Goodbye Blue Sky

Part I: My Streets of Durian

It was six in the morning, and Kuala Lumpur reluctantly rose up from its slumber. Street lights surrendered to the dawn's first light, an army of motorcycles choked the highways, and markets released the stench of money. The streets below the twin towers--one in particular--were invaded by a multitude of tourists. Jalan P. Ramlee, dedicated to one of my most favorite Malay musicians, presented delicacies from all around the globe. There was silk from China, masala chai tea from India, and “souvenirs” from America. The street smelt like a battle between spices, sweets, and salts. Vendors were busy frying snacks while elders sat by an old coconut tree playing a game of congkak (Malay board game). Nothing more than a friendly wave could get their attention. Whenever they saw me, they would offer me to play them in a game of congkak; I’ve known these elders since I was a child growing up around theses streets. Everyday before school, I made sure to pass by Jalan P. Ramlee to get a quick game in. They were not exactly great players but they were good company. My mother discouraged me from talking to strangers, but these men were not strangers to me--maybe my secret friends. They kept the streets lively and cozy.

But sometimes the elders wouldn’t be seen near the stalls. Instead, I would find them on  Jalan Ampang--a good ten10 minute walk from Jalan P. Ramlee. Their hands were empty of any sort of board pieces. They were just empty. Their heads gravitated to the dirt sidewalk, their legs collapsed on the curb, and their hands extended towards the sky as if they were praying. It was never a good sight especially for a person who has grown up with the elders. I walked up to one of the elders, but he retreated to the dirt path. He didn’t seem to recognize me as if we lived in two separate worlds. I didn’t ask him if he wanted to play congkak nor did I question what he was doing there. I dropped a few bills into his hand while the elder gave me a peculiar stare.

“My boy, I know you. You’re the congkak boy,” coughed the elder. His eyes gleamed with hope and happiness--a look he usually gave to passing tourists. He knew that I was going to ask him to play me in Congkak.

“I’m sorry, my boy. It was never mine. But maybe someday I will have one of my own in my humble home,” proclaimed the elder. He patted the dirt sidewalk with his congkak hands and looked at me again. I imagined he had a family somewhere in Kuala Lumpur or at least a cabin down the streets of Jalan Ampang. I was planning to offer him a ride to some hostel in Kuala Lumpur, but his eyes remained fixed on his dirty congkak hands. This was home.

Whenever we visited Jalan P. Ramlee, my mother usually accompanied me because she loved buying fruits there. Indeed, it had fresher fruits than the grocers encompassing the city. My favorite fruit, although disliked by most, was durian--the king of all fruits. I always warned myself not to eat any of those before school started because it gave me a lot of gas. But just the taste of its flesh could cure the deadliest maladies. It had a flavor that was simply complex, cunning, and captivating. It would attack you with this beautiful array of flavors, and it would be all gone by the next second. It reminded me of home--my house, my town, my country. It was never easy to understand, but its intricacy--in time-- was permanently beautiful. Give me a durian. Just one bite and I’m home.

Part II: My Thirteenth Tennis Court

After school was over, I would head over to the tennis courts at Jalan Duta. Tennis practice always started at seven, but the coaches always arrived at half past seven. The indoor courts were eclipsed by the hollow nights of Kuala Lumpur. There was not a single soul in sight. I looked for a bench to sit on while waiting for my coaches. The thirteenth tennis court had a green bench which was pretty hard to spot at night; some tennis players have bumped into it whilst meandering in the dark. I tried to traverse the dark, but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. It was just like walking around the streets of Kuala Lumpur; no one can’t get anywhere. After fifteen minutes, my coaches were still absent. I decided to forget the bench and rest on the rough court. Everything was gone.

Regardless of the accumulating traffic, the tennis courts were completely silent. I didn't dare to break the silence. The pittas that lived by the tennis courts didn't chirp either; it was as if something had silenced sound's very existence.

I hated the emptiness, but I took this time to reflect on a few things. Sometimes I thought about the elders on Jalan Ampang or the taste of the durians in the stalls. Anything that could bring me home. Judging from the time on my invisible watch, the coaches would arrive in five more minutes. They would switch on the lights from their highly elaborate switch box and expel all darkness. With a deafening squeak, the lights turned on, and the nets finally shone their black and white. I could finally see the bench that I always wanted to sit on. Its warps getting bigger day by day, but I still had this obsession to one day find it in the dark. Coach was not surprised to see me on the floor, and he ushered me to the thirteenth court--my favorite court.

He began training by hitting baseline rallies with me. The tennis balls whizzed at me with a horrifying screech, but they failed to get past the red and black of my Wilson racquet. My Wilson racquet was the toughest racquet in Malaysia. It has been with me since I was just eight years old. There was just something about it--its consistency, its durability, and its power to manipulate--that appealed to me. The balls trembled in fear when they touched the strings of my Wilson wand. Never has one racquet ever struck fear into the hearts of tennis balls and players. But it was not just my racquet.

The thirteenth tennis court had something special that others did not. It was because of its unique quality that I usually chose to play there. The balls jumped up quickly, the ground allowed players to slide easily, and the court had a sweet essence to it. Indeed, the court had a few bumps and cracked corners here and there, but I liked to think that its traits were equivalent to those of a durian’s skin. I could never play on a different court; I was hooked.

This was my court. My thirteenth court.

Part III: Moving Forward to My Napier

But training never followed a concrete path; it would change everyday and force me to adapt to its challenges. The best part of training was learning how to kill a short ball. Whenever my coaches shot a short ball, they advised me to move forward and hit it while the ball still had some pace. This way I could hit a powerful shot with little effort. In tennis, players would always find the simplest way to execute a good shot. Unfortunately, I have not been able to master this trick. While my coaches shot short balls, I lingered behind the baseline waiting for it to come to me. By the time it arrived, the pace was all gone, and I needed to use as much of my strength to hit the ball well; however, waiting for the ball was not the worst thing a player could do. I remembered my coaches yelling at me whenever I stepped back to hit deep shots; tennis--to many players--was never a defensive sport. Even if people thought that a player was playing defensive, they would be wrong. A deep shot had the pace and the power. Just one quick swing--without stepping back--could send it flying back towards the opponent at an even faster pace. In tennis, there was no such thing as stepping back. A player could only move forward.

Until today, I have never forgotten what the tennis courts have done for me--as a home and as a guide. Nevertheless, the Jalans, the people, the thirteenth court, and the short balls could never last. Before I boarded the bus to the airport, I managed to capture a glimpse of a napier field. My father had one in his farm, and it was fun to watch as its leaves were pushed and pulled by the wind. The fields surrounded my father’s farm, and he would harvest them every month or so; napier leaves were infamous for how quickly they grow. During the night, the whistles of the leaves clashing against each other put my mind to rest from a hard day in the farm. Every day, my sister and I, whenever we had free time, played around the sea of napier fields. While we were playing, my father would always warn us not to go into the napier fields because their edges were sharp. He would then tell us that when we were older we could go in there ourselves to see what lies behind its thick green lacquer. All the farmers in our community believed that the napier fields made a great spot for meditating. It was believed that one could transfer their mind and soul into the very leaves of the napier grass and come out anew from its spores.

Looking back at the napier fields before the bus departed, I sensed a growing sensation. Something that told me I belonged. Something that begged me not to go. Something that teared my shoes toward the ground. This was home, and nobody could take it from me. Whether it was the Jalans of Kuala Lumpur, the humps of the thirteenth tennis court, the pace of those short balls, the edges of the napier leaves, those places would never leave me. For they were never real in my eyes but in my heart.