No 21
The saying goes, “Home is not a place. It is a feeling”. But for me, home is a place that evokes the feeling of a sense of belonging. The home in question is No 21, a basic 2-story semi-d landed property in Wangsa Maju, a middle-class Malay-dominated area in the heart of Kuala Lumpur. No 21 is where most of my childhood memories have been stored away in. As if it was a little musical jewelry box, when opened, like a stream of melodies, memories resurfaced, and I am the little girl figure twirling inside, at the heart of it all.
No 21 was like any other middle-class home. As a child, I was critical of it, ashamed even. I longed for more and always thought the grass would be greener on the other richer side. The other side is the corner bungalow on the next street where my childhood friend lived in. Yet now, in retrospect, I recall my time in No 21 with nothing but fondness, appreciating the sense of warmth and comfort for all of the wonderful memories No 21 gave me.
As I close my eyes, I envision myself being in front of No 21 and visiting it again after all these years. As I approach the front gate, I see the pillar beside it where the metal numbers 2 and 1 are set on top of the grey dustbin door. I can’t help but smile at the memory of returning home from school and being annoyed as I am often greeted by the sight of the grey dustbin door being left open after the rubbish truck emptied its remains during collection day. Then, as I look to the left, I see the rustic front gates with chipped pain from that one time my Bibik decided to paint it brown but did not bother maintaining it to ensure it looked glossy and new. I went ahead and opened the lock, and it squeaked as it brushed its metal sides. Entering the front porch, I look to my right at the little patch of grass I don’t recall ever spending time playing on, as it never looked inviting. Even then, I can’t help but feel a strong sense of connection to it, given its earth holds the remains of my little sister’s umbilical cord and my black cat Slyvester. We chose to bury it here in this little patch of grass as if to bind ourselves to this home and connect it to our family.
As I opened the front door, I could almost see my little sister, Amin, running to greet my dad when he came back home from work in fake tears as she tried to get me into trouble for a fight we had much earlier in the day. And as I stepped into the house and turned around to place the keys behind the door, I could almost catch a glimpse of little me hiding behind the front door to scare my second sister, Angah, who used to come back home late at night. As I went into the living room, my feet stepped on the marble floor, the cold sensation brought back memories of me lying on it, seeking for it to soothe my itchy eczema skin as I tried hard not to scratch my legs when an eczema attack happened. Or when I sought the marble floor’s company to play hopscotch to entertain myself as a child. I sit in the living room for a while and let my hands feel the velvet maroon material on the sofas that were hand-me-downs by Tok Esah, my maternal grandmother. We still have one of the armchairs from the set in our current home, and I always catch myself admiring how the armchair is still in such great condition despite being in the family for more than 40 years. I then got up and walked to the dining room and said hello to my teenage self sitting at the dining table and burning the midnight oil, studying before my big high school exam, SPM. Teenage me always made sure that I strategically sat in the most visible space in the house so that my dad would know that I was diligently studying for my exams.
I then walked up the stairs to the second floor to my parent's bedroom. I could almost smell my mother’s DiorJ’adore perfume in the air. The room used to always be the nicest-smelling room in the house. That was until my mom left to work in Saudi Arabia when I was 13; then, the scent was replaced by my dad’s Oud scent, a gift from my mother. Walking past my parent’s bedroom, I arrive at the upstairs living room and am greeted by one of my fondest memory in No 21. The memory of my 2 older sisters, Along, Angah, and me, when we first moved into No 21. We had just bought some new Ikea furniture and were excitedly laying out the new carpets and throw pillows, trying to make the space cozy for our family movie sessions. This was my most cherished memory in No 21, not over the excitement of buying new furniture for the house. Instead, it was one of my happiest memory because it was one of the rare times that my older sisters and I were seen in one room being happy together.
I then walked across the living room into my childhood bedroom, a little space that could only fit a single bed, a small wardrobe, and a desk. Looking up at the blue and yellow walls, I smile at the memory of painting it pastel blue in excitement when I inherited the room from Along, that moved out for college. The paint I got, unfortunately, ran out, and instead of buying a new pot, I made do with some leftover yellow paint which I used to make a dripping pattern on the wall to cover up the bits that were left bare after the blue paint ran out. I walk past the wardrobe and sat on my bed, and reminded myself of the countless times Bibik tried to wake me up for school at 6 am in the morning. While I stubbornly refused to obey, only to woke up frantically with only 10 mins to get ready. Or how the notion of a shower head was a luxurious item we didn’t have, and a shower at home involved a bucket and a pail of cold water from the pipe. I then smiled, envisioning the teenage me that used to stay up late at night chatting on MSN messenger on the computer and dancing to Ashley Simpson on repeat in this small bedroom.
As I continue to lay on my childhood bed and twirl through the countless childhood memories, I had in No 21. I can’t help but feel grateful to my home for all the nostalgia it evoked. I understand now that I may not appreciate all those memories as they happened to me. But in hindsight, I will look back on my life experiences and understand the lesson they gave me and cherish the memories they equipped me with. And most importantly, walking down my No 21 memory lane taught me that, ultimately, there is no place like home.