The Faded Ink of '75: A Volume of Nostalgia
The low, electronic drone of the television was a comforting, modern sound, yet it did nothing to anchor Nur to the present. She sat, a mug of now lukewarm coffee forgotten in her grasp, her mind ambushed by a sudden, intense memory: the distinct scent of paper and the feel of embossed cardstock. The autograph book.
A small, involuntary gasp escaped her lips, pulling her back to 1975. Nur was thirteen, suspended in that perfect, bittersweet moment between childhood and adolescence. In her world, the tiny volumes—bound in colours as delicate as spun sugar: pastel blue, green, yellow, and pink—were social currency, a testament to belonging, a promise sealed in gel ink and looping cursive.
To be asked to sign a friend’s book was an honour. The ritual was everything, performed with a serious, almost sacred air. You'd receive the book, turn its crisp pages, and find the designated space—a tiny world waiting for your wisdom or your jest.
Nur pushed herself from the sofa, the need to touch the book an undeniable ache. It was exactly where it should be: tucked away in the carved wooden chest. She pulled out the slightly battered volume, its edges softened by four decades of time.
The Sacred Year-End Collection
As her fingers traced the familiar cover, a profound wave of melodrama washed over her. She remembered that the books only truly circulated in the final weeks of school, transforming into a cherished ritual reserved for the year's closure. This was when the books became a complete class roster, sealing the class of '75 forever. Hardly anyone was against signing it; it was the final, non-negotiable act of friendship.
She opened the book, and the past breathed.
Page after page held the personalities of her long-ago friends. There was the sentimental, almost poetic pledge:
"When you are old and cannot see, put on your glasses and think of me."
And the playful, clumsy vow of loyalty:
"By hook or by crook, I'll sign your book. I'd sign it in the sky, but I can't fly, so I signed it here."
Then, there was the unique, solemn entry of the adults. Nur turned to the front to find the neat, authoritative script of Puan Siti, the class teacher. The teacher's signature was the most prized—a quiet, formal blessing and an official stamp of completion that gave the book its final, weighty significance.
The Drawer of Forgotten Echoes
Nur smiled sadly, acknowledging the book’s quiet retirement. The arrival of secondary school—a total new school life—had been the moment the book went from public tool to private relic. The childish rhymes and innocent pledges felt out of place in the new, intimidating hallways.
The book wasn't thrown away; it was given a solemn promotion. It was tucked away in the quiet sanctuary of the drawer of the bedroom, nestled beneath old reports and forgotten treasures. This act wasn't neglect; it was a necessary act of compartmentalization. The primary school chapter was closed, and the book was filed away, safe.
Yet, this was its true purpose. The drawer allowed the book to become a private anchor. For decades, it waited, ready for those quiet afternoons when Nur, seeking comfort or clarity, would pull it out and transport herself back to a world of simple, guaranteed friendships.
Nur closed the book gently, clutching it to her chest. This volume contained the voices of the living and the passed on—a volume of memories she could carry through life and share with family for generations.
"I hope my nostalgic friends could revive their fond school days memories and not throw away their primary school autograph books,"
Nur murmured. "Everything now is digital, everyone on their phones. But this..."
Tessa Yusoff
21 October 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.comThe 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
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
