he was buried in 1966. It was going to be tough ordeal, especially to be done in a few hours. The chances of finding an old Malay sailor who could remember what happened in 1966 seemed to be remote. The dream seemed to be slipping away.

I quickly made a deal with the wife and kids. After The Magical Mystery Tour, I would leave them for some shopping in the afternoon while I run around Liverpool in a borrowed GTI (ahem!), hoping to bump into an old Malay sailor. It was a long shot, but I was going to try.

I was still in the Beatle bus when I researched Anfield cemetery, as was the lead given by Dr. Bunnell, on my Blackberry.

Lo and behold, I chanced upon a website, done by some woman and her dog, whose sole mission is to list all the tombstone inscriptions in Anfield cemetery on her website. I couldn’t believe my luck! The planets must have aligned that day.

My heart beating faster, I went through the website and YES! found a Muslim section. Fingers trembling, I looked at the names and found a strange listing: First Name: Pada. Last Name: Yang Telah Meninggal Dunia Alias Osman Bin Iaji.

I nearly cried. My grandfather’s name was Othman bin Haji Alias. This has got to be it. I looked out the bus window. I was at Penny Lane, and the Beatle fans were coming back to the bus.

Back at the hotel, I quickly downloaded the Anfield cemetery map on my PC and found the Muslim section. Then I GPSd it onto a GPS phone and locked down the directions. 3 miles from the hotel. Excellent. I slept that night, praying hard that I have indeed found the grave.

The next morning, with the GPS to guide me, we made it to the grave, not getting lost in the way. Ok, there was that little hiccup as we tried to get in through the crematorium but that’s another story.

But in 30 minutes flat from leaving the hotel, there I was, standing over my grandfather’s grave. The tombstone was knocked over. I tried to lift it up but it was too heavy.

But let me tell you, standing over that grave, I felt like, like Nicolas Cage in National Treasure. Ok so maybe its not that dramatic. But to find your grandfather’s lost grave…well, I can’t even begin to describe the emotions.

It’s a story I will tell my grandkids. But somehow technology has taken the romance out of it. Before the trip started, I envisioned a story of finding the grave after days of hunting down old Malay sailors and peppering them with questions until I finally get the clue to the grave. And then reaching the grave, exhausted, and going “Yeah”!

The reality was far simpler. Googled. Googled. Googled. Found it. GPSd it. Went to it. From the hotel to the grave in about 30 minutes.

Oh well, I’m still going to dramatize it when I tell my grandkids. “Cucu, tau tak, Atuk macam Nicolas Cage dulu, nak cari kubur atuk punya atuk tu…”.

They’ll never know.