Kluang: SAY "CHEESE!"

By Woon Tien Li

“Good thing Kluang is still a small town. Big towns don’t have trees.”

That was what the aunties at the neighbourhood kedai runcit always said whenever the weather in this small town turned brutally hot. I used to wonder why they said that. But no matter its validity (ahoy, city-dwellers!), here are some snapshots of Kluang.

* * *

I walk out of the school gate. The air is eerily still, stiff with humidity. It seems like it will rain later. Dust clings on to the hem of my green kain, comfortable in the lack of air circulation. Probably the soles of my "Made in China" shoes — as proclaimed on the insoles — have their own way of awakening them.

Dad’s Proton Iswara is parked under the tree. Thank God for trees and kind people who plant and nurture them. The green car is somewhat camouflaged by the leafy boughs — yes, green skirt, green car and green windscreen shade. I dump my books and bag on the passenger seat. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I sigh. After driving for one year, the novelty has disappeared, replaced by the inevitable wish of having a chauffeur, or just someone to drive me around.

* * *

The sound of rustling grass, scampering brown leaves and the soft, almost unheard thuds of dry petals accompany my short walk. Withered blossoms — yellow, pink and white — flutter down, covering the ground in a cheery, springy layer of colour. The sky grows darker. Little droplets of water dot my glasses. I smile, as little kids whiz pass me on their bicycles.

Cycling down a slope is the nicest way to absorb the scent of post-rain dampness. Kor and I never raced on those days. The ground crunched as wet sand grated against our bicycle tyres. We often cycled in the drizzle. The wind left us pleasantly cold and warm at the same time; Kor’s glasses would get fogged up. So we cycled leisurely, breathing in the freshness that can only come after a shower.

* * *

I remember one morning when I was in Form 3. It was a Monday, and there was assembly at school. Sister Mary, my principal, stood up to speak.

“Listen, girls,” she said.

We grew silent slowly. The hush was soon replaced by a cacophony of chirping birds and insect sounds, as distinct as the damp smell of the ground outside.

“Toot, toot …” The north-bound train passed by. We heard the steam released with a “Whoosh!” sound.

From where I sat, I could see the sun peeking out from behind Gunung Lambak, its looming twin peaks watching over the awakening town.

The dew-beads on the flowers glistened almost proudly. Their petals unfurled to receive the sun’s warmth, their colours more brilliant in the light.

After a while, she broke the stillness. “See, it’s such a beautiful morning.”

And indeed it was. And I saw not only the Master Artist at work, but also how lovely this little known place is.