MASSOC Essay Writing Competition - 'What does being a Malaysian mean to you?' Extra

By Clarissa Chung, Durham University

She went out looking for inspiration.

Locking the gate behind her, she stepped out of the porch of her house onto the street. The neighbourhood houses lined up in neat rows in front of her, and she could hear the laughter of children playing in the park. She decided that there was where she would go first – to the park.

It was in the evening, and though it was considerably cooler than when the noontime sun reigned, humidity and heat were compacted in the air. That didn’t deter the kids playing there, though. The playground was filled to the brim with the young ones, sliding, climbing, running, swinging. There was a group of primary school children still in their uniform (school must have just finished for them) playing pepsi cola. The circle looked like a flower bent out of shape, fluttering between expanding and contracting, as the kids of all shapes and sizes jutted out their feet, constantly moving out of position.

Some adults were jogging on the well-worn track, and there were some families playing badminton too. Her attention was snagged by a group of old aunties gossiping underneath a gazebo, and the line of elderlies doing exercises nearby.

It was a nice scene, though she felt like she still needed inspiration, however.

She shuffled away, to the shoplots. Walking on the streets, she saw the candy uncle selling his goods to the schoolchildren nearby. One child dropped his unwrapped sugus onto the ground. She felt a stab of sympathy, which dissipated when the boy bent down, snatched it from the tarred sidewalk, and ate it greedily.

The restaurants at the shoplots were slowly filling up with people hungry for dinner. The hawker stalls were already all set up, their woks all heated and the signs flashing the food they provided: char kuey teow, satay, chicken rice, hor fun, wan tan mee. Next door, the mamak stall put up their large screen, ready for the football match for tonight. Some people were lepak-ing there, ordering their roti canai, teh tarik, kopi-O, mee goreng. The match is supposed to be a big one.

Walking past the stationery shop, the hairdresser’s, and a cyber-café, she went into sundry shop. All that walking past food made her hungry and she should pick up something to eat – and perhaps pick up inspiration along the way. She watched the coconut scrapper do its job, the santan falling like snow. Maybe she should pick up some Milo ice cream, and she did.

She went out of the store, and saw that dusk was descending upon the place. The apam balik man was leaving, as was the cobbler outside Ambank. The shoplots were still throbbing with a pulse of life, though. Cars were pulling in to get into the restaurants, and already double-parking was on the rise.

She walked and walked, watching as the roads grow wider, but the traffic getting denser. She hardly noticed that she was out of her neighbourhood already, but she was. There was a bottleneck near Jalan Pahang, right outside the hospital. She could sense the agony and despair of the drivers being caught in the 6.30pm jam, and, like a verbal affirmation, honks started.

She left the main road, turning left into the quieter neighbourhood. A big tarpaulin marquee with plastic chairs and tables was vacant by the roadside, and her stomach grumbled at the thought of the nasi lemak that was sold there in the mornings. She continued her journey inland.

She entered Titiwangsa Park. There were so many people there, but they were already starting to leave on their motorbikes and cars. The big, luminous lake sent off glints of light as the setting sun started to slide from the sky. Against the sky, she saw the Petronas Twin Towers, silver-orangey. The myriads of city lights came on, breaking through the smog and haze of Kuala Lumpur, winking at her. She could feel it, the calmness of the still lake waters and the soothing fount in the middle of the lake, and the throbbing – the pulse of life that trailed after her, from the playground to the shoplots to the lake to the city lights beckoning to her.

She needed to go home now, however. And she trudged back, with the rolls of sticky sweat clinging to her skin.

Arriving home, the unquiet clatter of plates and bowls was heard as the dinner table was set up. The rice, the lauk, and of course, the soup were brought out.

“Aiya, so sticky! You see, you’re so sweaty all over. What were you doing out the whole day?”

Her grandma’s exasperated sigh pierced through the din of plates being set up.

“I have to write an essay about Malaysia so I went out looking for inspiration loh.”

“Did you find any?” my brother said, lazily snapping at a mosquito resting on his thigh.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said dejectedly, taking my place on the dinner table.

“Wah,” Mum said. “You mean to say, you have no inspiration, with all that?”

Maybe it was a typical thing for Malaysians not to specify what they mean by that. But in this instance, it seemed obvious what she was saying. Yes, I found inspiration. So I sat down to write.