I was born into a family that struggled deeply just to survive in the early 1970s. Life was hard, but we were never a broken family. What we lacked in money, we made up for in love, sacrifice, and resilience.
When I was three years old, my mother carried me and my younger sister from Kedah, Malaysia, all the way down to Singapore. It was her first long journey—taken with almost no money, only hope. My father was already there, working as a caretaker at a local construction site, earning barely enough to eat, let alone rent a home.
We lived in a wooden longhouse inside a construction area—small rooms lined up like a cheap motel, one family per room. Zero-star living. They called the place Kotai. But to us, it was home.
At four years old, I attended kindergarten, and that was the first time music entered my life. The teacher played the piano while we sang nursery rhymes. In that small classroom, something inside me lit up. Music became my escape, my happiness. My family couldn’t afford music lessons, so that short moment in class was all I had—but it was enough to plant the seed.
At home, my sister and I sang along to the radio. She became the singer, and I became the band—beating rhythms with my mouth and banging on an empty biscuit tin. We had nothing, yet those moments felt rich.
To survive, my mother made curry puffs and other local snacks and sold them at a nearby workers’ canteen. I was the delivery boy. I didn’t understand hardship back then—I only knew that my mother never rested.
When I was five, we moved to Kuala Lumpur while my father continued working in Singapore. We rented a small house attached to the owner’s home in a quiet suburban area. Life was still tough. New toys were a luxury I never knew. Instead, I built kites from scraps and watched them fly, dreaming along with them.
We played games made from imagination—wooden rifles with rubber bands firing wild cherries, Milo tins filled with sand, bola chop, kara kondi. Pain, laughter, and childhood freedom mixed together.
The house owners were kind couple. My mother later told me they would secretly peek through a small hole in the wall to see what we were eating. Sometimes they shared their food with us. My mother only noticed the watching eye months later. Even now, I feel grateful for such silent kindness.
When it was time for me to start school, we moved again. Money was still scarce. There is one story my mother told me that still hurts my heart.
One evening, the ice-cream man came. All my friends ran home to get money. My mother called us inside the house and didn’t let us come out until the ice cream was gone. She did that not out of cruelty—but because she had no money. Not even five cents. She couldn’t bear to see her children watching others enjoy something she couldn’t give. That night, she cried. And that memory never left me.
Eventually, we managed to buy a small house. It wasn’t big, but it was ours. In 1979, my youngest sister was born. Life slowly stabilized.
In primary school, music class became my sanctuary again. Mrs. Ho, my music teacher, played the piano beautifully. Every lesson brought a new song. Among all the percussion instruments, the drum always found its way into my hands. Mrs. Ho trusted me with it every time. At home, I air-drummed endlessly—banging tables, pot covers, and anything that could make a sound.
Music had found me, even when I didn’t know I was searching for it.
In 1987, as a Form Three student, seniors were looking for a drummer. During class breaks, I drummed on my desk while friends sang. I had never touched real drums, but somehow, people believed I could play.
I believed it too.
The first time I sat behind a real drum kit was at a jamming studio in Wilayah Complex. I was terrified. But once the first song started, something took over. My hands moved as if they already knew. Song after song, I played without mistakes. No one knew it was my first time. When another drummer asked me for the beat of an opening song, I knew—I belonged here.
Music wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was my identity.
Through the years, bands came and went. Guitars replaced drums, drums replaced guitars. Stairs became rehearsal studios. Rock music became our language. In 1989, we even performed at Metallica Pub in Pertama Kompleks. When the DJ told us we were good and wanted us to perform nightly, my heart exploded with pride.
But reality hit harder.
By 1990, I was living a life upside down—sleeping during the day, alive at night. My mother worried. She feared music would consume me and leave me with nothing. Her fear became my wake-up call.
I chose another path.
I continued my studies. I worked. Music faded into the background, but it never left my soul. I played occasionally—company dinners, quiet moments, memories.
1996 marked the end of my serious musical journey.
Years later, old friends called me back—not as a drummer, but as a bassist. We played Deep Purple, Whitesnake, Iron Maiden, Led Zeppelin. I wasn’t chasing dreams anymore—just honoring them.
Music raised me when life was harsh.
Music stayed when words failed.
Music never abandoned me.
This is my life.
This is the music in me.
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