On his return to Malaysia after living abroad, the writer notes that hawker stalls no longer hug corners; they are now sleek, cashless, QR-coded, and stainless. — Freepik
As he settled into his seat, a quiet unease stirred – BOAC, the airline of his youth, was gone. Now flying sleek British Airways, the over 10-hour journey home remained unchanged, as if time and distance still tallied his long absence in miles and memory.
He stepped off the plane with thunder in his chest and silence in his breath.
Time had passed, yet the tide of longing endured. Even the air-conditioned terminal felt unfamiliar. But as he moved through the jetway, childhood memories surged. Malaysia? It had never truly left him. The blend of languages, the aunties’ loud banter, the effortless “lahs” and “can or cannot” – it all reminded him: this wasn’t just arrival. It was a homecoming.
The cool terminal air gave way to the thick, wet breath of the curbside – hot and unapologetic. It clung to his skin like a mother reunited with her long-lost son. The scent of rain on asphalt deepened into chilli, garlic, diesel and damp earth – a humid cocktail of memory and promise. He braced for nostalgia, but what greeted him was dissonance.
The skyline had grown teeth – towers now pierced the clouds, malls gleamed like cathedrals of commerce, where people paid with Touch ‘n Go and tapped phones like prayer beads, worshipping the glowing Gods they’d made.
Hawker stalls no longer hugged corners – now sleek, cashless, QR-coded and stainless. Aunties who once ruled the wok now pose between orders, LV-clad iPhones in hand, posting filtered nostalgia. “Lah” and “Meh” still linger, but mingle with “bro”, “FOMO” and “LOL”. Even the dim sum lady asks, “Tapau or GrabFood?”, the old rhythm hasn’t vanished – just remixed.
His school still stands – Gothic arches intact – but the once-busy pickup area is paved over. The Upper Classes feel hollow now, past glories echoing only in his bones.
Not everything had changed. Strangers still smiled with their eyes, aunties pinched cheeks with unfiltered affection, and mahjong tiles still clacked deep into the night. Uncles debated politics over white coffee and kaya toast – sometimes shirtless, leg perched on a stool, stories flowing with caffeine and loud phlegm. Gossip still flavoured affection, and half-boiled eggs remained a breakfast staple – though kopitiam servers were rarely local now.
But the food – oh, the food – was still religion. Not sanctified by Michelin stars, but by queues of hungry believers. Sambal’s fiery kiss, the smoky hiss of char kway teow, the silken tear of roti canai, the cold chaos of chendol – every bite a memory, every flavour a whispered prayer. It wasn’t fine dining. It was soul dining.
And that rhythm – the uniquely Malaysian rhythm – still pulsed. Traffic honked like a conductor-less orchestra. Motorbikes weaved like racers through narrow streets as if on the Sepang racetrack.
Rain still applauded corrugated rooftops in monsoon bursts, turning roads into fleeting rivers. Aunties glided past with open umbrellas – not for rain, but the sun that dared kiss their skin. Parasols bloomed like stubborn orchids, defiant against ageing and sweat. They moved with purpose and gossip, their handbags heavy with family recipes and neighbourhood secrets.
To them, these devastatingly judgmental aunties, the devil didn’t wear Prada – she wore the finest impeccably ironed sarong kebaya or sari. In a city that often forgot too quickly, they remembered – and reminded – what grace under humidity truly looked like.
The city still bore its quirks: longkangs wide enough to swallow a child, mango trees whispering kampung stories beside modern bungalows. Everything was familiar – and slightly off. He felt like a guest in his own origin story. His voice, now tinged with foreign winds, made people pause.
He stubbed toes on curbs he once conquered barefoot. Yet, seated cross-legged on his grandmother’s floor, eating yam cake and lotus-wrapped rice with his hands, the years fell away. Her stories – once bedtime noise – now revealed truths he was finally ready for.
Home isn’t frozen in time. It breathes, forgets, remembers. Yes, the boy had changed. So had Malaysia. But their heartbeats still pulsed in sync.
He hadn’t returned to reclaim a past – he came to meet the present. And in that moment, as glutinous rice clung to his fingers and monsoon winds stirred the curtains, he understood: you don’t return home to find what you left behind.
You return to discover what never stopped waiting – no longer a ghost, but a companion walking beside you.
