I must confess that I do miss the location of the house in Taman Mayang we fled from earlier this year. An attractive feature of the neighbourhood was the constant bustle of life from the first blush of dawn until late at night.

Best of all was the Kelana Jaya Putra LRT station, a convenient distance away, really open sesame to the rest of the country. Why even to rest of the world, so to speak. And that service provided me with an excellent window to observe, after ages, the dependents on public transport. For around two weeks I became one among the regular crowd of commuters off to work in the mornings.

This echo of my past life came with an invitation from malaysiakini, to help out with the March general election coverage. As I swung into the routine I also struck up acquaintance with a chauffeur.

Actually he was the one who initiated the first move. As I was striding along, a head popped from the hidden side of a luxury car and boomed: "Good morning, boss!" What a pick- me- up for the morning. I too cheerily returned his greeting, waved to him and went my way wearing the bright smile had presented me. This became something to look forward to in that particular spot at the back lane where his boss's car was parked.

Encik Meslan was quite an impressive figure with a body builder's torso complementing a sunny disposition to life, and a voice that rumbled up from the depths of his belly.That back lane itself is in Taman Bukit Emas where some well-heeled residents grow miniature jungles. However, there was an embarrassing moment with Meslan.

One morning when I had the time, I stopped and asked him: "Encik ni siapa nama?" (what's your name?) His laughter exploded as he unwound himself and, a head that seemed carved out of granite looked down at me from a considerable distance: "Tengkok sini cukup, orang ramai boleh kenal saya." (Just look here's enough, people will know me). A mutton chop finger pointed to his name emblazoned in blue on the left breast pocket of his white uniform.

I was quick to apologise for not being observant. But he waved that away regally. After a short exchange of pleasantries, I strode off, thinking that he must be pumping iron. And most probably doubled as a body guard, too.

Fashion parade

Meslan's gift usually fled as I braved the insane traffic on the narrow road, parallel to the back lane: my route to the LRT station on the opposite side. At the station, a colourful fashion parade of sorts waited to board the coaches.

Catwalk ready people in their stylo-milo office wear and others light years away from sartorial elegance, all united momentarily in a common purpose. Of course, all that elegance comes to a raggedly end when the trains draw up. There's an unseemly rush for the doors with no regard for those disembarking.

No matter how the country progresses, the past seems destined to dog its steps. In the old days, no one queued for the bus. It was all a crush of elbows and shoulders push and shove; men, women or children, made no difference. It's not that bad nowadays but the basic inconsiderate bad behaviour is still there. Riding the LRT is in itself an education in how much the world has changed and, with it the lifestyle.

I don't know if the future is already here. But, I had a glimpse during one trip. It came in the form of a tall rotund young man with thick glasses perched on his nose, standing before a seated me as the train rumbled long.

He must have been the quintessential 21st century man: a laptop slung across his shoulder, a cell phone and a MP3 player. All quite nattily assembled.

And he put on such a performance that I'm sure he did his gig every working morning. Playing on an imaginary guitar as he listened to some music, I swear the guitar riffs ripped out from his ears to mine as his hands and fingers flew or caressingly lingered over the strings as the music dictated.

In between he answered in a business-like tone calls from the cell phone on vibration mode during its rest period. He was, as you may have guessed, the focus of interest in that particular section of the coach for his completely uninhibited behaviour. A relief from staring unseeingly past the passengers seated opposite at the rushing scenery.
Otherwise most faces would be pinched with anxiety, eyes vacant. Others lost in thought. The only animated faces would belong to those with friends to chat with. But one incident set my blood a'boiling.

If memory serves right this Chinese woman, so far gone in pregnancy that she could've popped at any moment, got aboard at the Asia Jaya Station. No more vacant seats left. The heavy sigh she emitted as she grabbed the metal pole with both hands tore at my heart. I gave a quick glance around and then stood up, gestured at her to take my seat.

The look of utter relief that swept across her face and the tone of gratitude in her thank you was more than reward enough for me. I took her place at the pole, fuming at the indifference seated there.

Mind you, practically all the skin colours in the country were represented and all appeared to be totally oblivious to that person in distress. Sartorial elegance and its opposite number had again found common ground.

To add to the boil, the younger ones had also rampas-ed (robbed) in callous disregard the seats meant for the elderly, disabled or the indisposed.

I've met this indifference under similar circumstances before and it never fails to enrage me. Is it so difficult so show just a sliver of consideration for another human being in pain? The obvious answer is yes, I suppose.

Baffling Malaysians

It's baffling, Malaysians open their hearts readily to near and distant causes such as donating to funds like the one for the children of Darfur in Sudan. But they look away when it comes to little courtesies like giving up seats for others more in need, waiting for one's turn and so and so forth.

There's a postscript to the pregnant woman's story. After nine days of working straight without a break, I stepped into a coach with standing room only at the Bangsar Station. I looked around in a vain attempt to spot somewhere to squeeze in. Then my eyes were caught by a Chinese woman who looked to be in her 40s. She stood up and offered her seat.

She accepted my thanks with a nod. She, too, got down at the Kelana Jaya Station. I wanted to talk to her but was delayed by the crowd, trying to get in. I lost her.

Whether she was moved by the weary look on my face or seen the incident of the woman heavy with child will forever remain a mystery for me.

Off on I wonder whether the other woman gave birth safely and why she was alone. As for Meslan, I wanted say goodbye to him before abandoning the house, but as fate would have yet every time I passed by his spot, he was missing.

However, in my head I can still hear the booming: "Good morning boss!"