My Home

For as long as I could remember, I've always been a child of two worlds.
Fortunate to be born in the pulsating heart of Asia, Singapore yet I was raised for the most of my adolescence in a small street in the heart of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. As such my lifelong romance with Malaysia was born.

My parents got married in Malaysia, a small temple situated a short distance from the Kampong they had lived in. Mom was a blushing bride plucked from Singapore and chugged across the western railways to Kuala Lumpur. She had been in love with my father for a decade or so by then so I presume the ten hours (you can do it in a little more than 5 hours nowadays) or so that she spent looking through the glass was rather exciting...an excitement that still sparkles in her eyes till this day. The happy couple were married and the first days of the three years that they would enjoy before me had stumbled to a start. Now every king and queen, for that is what I will always see my parents as, need a castle and that is the jewel of this walk down memory lane.

My parents lived with my paternal grandmother in her Kampong house, as was the Indian custom. It was a large single storied wonder. Wooden walls, bronze attap roof, a sandy front yard flanked by two enormous coconut trees. This weathered home, not the most picturesque I will admit, was the crown jewel in my childhood. My great, great grandfather had built the house, more or less with his own hands with the help of some neighbors, who by the time I was born, had become family both by blood and ties. My parents got a room to themselves, quaint little space with a bed fit for the newlyweds and a small dresser. The wooden walls and high ceiling coupled with some gaps along the walls that sent sunlight streaming in gave the room a cabin feel. My parents lived with my dad's siblings and a few of my older cousins in that house for three years. Then I came into the picture. 

That kampong house, was probably one of the most impressionable environments in my life to this day. I learnt to walk there. I remember screaming through the hallway, running into my grandmother, who no matter what I did at that age (and now) was always smiles and "are you hungry?". My grandmother's house was the gateway to my obsession with Malaysia. When I turned one, my tiny family moved to Singapore permanently to welcome a new life along with an addition to our family: my sister.. Moving to Singapore was never a deterring factor between me and Malaysia, My heart yearned for that wooden wonderland i had come to label as my grandmother's house and truth be told I spent as much time as I can there. Ten years, I grew and nurtured in that house before it was forever taken from me.

My earliest memories are from that house. I remember the time I fell from the top of the gate that stood at the entrance of the house. I was four and I hurt really badly. I remember intricate, intimate details of that house. The colour of the paint in every room and every wall. I remember the design on the carpet in the living room and the floor mats that covered the long hallway linking the living room to the kitchen. This hallway served as the spine of the house, with rooms on either side all the way down. I remember the oaken dining table that my father used to eat at. He always made it a point to eat there. My father would chaperon me to my grandmother's house whenever he could. Holidays, short breaks, festivals. Any chance we got we flew to out kampong sanctuary, often leaving my mother and sister behind. The women of my family were creatures of comfort. A detached toilet and non-heated water did not sit well with them. My dad, a child of that world thrived on these tiny flaws and always made it clear that he was proud that the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree when it came to me. I loved that house. 

The house was not the only drug I was addicted to. It was the people that stole my heart. I was alone, with my sister when we were in Singapore. My parents worked long hours and I felt often lonely. When I'm in Malaysia, I was thrown into a beehive of activity and people. On my father's side I was the only boy amongst ten girls (eleven now!) including my sister. Half of them were older than me and all of them, I'm quite sure, were fascinated with me. We were of a different species and we spoke different languages. My English was a little more advanced and their Malay was white noise to me at that age, but yet we were family and I loved them with a passion. My grandmother and my father's sisters adored me, spoilt me. My eldest cousin sister, Gayathiri was my salvation. Until now she remains one of the most important people in my life. Tharani, her sister is now as she was then, my pillar of strength. Nisha and Kasthuri, my younger cousins will until this day pinch me to remind me of the bully I was then. Be that may, we chased each other around that house, talked to squirrels, plucked feathers from chickens and harassed lizards with tennis balls. We still remain hundreds of kilometers apart and even though we're all grown up now, nothing has changed.

Malaysia sparks an insatiable passion in me to this day. My family and friends here will never understand completely my affliction for Kuala Lumpur. If only they could see my kampong paradise as I had. Two decades on the quaint little kampong has materialized into a sprawling condominium complex, mirroring the metropolitan image of Singapore. My grandmother, upon much insistence and sheer willpower, had bought an apartment in that condominium, overlooking that which once was her kampong paradise. Everytime I pass that street, Two and a half mile Cheras, Jalan Shelly, I can still picture in my mind a young me playing in the sandy front yard against the backdrop of that warm, cosy wooden home. My home.