The Stories of A Self Proclaimed Vagabound These are my stories, they are all I have.

It was turning eleven on a rather chilly night. Well, as chilly as it can get in Malaysia anyway.

Despite the late hour, the mamak was bustling with life as customers of all professions and nationalities quickly filed in. The local restaurant, open at all hours, was like any other in the country – it had steel tables, plastic chairs, bright glossy menus taped on high ceiling beams, a culturally broad palette and dirt cheap prices.

On hot nights, water would be sprayed from the side of the roof, a cost-effective air conditioning mechanism if there ever was one. A 12-inch Sony TV hung from the ceiling in perfect view of the customers. If there wasn't a football match available, an HBO movie was sure to be on.

After taking a seat, if you looked to your right and squinted closely, you could see the distant glow of the twin towers peeking through the trees. It was hard to believe that just a few streets away, the high-end shopping centres and exotic five star restaurants were plying their trade. The mamak, however, was the place to be as this was where the sales assistant of Burberry came for her late dinner, eyes glued to her mobile screen, and this was where men in stiff business suits cheered for their favourite football team whenever they scored. It was along this street where Myvis and BMWs were double parked in a neat line.

“Satu teh tarik, satu tosai."

The words brought my attention back to the table and my waiter was gone before I could even thank him. We had just ordered tea (with froth on top) but like everything else in Malaysia, it was personalized and tailored to suit the needs of the customer.If food were a sport, Malaysians would be competing with the likes of France for gold.

Ignoring the straw lying beside the glass, I brought the frothing drink to my lips, taking in the intoxicating aroma. I took a large sip that instantly warmed me on the inside. Looking up from my drink, I saw my friend shake her head at my faux pas. Despite her attempts to get me to drink from the straw (for hygienic purposes, she states), I simply refused to do so. In India, we always drink chai (tea) with the mouth, drinking from a straw always felt unnatural. I smiled apologetically.

I was a long way from home but the steaming tosai with green chutney begged to differ. Giving silent thanks to the innumerable Tamil migrants that had made mamaks possible, I dove into the meal. They had made my homesickness bearable on that cold night.