Therapy?

"Everyday’s an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
And each town looks the same to me
The movies and the factories
And every stranger’s face I see
Reminds me that I long to be

Homeward bound
I wish I was homeward bound
Home, where my thought’s escaping
Home, where my music’s playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me"

Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel. The song that rings true especially when I’m away from home and wishing I was there, the unconventional home in a shophouse where I spent my entire childhood. Each scrap of memory, each sliver of detail, proof irreversible of my existance. A house is made a home out of the love you have for it. For someone like me who has never moved before, every other house besides mine felt cold and distant. My home, my own.

On May 17th 2002 I moved out of my home for the first time, taxi-bound with half of my belongings towards UPM for the start of my tertiary education. A lot of my friends have already made the big leap towards the great beyond after their SPM to commence their college/university life two years ago. I had two more years to prepare for that. Eventually, my turn came too. The night before moving out I walked into every room and tried to remember everything good that happened in each… awashed in a sea of reminisce. And in a final spring-cleaning I dug out many many artifacts from different eras of my life… a broken toy, old incomplete workbooks, old issues of D’lite and Quest… leaving home would prove more difficult than I thought.

The morning after, after a final check on what I had to bring, one by one I locked every room until the final lock snapped shut on the front gate. I was already picturing life outside of home. Not a very pretty picture. At this time my sister had not returned from Australia yet… still a few months to go, so the house would be left on its own until she or I returned in due time. Upstairs at least. The shoplot would still be kept busy by Dr. Cheow, who took over my father’s clinic, and he was a fine friend to have, promising to look after the place and keeping me in contact ifever I was needed. The taxi came at 10am, and I took the leap towards the great beyond.

Three weeks later, after a gruelling orientation and a week of classes, I would come back home again for the weekend. This would be the first of the established pattern throughout my UPM and IMU Bukit Jalil stay. Praying that class would end early on Fridays, preferably before prayers; the mad bum rush for tickets in Puduraya bus terminal; hoping to get a good bus company that won’t be late, won’t break down easily and won’t dilly-dally along the highway at 60 km/h; anxiety attacks owing to bus punctuality, functionality, destination, traffic jams, maniacs on the road, maniac driving the bus, maniac sitting next to you… and finally home, after 3 hours of near-heart attacks. A slice of Malaysian life is never complete without a bus ride from Puduraya bus terminal. Makes you appreciate life more.

But was it all worth it? Definitely. Like a Mastercard ad, coming home is unlike any other feeling… priceless. The heart races inexplicably whenever the bus does its final leg, with a rush of familiarilty upon seeing landmarks that remind you that, yes, you are inching closer and closer towards home. For me, the final leg consists of the walled-up cliff at the side of the highway with drainage pipes that actually resemble cannons; the Simpang Pulai toll exit; the right turn at the traffic lights; several kampung houses and shophouses; ultimately leading to the construction vehicle companies, boorish dozers and diggers on full display; the limestone caves and pomelo stalls; a Petronas petrol station and finally the bus terminal. It is around here that an unmistakable glow and warmth emanates and you know… you are home, where you belong.

I come home an average of once a month, and every time I do the feeling remains the same.

The song remains the same.

Footnote: One of the construction vehicle companies’ names is Chong and Ho Sdn. Bhd. which never fails to bring a smile to my face. An era ago, my dad and mom used to joke that this company was theirs on account of their names (Wai Chong and Kwan Ho). I hope they watch over me still.