EVERY time I return to my hometown in Kluang, Johor, I make it a point not just to visit my mother, but her friends as well.
They live close by, so it’s not much of a hassle.
For many years, they were her closest circle – the people who filled her days after my siblings and I left town to study and later work.
Most of these “aunties”, in their late 60s, share a similar story. Their children, like us, built lives in nearby Singapore or bigger cities like Kuala Lumpur.
Their homes, once busy with the activities of school-going children and working adults, are quieter now and marked by routines.
One helps to look after grandchildren daily as their children work out of Kluang, another has her children in Kluang but living separately, while the rest nurse empty nests.
My mother and her friends generally spend their lives with familiar habits – morning walks with occasional breakfast together and then back home for lunch, followed by afternoon naps. Sometimes they have the television or radio blaring in the background.
Night-time is usually reserved for video calls with children who have returned home from work or studies, and checking on their grandchildren before retiring for the day.
While such life in a small town can be peaceful, it can also be uneventful. For many of my mother’s friends, the only disruption to their routine is when their children return, usually during festive seasons and long holidays.
Each of her friends know exactly when their friends’ children will return, the duration of their stay and the travel plan. The excitement of their homes being filled with people, laughter and conversations becomes a shared joy.
My mother’s friends would often drop by to visit when I balik kampung.
Aunty Maliga would bring over her speciality dishes such as mothagham (sweet dumpling) while Aunty Kamala never failed to impress with her peratal dishes.
Sometimes they would linger on, a clear sign that they wanted company. Soon they would start sharing about their lives, children and the joy or happiness they gave and the holidays they just had or were looking forward to.
With faces lit up, they also talk about shopping for new clothes to look good in photographs, as well as take suggestions from the others on what would look the best on them.
Two months ago, the Statistics Department released data showing that 10 districts in Malaysia have now been classified as “ageing” areas, with residents aged 65 and above making up at least 7% of the population.
Kluang is one of them. The others are Seremban, Jerantut, Kuantan, Pontian, Alor Gajah, Bachok, Seberang Perai Selatan, Subis and Keningau.
Statistics, however, can feel distant. They rarely show what happens to towns when the young leave.
At a food court in Taman Intan, I went in for breakfast and scanned the place for a seat. Every table was occupied by men and women with white hair or thinning crowns, who made careful movements.
Most of them would have been in their late 60s or early 70s, filling their mornings with routine and familiarity while their children built lives elsewhere.
In that place of nearly 50 people, I realised I was the youngest – and I am already 43.
Later that evening, over a year-end dinner hosted by Aunty Kamala, I found myself thinking about the New Year and the resolutions we so readily make – to lose weight, eat better, save more or travel more often. Perhaps we should make room for one that matters more.
Show up for our elders, don’t wait for some other time. Especially those who once gave us their time, energy and youth. They do not need grand gestures or elaborate plans.
Start small. Take them out for a meal. Cook something together. Sit and listen, even if it’s the same story told over and over again because those memories still feel alive to them.
What feels ordinary to us may well be the highlight of their month or the memory they carry until the next visit.
Time passes quietly. Show up while they are around.
