Returning to the scene of the crime

On a random whim in the midst of a hectic day, IT drove us around my old neighbourhood. Everything seemed the same, but on closer look, was not. The peeling paint, the rusty gates had been renovated. I suppose with the spike in property prices, the original tenants had moved on to less pricy suburbs.

My former next door neighbour, Aunty Raji, had moved. TLY was working in Penang; ES in Canada. Similarly, the rest of my friends were pursuing their careers interstate or overseas. Ah Peng, the ancient kedai runcit owner had sold up and retired. The corner cafe Hot Chocolate, was remarkably enough, still thriving in spite of its insipid nominal drink.



My kindergarten, Villa Maria was still standing. "Was I a very serious kid?" I asked my mother, chancing upon a small photo of my childhood self like the others, unsmiling and pensive (see below), in her wallet. She shook her head.

I was Minnie Mouse for the school play. Turns out Mickey was in my high school all along. The extra foot and 200 pounds or so kind of threw me off for a while.



My former home had been bought over by the Rich Turd of a Neighbour Whose Multimillion Ringgit Monstrous Construction Inconvenienced Us Greatly. Apparently, the property (valued at MYR2 million in 2003) is now used as the domestic help's living quarters. The brown gate whose parameters I had often been forbidden to trespass was now gone, in lieu of a grey brick wall.