Without Prejudice

Whenever I read of incidents of intolerance, misunderstanding and suspicion, I’m left bewildered. Why do these people create mistrust and problems, especially with those from other races? Shouldn’t we be inculcating acceptance and openness, a willingness to care and help others regardless of race or religion?

When I was growing up in the early ’60s, race, religion and customs did not seem to divide. On the contrary, the diversity of our society – Malays, Chinese, Eurasians and other ethnic groups – enriched our lives. We worked, played and studied together in harmony.

I often think about my childhood friend, Ismail. Our families lived a stone’s throw from each other on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, surrounded by a vast expanse of rubber and oil palm trees. Ismail’s father was the plantation lorry driver and Ismail was the eldest of five children.

No-one was bothered that Ismail was a Malay Muslim and we were Indian Hindus – we just accepted our differences. Perhaps, the elders of our time had not filled our heads with unnecessary advice, well meant or otherwise.

We must have been nine when we became friends. Ismail’s father, a genial bear of a man, was a handyman of sorts. Ismail, my elder brother Jothi and I would watch with fascination as he busied himself in his workshop. Once he converted a huge cylindrical glass container, which had been used to hold chemicals, into an aquarium. He buried the empty container in a hole in the ground, leaving the top third exposed, then placed hot coals around the edge. Next he slowly filled the container with cold water. When the water reached the hot coals, there was a crack and the top part sheared off perfectly!

In time, the three of us built a den from discarded zinc sheets and old wooden planks not far from our homes. Here, we spent many a sultry afternoon, away from my younger sister Prema, a curious seven-year-old who constantly wondered what her secretive brothers were up to.

Ismail would bring sugarcane and guavas from his garden. We’d provide the tapioca, a wok, some cooking oil, a knife and salt, and a rudimentary chopping board, all surreptitiously taken from our home. Using water from a nearby stream, we’d wash then slice the tapioca into thin half-moon discs, sprinkle on a little salt and deep fry them in the wok over an open fire. I have never tasted better tapioca chips.

During the school holidays, we’d explore the countryside on our bicycles, hoping to come across the unexpected. We’d go zipping past the cliffs with a sheer ravine falling away on the other side of the path! Stopping to catch our breath, we’d watch the flash of colour as a kingfisher flew by. These experiences filled us with a sense of adventure and awe.

Perhaps because he was the oldest child, Ismail acted responsibly and was seldom emotional. He had a steady hand and was quick to help. Once, he deftly removed a thorn that had pierced my foot while we were swimming in a stream.

Occasionally, during the weekends, we’d go to his house. His younger sisters minded baby Udin, as their mother, a petite woman in a sarong, smiled and busied herself in the small kitchen. I remember once she stewed a chunk of beef while the children peered into the pot and murmured “sedap” (tasty). Just like my family, they rarely had meat.

At times Ismail would accompany our family as we made a rare shopping trip to town. We’d be glad of his company. The shy smile on his face spoke a thousand words.

I must have been about 12 or 13 when my father was transferred to Johor. Ismail and his family later returned to their kampong (village) in the state of Selangor, and I lost touch with him.

The years passed and memories of my childhood days grew hazy. The plantation eventually became a housing and light industrial area. I finished high school and went on to a series of jobs: laboratory assistant, store clerk, insurance salesman.

One dismal afternoon in mid 1983, I stopped a taxi in Kuala Lumpur and got in just as the skies opened up. I stated my destination and prayed that I wouldn’t be late for my job interview – there was a recession and jobs were scarce.

The driver, a small, neatly dressed man, acknowledged my instructions but did not move off. Instead, he looked intently at me through his mirror. “Raddar?” he said, using my childhood nickname. Imagine my astonishment at being so familiarly addressed.

When the driver turned around, I had a better view of his face. There was no mistaking that shy smile – it was Ismail! Even after two decades we still recognised each other.

As I grasped his shoulder over the front seat, I felt a genuine affection, something hard to describe. He patted my hand and said, “Lama tak jumpa, kawan.” (I haven’t seen you in a while, friend.)

We chatted as he drove. Ismail’s parents were well; his father, now retired, tended to a small vegetable plot and tinkered with his motorcycle. His sisters were married and so was he. His work as a taxi driver was temporary – he would soon be heading to Pahang to work.

I gave Ismail my phone number, but regretfully, we lost contact after he moved to Pahang.

Someone once said: “Friendship – pure, unselfish friendship, all through life’s allotted span, nurtures, strengthens, widens, lengthens, man’s relationship with man.”

Indeed, if we can allow our children to be themselves without prejudice, they’ll build friendships that matter, with people, regardless of race or religion, who will be by their side though thick and thin. On such friendships are societies built and then we can truly be, as William Shakespeare once wrote, “we happy few, we band of brothers”.

S. Varatharaja works as a private tutor and lives in Kuala Lumpur with his wife and two children. His wife is Chinese, so his children, he proudly points out, “are multi-racial Malaysians”!

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