a walk in Hat Yai / Seremban

Hat Yai had the driest mornings and cashew nuts. The lanes of shops like rows of flailing fabrics and cottons in a dhobi ghat, nonchalantly minded its own business. The sun was up like as if it was going to school.

Young green coconuts were ever ready to quench thirst, Bento(s) of various flavours were dancing in the wind like prom queens, prawns were red like as if they were on lipstick. The drivers of the many van-like taxis were looking for passengers; some were screaming, smiling and seducing to announce their existence. The stall owners were waving and alluring customers to their corners rich with snacks and nuts. Okay lah, now I like this place. I like that lazy walk somewhat of my childhood resemblance. In 1980s when I was still a three-foot kid, I used to take the yellow town bus with amma to a town, a photocopy of Hat Yai, named Seremban by don’t know who and I don't really care when.

Amma keeps asking me to behave, not to pluck out leaves from the trees, not to pick up coins from the street, not to put my dirty fingers into my mouth. She cannot accept funny faces nor does she allow strange repetitive sounds that I love to make. My mouth secretly imitates a train but unfortunately it is not a train that we are waiting for. The bus comes with that familiar horn sound, packed with round aunties with horrendous stares. A manly lady ticket conductor with a crew-cut-hairstyle pulls me into the bus. Her breasts are little, suppressed under her tight shirt like a secret. She speaks in a man’s voice, mana mau pergi? (where you want to go?). Little strands of hair squeaked out from her cheek. The world thinks she is a man. But I know she is not. Because her breast peeps out at me when the button on her shirt snaps. And she gives me an eerie now-you-know-my-secret-look. I am obliged to keep her secret for her anger could kill a tiger. She passes amma our little paper tickets to Seremban / Hat Yai. The bus drops us near the lanes of shop-houses where amma shops for dresses. After shopping, after a good Indian lunch and after a bowl of cendol from the street stall we are ready to go. The yellow bus brings us back home, passes a beautiful Catholic Church with Mother Mary and baby Jesus at its entrance.