We’ve been going to the same pasar in Kelana Jaya for 12 years now. Sorry TTDI, but KJ totally kicks your butt. TTDI wins on Sunday pasar malams though.
Anyway, there’s an old pak cik in one of the stalls who’s still there after all these years. He’s got this lovely baritone voice that you can hear from about 10 stalls away, and he isn’t even shouting. The first time I heard it was sometime in my teen years. It was so deep and audible it made my head turn. I thought someone was using a microphone to promote those mysterious products we usually see lining the road, but there he was, this ordinary-looking man with a kind face, joking with one of his customers. The funny thing is I don’t even remember what he sells, since we’ve never bought from him. If you ever find yourself roaming that particular market, keep an eye out for him and listen to his voice. He reminds me a lot of my late grandfather.
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If you’re trying to find a place that displays a genuine atmosphere of muhibbah-ness, I think a pasar’s a good place to start. Personally, I’ve never been a victim of racism. Two of my Rojak friends are Chinese, and we’ve been together for so long we don’t even notice we come from different backgrounds. I’ve had a lot of interesting conversations with Chinese and Indian uncles when I take the taxi. Racial differences has never been an issue with me. So it’s always been a little hard to imagine or fully understand what racism feels like when I read about it, knowing that there are people out there who have been attacked or stereotyped against based on the colour of their skin. And these attacks don’t only come from the walking man on the street; politicians are frequently guilty of it too.
When things become too ridiculous (seriously, I thought racism was SO last millenium), I escape to the pasar, where the Malays buy from the Chinese, the Indians buy from the Malays and everyone plies their trade with no distinct barriers. Of course we’ll come across the random kiasu buyer who will shove you over a basket of prawns, but that’s a person’s lack of education rather than race itself. I prefer the pasar setting over some formal event orchestrated to show unity. It’s more authentic. The traders aren’t being polite to each other with strained smiles and tolerant expressions in check; they joke with each other, trade good-humoured insults, gossip - I like watching the genuine banter. I especially like seeing the little children, brown, yellow, black, hiding behind their mothers, hands clutched tightly on those red pasar trolleys, throwing curious furtive glances at each other. There’s hope for an undivided future yet.
If the pasar holds too strong of a smell for you though, there’s always the mamak stall.
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I’m contemplating on categorising my posts from here on out, but I’m having some doubts. When I started out writing here, it wasn’t intended to be very serious. I mean come on, Friendster blogs? I just wanted a bit of an outlet to channel out random musings. I didn’t really have a structure in mind. But then things got out of hand, I got carried away and here I am, with a pretty sizeable amount of entries to my name.
So now I’m thinking of sorting things out a little and tidying up around here, but, like its writer, the posts don’t really belong under any specific category. The themes sometimes get very sporadic, which is proof enough of what goes on in this scatterbrained head. Sentiasa serabut.
We’ll see.
Enough said here.
