Tujuh Pagi (Seven In the Morning)

Sitting here along the equatorial line, the sun gets up at the same time every morning in Malaysia and retires to bed at the same time without fail, day in, day out.

At six a.m. the city stirs from its slumber, but it is only at about seven a.m. that my little Taman is in full bloom.

I walk out from my gate and I am greeted by the faint light of day, the light weak as a power-saving light bulb warming up. The trees form an overhanging guard of honour and the sounds of the morning are already evident – the smooth swish of traffic and the noisy motorcycles in the foreground, while the industrious crickets sit in the background and play their symphony. There is the random repeated call of birds as well, hidden from sight but with voices as familiar as those of old friends.



I walk a little further and I decide to take a little detour away from the breakfast places into our local playground. This playground houses many of my early memories, and has been beautified through the years to the immaculate state that it is in now. There are fences around the tennis courts and the soccer field, the swings and childproof floors of the play area are new, the pathway is paved and the grass is kept neat.

Even as I approached the playground, I could see all the uncles and aunties strolling past me in their morning uniforms – the collared white T-shirts, the tracksuits in various shades of blue, the sneakers, and the prevalent face towels around the shoulders, making them look like they were wearing semi cut-off superhero capes from the front.

I was a bit taken aback by the hive of activity this place was at seven in the morning. There were at least four distinct tai chi groups here this morning, the largest one congregating around the gravel tennis courts.

It was an amazing sight – at least a hundred people of various ages looking like slow-motion puppets on a string being pulled by some invisible master, their hands and legs synchronized in a simultaneous dance to the hypnotic droning blaring from the radio – Fu, Chi. Fu, Chi. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Along the footpaths encircling the park, there were people in various stages of motion, those who stood still to shoot the breeze with old friends, some older ones taking a leisurely stroll, others brisk walking and the occasional jogger. I saw one gentleman who had obviously suffered a stroke in the past, who still persisted with a walking stick around the park, his gait curious as a three legged creature.

There were parents playing badminton with their children, perpetuating Malaysia’s favourite sport, while some teenagers had taken to the basketball court to shoot some hoops.



It is seven in the morning, and the restless citizens of my little taman care not for the luxury of sleeping in.