EH, masuk... masuk! Nanti abah kau balik kang... (Eh, come in... come in! Just wait until your dad gets back...),” yelled the buxom teenage maid with the full moon face from behind the low iron gate.
But her exasperated cries would simply fall on deaf ears as my younger brother and I scampered away to join the rest of our little “gang” in the parit (ditch) in front of our single-storey terraced house.
Soaked to the bone, we’d chuckle in glee at the sight of the murky water, risen to the brim, in the parit due to the nonstop rain. Darting merrily in the water would be tadpoles, the object of our childhood delight.
“Amir, bagi bekas! (Amir, give me the container!)” I’d command my young neighbour, who would also have “escaped” from his “warden”. In his hands would be plastic receptacles (no doubt nicked from his mother’s kitchen), which he’d distribute to me, my brother and his younger brother, Adi.
Flinging aside our slippers, we’d wade in the knee-deep water in the parit and plunge our bekas in to see how many tadpoles we could catch. Whoops of delight would pierce the air every time someone managed to trap those hapless little buggers.
“Nanti kau! (Just you wait!)” The continued threat from my maid as she looked on in exasperation from where she stood, legs akimbo, under the safe shelter of our porch, would simply float and disappear into the wind.
Rainy days and evenings were my favourite times growing up. Home from the age of 1 to 7 had been in Klang (or Kelang, as I knew it then), Selangor — first, in a rented terraced house in Southern Park and later, when I turned 3 (and my brother, 2), at Taman Tremelbye (now Taman Sri Andalas).
Klang, formerly Selangor’s administrative centre before Kuala Lumpur and Shah Alam, is divided into Klang North and Klang South by the Klang River.
North Klang, comprising three sub-districts, namely Kapar, Rantau Panjang and Meru, used to be the commercial epicentre for this royal town until the development boom in South Klang in 2008 that saw more residential and commercial areas, as well as government offices being developed there.
Our taman (neighbourhood), flanked by a reservoir on one side and hills on the other, was located in South Klang. Back in the early 1970s, Taman Tremelbye was still a new housing area, with a smattering of single-storey and double-storey terraced houses. Our family, along with those who lived there, were considered the pioneers of the area then.
Dad, who was at the time working with Malaysia International Shipping Corporation in KL, had bought the house from the Perbadanan Kemajuan Negeri Selangor housing development. It was a delightful three-bedroom home with a modest patch of grass in front, where a lone mango tree grew.
A swing stood in one corner, framed by mum’s many potted plants. It was our little patch of green haven; the place where conspiratorial meetings were held with our friends.
My favourite part of the house was the spacious dining area-cum-kitchen with high ceiling. My brother and I played badminton or football there while waiting for mum to return from where she worked with Port Klang Authority in Port Klang, Malaysia’s busiest port and formerly called Port Swettenham.
In front of the house was a large padang (field) that could only be reached by crossing a makeshift wooden plank. Every evening, my brother and I would press our faces against the iron gate, waiting for the clock to strike four, so we could escape and play with our friends who lived along the same row.
There was my floppy-haired, tadpole buddy, Amir — probably my first crush ever — and his brother, Adi, who was my brother’s partner in crime, as well as their much younger sister, Lili.
Next door to us was a lovely Indian family, but I don’t recall the children actually indulging in many escapades.
The following house was Huda’s, or heavenly Huda, as I used to think of her due to her ethereal frame. At the end of the row was Baby, the youngest in the group and one we’d collectively vowed to one day marry my brother off to!
Our “turf” was separated by the padang, where just beyond were the double-storey houses, whose “little people” occupants were the Capulets to our Montagues. We never mixed with them but constantly found ourselves furtively eyeing their every movement from afar, as if they were intruders to our little kingdom!
Taman Tremelbye was modestly “equipped” with a row of shops within walking distance that sold everything that a child would crave. The belon tiup, the cheap duit coklat, the colourful keropok udang and all manner of toilet brushes!
My brother and I loved it whenever nenek (grandma) came to visit from Sepang. She’d make us toddle off to the grumpy Indian uncle’s shop to buy her pack of Rough Rider cigarettes with the light green packet and a picture of a cowboy astride a horse. And of course, there’d be enough leftover change for sweets.
When we returned, nenek would be sitting by the doorway, legs folded under her batik sarong. We’d sprawl around her as she puffed on her cigarette and dispensed advice on the perils of smoking.
Another favourite activity was exploration. Because it was a new neighbourhood, many parts of the area were yet to be developed.
On some evenings, we’d trek to the other end to climb the “hills”. Reaching the peak was considered a great achievement and we’d sit there for hours, indulging in childhood chatter.
Sometimes our gaze would sweep the vista ahead and we’d wonder aloud what the view would be like one day.
Today, those “hills” that we huffed and puffed over have morphed into huge bungalows that seem to tower even higher than the hills.
Our romance with Taman Tremelbye ended when I turned 8. Dad was going to pursue his law degree in England and wanted the whole family with him.
Soon enough, memories of scooping tadpoles and clambering hills were replaced by those of evenings in the park feeding swans and swimming classes on weekends.
And Amir, my tadpole buddy? Well, he’d been replaced by one Henrietta Constance Tamara Nelder, an English girl with a penchant for horse-riding and my new bestie.