The Nostalgia Flood: What I Miss About the Hungry Years When the Sky Opens Up.
"Every time the sky breaks like this, I’m instantly transported back to the 1970s. Funny how an afternoon shower can be a time machine."
The rain didn't just fall today; it declared itself. From my condo window high above Kuala Lumpur, the sound is a torrential, noisy, emphatic declaration, a relentless drumming that always unsettles me. It’s not the gentle pitter-patter of romance they show in the movies—that fantasy is quickly washed out by the sheer, deafening roar of a tropical downpour. The noise doesn't just disturb; it demands attention, specifically the kind of attention that leads to a sudden, liquid-cold image of the last flood and the area around my neighbourhood becoming a muddy beast.
The truth is, rain here is rarely regular. It’s typically short, heavy, and a guaranteed mood-dampener. Yet, in the midst of this modern clamor—the sound of water on metal mixing with the silent hum of 5G and AI advancements—the real noise is the metallic clink-clink of my mother's buckets.
The Wellspring of the Past
That’s what the 1970s sounded like. Back then, in our rural corner of Malaysia, a period of national growth layered over persistent poverty, rainwater wasn't a bother; it was a lifeline.
“Don't waste a single drop, Mira!” my mother's voice echoes still. The heavy, short rains were collected and cherished—for washing, cooking, and drinking. They were truly the ‘waters’ of life. We relied on the well for our clean water, a stark contrast to my cousins in urban areas who had already switched to tap water. Life was a blend of traditional ways and the slow, inexorable march of a developing nation.
I remember one school day perfectly. The morning was sunny, a deceptive prelude. By noon, the sky had turned the color of bruised plums, a cool breeze whisked through the open windows, and then the downpour began. The lesson paused, and we all watched the trees dance a frantic ballet in the wind. The rain felt grand then, an exciting intermission that left behind delightful puddles in the playground.
The Comfort of the Present, The Currency of Struggle
Now, I live in a city obsessed with the digital economy, and my children have mastered the art of rain-dodging by vanishing into climate-controlled malls and indoor parks. They don't collect the water; they buy bottled water. They miss the simple splash.
I realize the irony as I sit in my comfortable kitchen, sipping coffee. I have the security, the technology, the freedom from hardship, yet I feel a profound loss for the very struggles we overcame. The difficult, early years I shared with my husband—the "hungry years"—were, in fact, the most deeply saturated with love. We didn’t have much, but we had to rely on each other to brave the literal and metaphorical storms. Those cherished memories weren't dampened by the noise; they were watermarked by our grit.
I've come to accept that change is the only constant. My struggle isn't with this new life, but with the loss of the meaning and connection that came with scarcity.
The rain continues its noisy symphony outside, but for the first time this morning, I don't just hear the threat of a flood. I hear the echoing clink of a bucket filling, the promise of clean water, and the sound of a youthful, resilient couple building a life together. I'm grateful for the shelter, but I'll always be nostalgic for the storm.
It's just a little sprinkle of memory, washing over me, reminding me that the best things in life are never free—they're just earned in a different currency now.
Tessa Yusoff
18 October 2025
