Heart And Soul: The boy with the oracle bones

The Star

6 days ago

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He left school with the ache of goodbye still clinging to his uniform collar. The final bell wasn't just the end of a chapter – it was a farewell to sweaty canteen lunches, last-minute exam prayers, and laughter that once echoed like wind chimes across the badminton court.
The corridors he had raced down for years now stood in silence. His school friends? Distant echoes fading like chalk dust on a wiped blackboard.
But dreams have their compass, and his pointed far away. Ambivalence lingers.
Home – Malaysia – became no more than a coat of arms on the passport cover he clutched as he boarded the plane.
No more roti canai breakfasts or kaya bread that tasted like grandma's warmth. The smell of rain striking hot asphalt, the shout of 'Jalan lah!' in honking traffic, the soft braid of Cantonese, Malay and Tamil flowing through daily life – even the creak of rickshaws in back alleys – all of it began to slip into sepia-toned memory.
His suitcase held too many instant noodles and not enough sweaters. His mother, in a quiet, defiant act of love, tucked in a jar of kaya – her way of smuggling home across oceans.
Outside the plane window, the skyline of Kuala Lumpur receded rapidly until it faded into the clouds, becoming a memory he would spend years chasing.
He breathed in the crisp air of the new country but as he stared into the unknown, he was filled with trepidation.
Everything was too something – too quiet, too orderly, too polite, too cold, too strange.
No one queued with elbows. No one squatted. Soon, he would be taught the art of jumping onto a double-decker bus, a skill he quickly learned to survive.
But no aunties were hawking nyonya kuih, no white coffee, no uncles pulling teh tarik with gossip as hot as the tea.
Everything worked – but everything felt sterile.
Still, he adapted, as boys must.
He mimicked the accent, folded his words neatly, clipped the endings, dropped his 'lahs'. But some things clung stubbornly, like kampung soil to old slippers – the instinct to remove his shoes at the door, the automatic 'aunty' offered out of respect, the craving for char siu bao that made him salivate with longing.
Eating cucumber sandwiches and a simple bowl of tomato soup could leave him longing for home. Occasionally, he had to settle for home curries at Malaysia House.
Sometimes, late at night, as snow pressed its silent palms against the windows, he'd wrap himself in his old Cameron Highlands sweater – still faintly scented with Dettol, sweat and sun – and press play on Teresa Teng songs. Her voice floated through the room like incense, filling the spaces between homesickness and comfort.
Because the truth was this: You can take a boy out of Malaysia, give him a new country, a new job, even a new life. But, you can't take Malaysia out of the boy.
Malaysia lives in the rhythm of his walk, the fire in his food, and the way he clears his throat before speaking.
It's in the sarong he still wears to bed, despite the cold. It's in the way he leaves gatherings with a soft, 'Okay lah, I go first,' and the puzzled looks that follow.
He may now live in a place of snow instead of monsoon, autumn leaves instead of falling durians that signal the season's change.
But deep down, he is still the boy who grew up beneath tropical skies, catching spiders to fight on top of a matchbox.
And in his heart, he carries oracle bones – fragile, ancient imprints of who he is. Etched with the past, cracked by time, but still whispering truths.
They speak of wanton mee and hawker stalls, of Bata white canvas school shoes and ice kacang flooded with condensed milk. They remind him that balik kampung isn't just a journey; it's a pulse. A promise. And one day, when he returns, Malaysia will still know his name.