I AM WALKING down Jalan Gurdwara towards Hin Bus Depot—and though I have walked this route many times this year, something about it feels different today. Perhaps it is the faces that peek out along the kaki lima; a familiar foreignness in the eyes of all those I walk past. It translates to the way they speak the national language—is it Bahasa Malaysia or Bahasa Melayu? Does it even matter?

Regardless, there is a twirl at the tip of their tongue which differs from mine, even if to untrained eyes, we might all look the same.

Today, I look up and pay attention to shop signs and realise there are many tailors in the area with no patrons, but the man who sells knock-off clothes has a steady line of customers with curious hands. The smells have also piqued my interest—luxury remains behind closed doors, and there is no space to mingle with the trails of bone broth from Sup Hameed or fishy Laksa goodness from the stalls in the corner.

There is, however, a kind of heavy spice, buoyed by a different kind of weight from the humid heat and dust, sweeping past the kaki lima and into the open doors of shophouses with every passing car. People rarely walk past here anyway. It depends on who you are, and where you come from. This side of the street is frequented by the others, and where the others linger, we try not to trespass.

The scent brings me back to 11 years ago, when, along with a group of youths, I walked the streets of George Town close to midnight, passing rolled mats and care packages to the homeless. We were only five minutes into the walk when we bumped into a group of refugees at the corner of Jalan Buckingham, whose persistence in taking the packages was rather inspiring. They beat the locals to it, and we had to endure an earful of “Why do you care for them more than us?” and “Haiya, like this now how, you shouldn’t give them, later go to waste.”

The latter was uttered by a petite aunty who curled up along the kaki lima with only the clothes on her back. I remember walking past her, the heavy scent of spiced curries from a nearby Nasi Kandar joint mixing with a kind of stale pungency from unwashed bodies and droppings. I would recognise her a week later, sitting under the iron rod sculpture opposite the Goddess of Mercy Temple, never really talking to anyone, never really begging, always looking ahead. She was a stoic fixture in a space where pigeons ruled and incense filled the air, only ever leaving her post to collect food passed out by the road. I remember buying her a bao from Little Angel Café one day, just because; I had never seen someone inhale Char Siew Bao the way she did. Then, I never saw her again.

Yet, the same pungent smell lingers in another memory, with a trail of liquid from a black trash bag with memories of the night before against the warm buttery goodness of pastries fresh from the oven. The mingling of night and day is strong enough to carry over to Love Lane, where the dutiful Penang Island City Council (MBPP) workers sweep away remnants of beer cans, bottles, cigarette buds and leaves into a pile just by a man and his guitar, painted into the wall. He reminds all those who walk past him that there is a kind of achievement or hope that comes with walking the distance.

There are other men on the street—other older men who speak to each other from one shophouse to another as they sweep their section of the kaki lima. Some sit by the corner of the street inhaling packets of Nasi Lemak and Teh Tariks while they talk about the politics of the day, creating scenarios and reimagining a Malaysia that could have or would have been. These are the few hours when Love Lane is occupied by people of a different generation, who would arise early enough to sit with the quiet, and think about what it means to live a different life, before living out their reality. It is clearly discernible from the sights and sounds you would find at night, with those who choose to lose themselves to escape from having lived out their realities.

Today, however, that same morning chatter is less and less present, and old faces no longer greet me. I don’t know if they have necessarily moved anywhere; this has always been their home. Perhaps, I say to myself, they are simply gone, and the ghosts of the past are all I have to carry with me.

I search for the same pungent smell, only today it is marred by the stink of fresh paint. I turn to my right and out from the depths of heritage shophouses is a sore thumb of a white building sticking out for all to see. Is it a car park? Is it a modern row of shophouses? Is it a mall? Is it an arts space with a rooftop? Why is this here, and how has this been allowed to be erected? No one really has an answer. But we all know why this is allowed to exist. We just don’t want to verbalise it.

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel lost in the city I call home. Here, café breakfasts cost at least RM30, even at some kopitiams, and people prefer croissants over Roti Bakar. Here, the flavoured lattes and creamy, green coloured teas are superior to Teh Tarik and Kopi Peng. I wonder if one day we will be able to get away with RM5 lattes and not complain about the blend. Because we have all become coffee connoisseurs, right?

As I transition with the city, I can’t think of a better way to pay homage to her, other than saying goodbye to every version of life she has provided, and all the people who make the city. It often feels like I blink and when I open my eyes, the city changes and transitions, as if I had left for years and years. When, in reality, I had only been gone for a week.

Yet the city transitions every time, and every time I return to her, I realise that all I can do is stand, watch and see her become a place for all—all kinds of people, all kinds of languages, all kinds of sights and sounds and smells; all kinds of beings, a mixture of past and present transitioning towards the future.

While luxury is eager to remain behind closed doors, kept at bay from the realities of the streets, I sometimes hope that the heavy, spiced, pungent smells I have come to hold on to lingers, along with that of heavy machinery and grease. And as long as the keepers of working-with-hands remain, so will these smellscapes, even if it means that urban management has seriously failed in its drainage systems.