THERE was a girl I used to have a crush on back in school.
The year was 1995 and I was a 12-year-old prefect at SK Taman Rasah Jaya, Seremban, Negri Sembilan.
She lived on a street near the school, a few rows of houses behind mine. We were good, but not close, friends.
Since we were in the same class and sat next to each other, we always shared our food and stationery.
I never told her what I felt even when we crossed paths as secondary school students a couple of years later. We were still living in the same neighbourhood at that time, both busy navigating our journey into adulthood.
I often reminisced the moments we spent together and the pleasant memories of greeting her in class.
The experience was my first taste of infatuation, the feeling of being whole yet lonely.
This was among my earliest memories of growing up in Taman Rasah Jaya, one of the first residential areas in Seremban.
My childhood years were formed through love, friendship and bonds of brotherhood that were built, strengthened and maintained in the neighbourhood.
When I was in primary school, my days would begin with an earsplitting ring from the alarm clock. A breakfast of half-boiled eggs prepared by my mother was enough to fill my tummy for a short walk to the school.
I would pass by a couple of oxidation ponds and had no choice but to breathe in the strong methanic stench.
Back then, I thought the residential area’s developers were carrying out experiments on human livability. I still do.
My house was the closest to the school but I was always the last to arrive.
I detested early school hours. I needed more sleep. However, the teachers, who probably found an effective way to work around my tardiness, decided to make me a prefect.
It was a dastardly move made out of their genuine concern and love. I still believe this.
I had no problem with classes. But I was terrified of an ustaz. He lived in the same neighbourhood, so he knew his students well enough to dish out appropriate punishments for not getting it right during Quranic recitation classes.
I felt lonely during religious classes as the girl sitting next to me in other lessons would leave for her moral class, which I bet was much easier to deal with than the fierce ustaz with his rotan.
After class, I often visited convenience stores near the school. The one with the most snacks would be Family Store, and the one with friendly store operators was labelled by my mother as “Kedai Budak Kecik” since it was operated by a young couple.
I would use my money to buy junk food, or from a stall nearby.
Walking home alone while munching on the snacks was a satisfying end to the bittersweet day in class. Being embarrassed before your classmates for failing to answer a question or my illegible writing in Jawi (Arabic letters) was enough to sully anybody’s mood. But it was nothing that a cheap 20-sen snack couldn’t handle.
A few good friends played a crucial role in lifting my spirits. There was a classmate who would teach me to read the Quran in exchange for helping him with English and scoring in quizzes. English to him was as foreign as the tajwid (rules on Quranic pronunciation) was to me.
The pact was my first venture into a political cooperative.
In the evenings, we would cycle over the hilly terrains of Taman Rasah Jaya, passing by landmarks, such as the mosque and the Hindu temple, looking for a spot to study together.
Usually, it was at a nearby photocopy shop in the same row as the Family Store. The owner of the photocopy store, who would became my Mathematics tuition teacher for the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia exam, would hand out free stack of papers for us to scribble on.
My friend, who would later learn about my crush, even asked me to invite the girl to join our study sessions. But I did not want to complicate things further.
Most of the people in my neighbourhood would converge on Taman Rasah Jaya’s wet market on Sundays.
At times, I wished I could bump into my crush, but I was worried that the story of my mother catching her son staring at a girl would end up as the topic for the next three Hari Raya seasons.
The wet market has unique roof structures, which reminded me of great pyramids. My family would drop by to stock our fridge with fish, meat and vegetables.
There was even a barber on the second level of the market. He often looked drowsy while attending to customers, and his snips were at times questionable.
Taman Rasah Jaya was also one of the first residential areas to have a fried chicken chain restaurant.
The outlet uncovered the economic disparity between some of the boys at school and me. While they enjoyed chicken pieces coated with 11 herbs and spices, I munched on cheap crackers, snacks and ABC.
I bought my crush fried chicken from the restaurant only to realise that she was a vegetarian.
Love and infatuation aside, there are many other stories about my life growing up in Taman Rasah Jaya, notably the one with my friends lighting fires on top of a hill overlooking the neighbourhood.
But that is a story for another day.
To this day, I can’t remember the names of roads or alleys there. I can only remember where the things were, what they looked like and how they smelt. In my head, the images were often in sepia tones, yellowed by age and grained by time.
Perhaps, I should visit more often.
I left Taman Rasah Jaya in 2003 to work in Kuala Lumpur. The last time I saw the object of my affection was during a small party after SPM. We said our “hellos” and “goodbyes”. That was the end of it.
Wherever she is today, I hope she is happy and has found love that fills her heart as much as she has filled mine.