As I was munching muruku

I sat on the 0815 going towards East Anglia, feeling very much like Michelin’s grandma trying to feel my feet under those layers and layers of socks. I had rolly-pollied down the platform just minutes before the train pulled away and plonked myself, quite breathlessly, on the seat and I swear I must have bounced up and down a few times much to the amusement of prim proper lady sitting in front of me, trying to concentrate on her John Grisham.

When I had peeled off my coat and jumpers and whatnots and piled them neatly like freshly made laundry on the empty seat next to me, I proceeded to take in the English countryside whizzing past.
The once yellow fields of rapeseeds are now bare, succumbing to the harsh winter that is intruding into autumn like an unwanted guest. The farmer’s cottage looked so calm and peaceful – the only hint of life being the soft, willowing smoke coming out of the chimney. Oh, how I envy the farmer’s wife cuddling up to the farmer under their feather-filled duvet, warmed by the crackling fire from their fireplace.

And how I envy the sheep their thick coat of wool as they stood still, dotting the bare field, as if they are glued by blue tacs to the ground. Oh, how I envy.....stop it, stop it , stop it! I told myself as I furiously munched my muruku, grinding them to a paste and downing them with strong starbucks latte that I had bought at the station.

Alas, at this ungodly hours of the morning, as the temperature dipped further and further, self pity was also fast setting in, especially when thoughts of what I was doing in good old sunny Malaya three weeks ago flashed by like those unsolicited Tourism slide show . Oh what am I doing here? It is cold and wet and gloomy!

“Yes, what are you doing there?” “How long more are you going to be there? “ “When are you all planning to come back and work here?” “ Do you plan to queue up with other OAPs (Age Old Pensioners) for your pensions at the post office?”

Those are the harsh, no nonsence, mind probing questions from friends that came like flashbacks...questions I don’t have answers to. I swear prim proper lady peered from behind her Gucci framed glasses, taking her attention away from Grisham momentarily. Had I been talking out loud to myself? Am I going crazy? I smiled sheepishly and continued munching my muruku courtesy of friend from good old Malaya.

Next month (and I thought I had stopped counting) it’ll be 26 years away from good old Malaya – the Malaya where I can wear my colourful kaftan up and down the streets and eat roti bakar with generous dollops of planta margerine and even more generous spread of kaya, at any time of the day or night. So, it has been 26 years of cold wet and glomy winter and I still can’t get used to sitting on cold toilet seats in the morning, without it giving me a jump start. Twenty six years and I still yearn for mee goreng mamak that never failed to bring tears to my eyes and make me rush to the toilet in five minutes flat – yet I keep on yearning, especially on a cold, gloomy day like this. When the train pulled in at a small station, I half expected a food vendor to come rushing to the window with nasi lemak and beehoon goreng and even kacang kuda rebus. Prim proper lady looked up unamused as if she could read my mind. Dream on, she seemed to say, raising one well plucked eyebrow before turning back to Grisham.

As the train left the platform, it seemed to be going through a wad of cotton wool. Gone were the leafless trees and the bare fields and I was feeling a tad claustrophobic. It was fog! Even prim proper lady seemed a bit ill at ease by this change in scenery. She muttered something under her breath that betrayed her breed and background. I only knew this after watching many repeats of To The Manor Born.


Self pity was rushing in at full speed and I overdosed myself with more muruku as if that would help, but it only brought back memories of that brief but fun evening at a deepavali open house eating chapati and curry to the sound of Selamat Hari Raya by a sittar player. This can only happen in good old Malaya.


The fog lifted but it failed to leave my mind. It was still foggy and muddled up – my mind, that is. Someone cleverly mentioned my life as one being cradled on two cultures. It has made it more muddled, that’s what it has done. And what have I done in my 26 years here? It stocktaking time!


Anyway, the scenery outside the window was becoming more interesting. The little lanes snaking into the woods were white against the dark gloomy background. It was like strokes of white chalk on a painting. The ground was frozen! Even the streams running alongside the tracks were frozen. Luckily I had my layers and layers of jumpers and shawls! Then, like wads of cotton wool, they drifted down gently settling on tree tops and roof tops turning it into fairyland at Christmas time. And as I stepped off the 0815 from King’s Cross, I felt the first snow drop of the season, on my nose.