CHAPTER 11: The Mysterious Technological Frontier

In the year 1997, the realm of information technology, far from its current sophistication, was a mystery to my young and rural sensibilities. I had never encountered computers or ventured into the world of information technology, making me a complete novice in this digital age. Computers were like enigmatic devices, their inner workings hidden from my understanding during my primary school years.

So, the prospect of computer classes at the Asrama filled me with apprehension. My ignorance of this new technological landscape, coupled with the fear of falling behind my peers who already had computer experience, made me anxious.

The initial computer classes were introduced with the arrival of a male teacher, whose qualifications seemed questionable. As far as I knew, he was a student from UTM who commuted to the hostel on a motorcycle, an unusual choice of transport for someone tasked with teaching computer skills. Nonetheless, I assumed he was adequately compensated for his role.

Our first lessons in the world of computing focused on the mysterious DOS software. Unfortunately, the class proved to be uninspiring and bewildering. I struggled to understand the teacher's instructions, and the computer screen, with its monochromatic interface of white text on a black background, only added to my confusion. The teacher used technical jargon that further mystified me.

As a result, I often found myself unable to participate in these classes. The teacher's lessons remained incomprehensible to me, and I had to rely on my peers who had prior computer experience whenever I encountered difficulties.

Many of my classmates were also perplexed by the DOS software, and we all struggled to comprehend its intricacies. The Asrama's rules mandated that we become familiar with it, but I felt like I was deciphering gibberish.

Our computer classes were divided into three groups, and I was assigned to the third group with lessons from 10 am to 11 am. This arrangement seemed unfair because it followed the morning prep class. While I endured two consecutive hours of prep class, my peers in the 8-9 am and 9-10 am groups enjoyed a break during the 10-11 am slot. Protesting was futile, as the Asrama's routine allowed no room for complaints, and the fear of punishment, whether by a palm or back caning, deterred any objections.

One particular incident during a computer class stands out, although the details escape me. I remember the atmosphere on that fateful morning, charged with an unusual cruelty. The day began like any other, with our obligatory prep class. The hour dragged on slowly as I flipped through reference materials, struggling to absorb their contents.

Suddenly, our routine was disrupted by a furious outburst from Encik Hussin. He ordered us to assemble in the badminton court for an unplanned gathering, and a sense of dread filled me. What transgression had led to this summons? Had we failed in maintaining the cleanliness of our dormitory again? To my dismay, the issue was the hygiene of the restroom facilities.

A wave of anxiety washed over me. I knew Encik Hussin had high standards of cleanliness, and his inspection had revealed an unflushed toilet in the upstairs restroom. He demanded that the culprit step forward and confess, but as expected, no one admitted to it. The punishment was swift and severe—we were tasked with cleaning the restroom after our prep time. Fortunately, I had a computer class during this period, which provided me with an excuse to avoid this unpleasant task.

However, Encik Hussin had a unique form of punishment, befitting his high standards. He instructed us not to flush the toilet even after cleaning it. I was baffled by this peculiar decree. As we took turns exposing ourselves to the unpleasantness of an unflushed toilet, my disappointment and confusion deepened. It felt profoundly unfair to be subjected to such an unorthodox penalty for a misdeed I had not committed. I couldn't help but wonder who the true culprit was. Could it have been you?

CHAPTER 10: The Painful Affliction

In my Form 1 year, an inexplicable and severe bout of fever became a significant chapter in my life. Although I had experienced fevers before, this particular illness surpassed anything I had previously encountered. As a child, I believed that I would be bedridden for at least three days when struck by fever.

Back at home, sickness meant being pampered and cared for, akin to being treated like royalty. Every comfort and need would be met without hesitation. However, within the strict and disciplined environment of the Asrama, illness took on a different character. Here, I had to fend for myself.

The abrupt transition from the comforts of home to the regimented life of the Asrama had already taken a toll on my immune system. On top of that, adolescence brought its own set of changes, and I felt myself growing taller while my peers appeared to shrink.

Returning to the fever, it was customary for any sick student to be sent to the hospital, where treatment and rest were provided. I was no exception to this rule. On a day when my body temperature had soared to dangerous levels, and my head throbbed relentlessly, I had no choice but to make the journey to the hospital.

The anticipation of what awaited me at the hospital was daunting. As I arrived at the government-owned hospital, a place of free healthcare, I quickly realized that getting treatment was not straightforward. Most of my time was spent waiting patiently, my temperature showing no signs of dropping. At times, I felt like I might throw up, and the discomfort became nearly unbearable.

Eventually, my name was called, and I was given a queue number. Once again, I settled in for the long wait. In the waiting area, I couldn't help but fixate on a small screen displaying queue numbers for the treatment room. After what felt like an eternity, my number finally appeared, signalling my turn.

Inside the treatment room, the doctor attended to me with few words, his demeanour devoid of unnecessary conversation. To him, it was just another routine examination, nothing out of the ordinary.

Upon diagnosing my dangerously high temperature, he instructed me to undergo a blood test, suspecting dengue fever. I shuddered at the thought, dreading the possibility. Nevertheless, I accepted the necessary paperwork and made my way to the designated room for the blood test.

Navigating the hospital's labyrinthine corridors was a challenge in itself. In my weakened state, I struggled to find the way, uttering curses against the doctor's cryptic instructions. After getting lost several times and asking numerous staff members for directions, I finally stumbled upon the blood test room. Once again, I waited, my body exhausted and frail, my face pallid from fatigue.

When it was finally my turn, I braced myself for the inevitable pain of the needle. I gritted my teeth as the lancet pricked my skin, hoping for a favourable outcome. Anxiety gnawed at me as I awaited the results. If it confirmed dengue fever, I knew I would be confined to the hospital ward, a prospect I dreaded.

Fortunately, the results showed no signs of the dengue virus in my blood. The doctor promptly provided me with a prescription and granted me three days off from school. Even so, the waiting wasn't over. I had to endure more waiting to collect the prescribed medications. Physically drained and weak from the fever, I mustered the last of my energy to complete this final step.

During this wait, an elderly woman noticed my frail appearance and inquired about my condition. In my weakened state, I could only provide feeble responses. She seemed to have misunderstood my situation, thinking I was a needy child sent to the hospital alone. I didn't have the strength to correct her and accepted her mistaken assumption.

To my surprise, she reached into her purse and handed me a substantial amount of money. I was left speechless, unsure of how to react. I wanted to express my gratitude and decline her generous offer, but she insisted, and I eventually accepted, given the urgency of collecting my medication.

I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and emotion. The elderly woman's kindness had touched me deeply, and I wished her all the best in life, forever grateful for her noble gesture.

Time seemed to stand still as I waited in the hospital lobby, surrounded by other ailing students. By the time I returned to the Asrama, I was too exhausted to do anything. I collapsed onto my bed, succumbing to a profound exhaustion.

That marked the end of my fever ordeal, a recurring affliction during my Form 1 year. However, as Form 2 came around, the fevers became less frequent. Surprisingly, in Form 3, I visited the hospital only once, a single encounter with illness and its treatment.

CHAPTER 9: The Disappearing Grandeur

A significant event etched into my memory was the first use of a tray at the Asrama on my very first day within its hallowed walls. The date was in the year 1997, coinciding with the sacred month of Ramadan.

As I gazed upon the tray with its meagre contents, I felt a mix of wonder and bewilderment. Was this meagre meal to be my only sustenance for breaking the fast? It was a stark departure from the hearty feasts I enjoyed at home during iftar, leaving me torn between amazement and despair. I felt like shedding tears, but I concealed my vulnerability behind a mask of stoicism.

In the days that followed, the portions remained constant, and I gradually adjusted to this culinary simplicity, understanding the limitations imposed on us. The canteen sisters allowed additional servings of rice upon request, but the idea of sustaining oneself on plain rice alone was daunting.

Hunger became a constant companion, and asking the canteen sisters for more food carried a sense of shame that no students would willingly endure. Such an act would have been noticed by others and could lead to gossip among students and even the canteen sisters themselves.

The dining hall, besides serving meals, also served as a place for formal events, with tables arranged in neat rows. In my Form 1 year, only two rows were designated for each gender, with no provision for a third.

Forming orderly lines at the food trays became a routine, with students patiently waiting their turn. Since we were new, our behaviour was unremarkable, with all of us adhering to the rules of civility and decorum.

Once we had our trays, we would look for available seats at the dining tables, each student having their preferred spot. I liked sitting near the central door, which gave me a view of the girls' tables, not out of romantic interest, but because it allowed me a quicker exit after finishing my meal.

During these formative years, as first-year students, we didn't pay much attention to our seatmates or dining companions. Our young minds were focused on the modest serving of rice in front of us.

The canteen provided plenty of sweetened beverages in large containers, but I preferred plain water, especially if the alternatives were not appealing. Sipping water throughout my meal became a habit, and by the time I finished eating, my cup was empty.

Inside the hostel, students were required to bring their own spoons and water containers, a mandate enforced by our ever-watchful guardian, Encik Hussin. If a student was found without these items, they would face severe reprimands. Occasionally, the offender would be allowed to finish their meal before being punished, but more often than not, Encik Hussin would use his cane immediately.

This made spoons and water containers highly valuable and, unfortunately, subjects of theft. Encik Hussin would occasionally summon all students for an unexpected gathering to inspect these items, a mysterious and unexpected ritual. Thankfully, he didn't extend this requirement to include undergarments, sparing us from a potentially unpleasant odour inspection.

The need for a spoon and water container extended beyond mealtimes to our morning and evening refreshments. Some students even brought their own spoons to eat snacks like karipap. This led to the habit of students storing their spoons and water containers under their desks in the classroom for easy access without having to return to the dormitory.

Encik Hussin's seemingly strict rules had a noble purpose. His main goal in enforcing the requirement for personal spoons and water containers was to discourage students from sharing these essential items. Without his strict stance, students in need would often borrow spoons from others. If the spoon was not returned promptly, it would often be lost or misplaced, leading to conflicts and chaos.

One might question the need for a spoon when eating rice, which is traditionally consumed with hands in Malaysian culture. However, Encik Hussin's decisions were usually well-thought-out. He argued that spoons were necessary for dishes with broth, as tilting the tray to drink the broth risked spilling it.

Encik Hussin also saw a deeper meaning in the use of spoons. He believed that using a spoon encouraged students to eat their meals incrementally, which, in turn, reminded them of family dining at home. This practice instilled values of considering others' needs and avoiding selfishness.

CHAPTER 8: The Echoes of Bygone Days

Within the hallowed halls of the Asrama, a unique ritual unfolded, one that involved the meticulous care of our clothing. It was an era where doing laundry held a special place in our daily routines, a ritual infused with both dedication and eccentricity.

In the days of my youth, my approach to washing clothes was quite different from today's practices. I took on the task of hand-washing my clothes every day, always vigilant to prevent a buildup of soiled fabric in my humble bucket, as the consequences of neglecting it would soon become burdensome. As a young child, I could only manage a small portion of laundry at a time.

Neglecting this chore, I soon discovered, led to an unfortunate result—the locker harboured an unwelcome and unpleasant smell, a problem that afflicted those who failed to maintain a strict laundry regimen. I vividly remember the laundry room bustling with activity in the early hours after the Subuh prayer. It was a marvel to witness the unwavering dedication displayed by these diligent souls. Some of them, driven by an insatiable desire for cleanliness, willingly woke up as early as 4 a.m., their commitment to laundry unwavering.

Whether these early risers also prayed Tahajjud or solely devoted themselves to the meticulous art of laundering clothes remains a matter of speculation. However, their aversion to unwashed garments was palpable, driving them to wash even clean clothes to satisfy their passion for laundering. Their dedication was so fervent that I would have gladly entrusted my laundry to them if the opportunity had arisen.

To avoid the frenzied rush that inevitably enveloped the laundry room after Subuh prayer, I opted for a more leisurely approach, postponing my laundry duties until after breakfast. By then, most of my peers had finished their laundry, leaving a few empty sinks for me to use.

I approached the task with care, ensuring the thorough cleanliness of my garments, using only half a bar of soap over the course of four to five days. Unfortunately, the constant threat of soap theft cast a shadow over my laundry efforts, often leaving me without this essential tool. While I could have asked my fellow friends for assistance, I preferred to undertake this task on my own.

The laundry process required resourcefulness as I navigated the varying water pressures. Sinks located towards the room's periphery had lower water pressure, making them less effective for the task at hand. Consequently, I always selected a sink closer to the water source. I also took care to protect myself from splashes by wrapping a towel around me, leaving only my small undergarments behind the towel.

Once I finished washing my clothes, I hung them with precision to let them gradually dry. Then, I proceeded with my daily ritual of morning shower, the cool water from the Asrama water tank refreshing my senses and revitalizing me.

After completing my shower, my small undergarments, destined for the same empty pail, awaited its turn for next cleaning. The decision to forgo separate washing stemmed from my reluctance to give up the comfort and security provided by undergarments. Consequently, I did not remove them during the washing process.

Ironically, this seemingly innocuous decision led to an unexpected confrontation with none other than Encik Hussin, our ever-watchful warden. On a weekend, his summons to the upstairs central area, alongside my peers, filled me with unease. The call to assembly always brought trepidation, and this occasion was no different.

It appeared that Encik Hussin had devised a new rule that would change our laundry practices forever: from now on, every weekend morning required the complete emptying of pails, leaving them devoid of any clothing. The rule was meant to encourage us to do our laundry on the weekends—a rule that would have a profound impact on my life, though not in the way I expected.

In adhering to his directive, I unwittingly became entangled in an ironic twist of fate. It was my adherence to this very rule that incurred Encik Hussin's disapproval. The sight of my single undergarment nestled in the pail was seen as evidence of my negligence. To my bewilderment, my explanations were ineffective, and I received his reprimand, leaving me grappling with the mysterious motives and reasoning of adults.

In the annals of time, this curious episode would stand as a testament to the inexplicable whims and caprices of life—a moment where duty and earnestness converged, leading to unforeseen consequences.

CHAPTER 7: A Life Enriched in the Act of Contemplation

Life at the Asrama was a bustling symphony, where every note and rhythm were orchestrated with meticulous precision. The lazy days of idleness were a distant memory, for within the hallowed halls, every aspect of life, from the precise timing of meals to the structured intervals of sleep, study, camaraderie, and even the most ordinary of nature's calls, adhered to regimented schedules.

Among the many threads that wove the tapestry of my Asrama life, the tuition classes held a prominent place. Undoubtedly, these educational journeys influenced my academic path significantly. However, as I reflect on my Form 1 year, the names of those teachers have faded into the depths of my memory. What remains etched in my mind are the teachers who went beyond being mere disseminators of knowledge; they were the ones who made an effort to know me as an individual.

Sadly, I have long struggled with the art of recalling names, and many faces have become anonymous over time. Time is a relentless thief, stealing away fragments of our memories, and I fear the day when these cherished names will slip through the sieve of recollection.

One such remarkable figure, who continues to shine in my memory, is none other than Cikgu Hasnah, the guiding light of Mathematic teacher. Although our paths crossed briefly during my Form 1 journey, her memory of me endured long after I left her classroom. It speaks volumes about her extraordinary capacity, as the Asrama was teeming with students, nearly a hundred in our midst.

Another luminary was Cikgu Faridah, a nameless teacher in the annals of my memory, except for the indelible impression she left. The specific subject she taught—whether it was History or Geography—matters little when compared to her magnetic personality. She was a teacher who drew the attention of her male students. Her demeanour radiated warmth and friendliness, endearing her to her students and bringing vitality to her lectures.

Cikgu Faridah carved a lasting place in my heart. She understood her students intimately and didn't shy away from playful teasing in the classroom. Her jokes sometimes left me blushing with embarrassment, but beneath her words lay profound wisdom. At a time when I felt adrift, without the accolades of academic excellence or the attention of Encik Hussin, Cikgu Faridah's confident proclamation echoed in my mind:

"I look at Zul's face, and I know he will score 8As in PMR."

Receiving such genuine praise in a full classroom filled me with pride and joy, and these seemingly small words left a lasting mark on my psyche, guiding me through the tumultuous waters of adolescence.

After our tuition classes concluded, I would hurry to the restroom, eager to see my radiant face in the mirror. Some might find this amusing, but it was a moment filled with pride and happiness, a memory I will always cherish.

In the labyrinthine corridors of memory, Cikgu Faridah's mysterious family life remains a puzzle, shrouded in secrecy. Despite being our tuition teacher for a substantial period, we knew little about her family, except that she had one child. It was a well-guarded secret, shielded from prying eyes. Until one day, my dear friend Min unwittingly unravelled the truth.

It happened during our school's open day, when parents came to collect their children's report cards. As Cikgu Faridah drove her car towards the school's exit, Min spotted her, accompanied by a young boy. Suspicion grew within Min, leading her to speculate that the boy was Cikgu Faridah's son. When she shared this revelation with me, my curiosity knew no bounds, and I imagined the prospect of seeing her son.

Seated in Cikgu Faridah's tuition class, my curiosity overwhelmed me, prompting me to search a school magazine for her son's photo. After a while, I succeeded! Min and I exchanged sheepish grins, but our amusement didn't escape Cikgu Faridah's discerning eyes. She had already sensed our clandestine mission when she saw me with the magazine. Acknowledging our grins, she, in a fit of annoyance, interjected:

"Are you looking for my son's photograph? Stop this immediately."

Our class, taken aback by this revelation, fell into stunned silence. None of us had ever considered that Cikgu Faridah's child was attending the same school. Min and I could hardly contain our laughter, and soon the entire class was engulfed in mirth. It was a moment filled with pure delight and excitement.

CHAPTER 6: Enthralled into Fondness

Oh, what a wonder! Its colours so splendid, its texture so gentle to touch, and yet its primary purpose is to withstand the force of a foot's impact! What, you may ask, is this extraordinary object? None other than the Chapteh, though I cannot vouch for the accuracy of its name. Regardless of such minor concerns, one cannot deny the widespread popularity of the Chapteh game among the students of various origins, especially those of Chinese and Malay descent.

As I observed the urban students of JB city engaging in this age-old pastime, I found myself deeply impressed by the sheer joy they derived from participating in a game almost forgotten by their rural counterparts. Typically, this activity unfolded in a large hall before the afternoon school sessions and during breaks.

The participants displayed a strong determination as they kicked the Chapteh back and forth, working up a sweat that filled the air with a somewhat unpleasant odor. Interestingly, the more they perspired, the happier they seemed.

To the best of my memory, there were two ways to play this sport. The first and more common method involved forming a circle, with the size depending on the number of participants. The Chapteh was then kicked using a variety of techniques and stylized moves, showcasing the participants' skill in manipulating their lower limbs. It was quite entertaining to watch their unique and whimsical gestures as they tried to pass the Chapteh to one another. If a player failed to keep the Chapteh in the air, they would be eliminated from the competition.

Those who demonstrated mastery over the Chapteh would execute passes that were nearly impossible to intercept, sometimes leading to spirited disputes. Gradually, contestants would be eliminated until only two outstanding players remained. The Chapteh would then continue its airborne journey for an extended period, with previously eliminated youths cheering enthusiastically until a supreme champion emerged and was hailed as the King.

Following this, the participants would regroup in a circle and start anew. As expected, those with less skill in using their lower limbs were quickly eliminated, leading to a showdown between two contenders competing for the coveted royal title. And who, may I ask, was often among those final two? None other than yours truly!

The second method involved a head-to-head encounter, with the arena divided into two distinct areas resembling a badminton court but smaller and without a net. Only a single chalk line separated these two regions. This variant posed a greater challenge and brought greater satisfaction to the skilled participants.

The residents of the Asrama took particular delight in this variant and engaged in it with great enthusiasm. For the circular variant, the badminton court often served as the battleground, after afternoon prep class but before dinner. Due to the large number of Form 1 students at the time, the resulting circle became quite sizable. The game was accompanied by lively laughter, with participants playfully teasing each other, and the more skilled players being quickly defeated. Sometimes, they would collaborate to eliminate the proficient contestants through intricate Chapteh manoeuvres.

The intensity of the game reached new heights when district allegiances came into play. Two main districts held sway over the Asrama, namely Kota and Kluang, with other districts like Segamat, Mersing, and Kulai forced to accept this dominance. Players often rallied behind their respective districts, aiming to defeat rivals from other territorial domains. Unfortunately, individuals from Segamat, Mersing, and Kulai often found themselves caught up in this internal rivalry. A regrettable state of affairs indeed.

CHAPTER 5: A Brief Story of the New School

I enrolled in a school located in the heart of Johor Bahru, which, at that time, was modestly renowned. Today, it stands as a beacon of educational excellence, known not only in Johor but throughout Malaysia. Nearly seventy percent of the Asrama male students attended this esteemed school.

The school had a unique structure for Form 1 students. As a result, Asrama students were divided into two sessions, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I was part of the afternoon session, where all students were placed in a single class. Interestingly, despite the school's coeducational policy, our class consisted only of male students.

In the first semester, our designated classroom was not yet available, so we were distributed among existing classes. Among the fifteen Asrama students in our afternoon session, five of us were placed in three different classes: A, C, and D. I found myself in class C.

This mix of students from various classes exposed us to a diverse range of behaviours and experiences, expanding our social horizons beyond our usual group. In this diverse class, I witnessed a wide range of behaviours.

One unfortunate incident involved a female classmate who was caught playing truant with her boyfriend in Hutan Bandar, engaging in activities that, at that young age, were incomprehensible to my growing understanding.

It was only in the second semester that we finally had our own classroom, and that's when our story truly began to unfold. Half of our class consisted of non-Malay students, while almost all Malay students were Asrama students. Only a few, about three or four Malay classmates, were permanent residents of Johor Bahru.

In contrast to the morning session, which had the exclusive Rancangan Khas class for Malay students of exceptional promise, our session was a mix of students from diverse racial backgrounds. While this made our class unique, it wasn't the source of any significant issues. Thankfully, adolescence had yet to fully assert its influence over us at that point!

During my Form 1 year, I wasn't a top academic performer, but I took pride in being among the top ten students in our class. What pleased me even more was that half of the esteemed top ten were Malay Asrama students, with two of them ranking in the top five (although not me). It was a small source of pride to show our peers that we, the Asrama students, were not underachievers when it came to academics!

CHAPTER 4: The Elusive Collection of Memories

Oh, dear me! I find myself tangled in the thorny vines of forgetfulness when I try to recall the details of my first year at Asrama. Many memories have vanished into the abyss of oblivion! It frustrates me to think about where those memories have gone. Have they truly been lost to the sands of time? Or could it be that the tumultuous experiences of those days overwhelmed my ability to preserve them?

So, I can only provide a brief overview of my time in the Asrama, where I was introduced to the unique world of a boarding school. The custodian of our well-being, Encik Hussin, remains a mysterious figure. Even now, when I reflect on his watchful care during that time, my mind becomes chaotic. Sometimes, I burst into uncontrollable laughter, like a spectre without reason. At other times, I wear a vacant expression, resembling a sleepy ghost. And then there are moments when I'm overwhelmed by anger, like a vexed bull searching for a mate.

Indeed, Encik Hussin was an unusual warden. I dare say no other boarding school had such an unconventional figure at its helm. For me, his unique approach to discipline was more challenging than the trials I faced from senior students during my first year. While our senior tormentors were few in number, Encik Hussin's actions alone cast a heavy shadow over us. If we were older adolescents, I'm sure rebellion would have been more rampant.

Unfortunately, my memories of events from that time have dimmed. Many incidents have slipped away, and the words to describe them have faded away. It's a melancholic situation because that period was essential to my Asrama experience. It was when I truly understood the essence of the Asrama journey.

One notable event stands out in my memory - the outbreak of eye infections among our male students. I remember vividly that it started after an outing to Gunung Pulai. Those affected were quickly sent to the infirmary and later went home to their FELDA village for two weeks of rest.

At that moment, it occurred to many of us that getting an eye infection provided a week-long escape from Encik Hussin's watchful gaze! The Asrama students were overjoyed with this newfound knowledge. The next day, another group of boys fell victim to this peculiar ailment. The scattered toothpaste remnants in the toilets bore witness to their transgressions.

However, I was one of those who hesitated to embrace eye infection as a means of escape from Encik Hussin's control. The mere thought of such an ailment filled me with dread, and I was willing to avoid it at all costs, even if it meant avoiding contact with my infected friends. Some of my peers accused me of being pretentious because I was so averse to the illness, but I remained resolute.

Sadly, destiny had other plans. The contagion spread, and I, too, was caught in its web, a victim of its mysterious origins. I accepted my fate with a heavy heart and returned home, where I felt an odd sense of relief - freedom from Encik Hussin's constant presence, even if it meant enduring the discomfort of the infection. Tragically, the infection didn't spare other members of my family - such is the unpredictable nature of life.

CHAPTER 3: Unexpected Encounters

Since I entered the revered halls of the Asrama, my young mind was exposed to a flood of new and unfamiliar experiences. It seemed that a continuous stream of new things would shape my days within its walls.

However, if my memory serves me right, at the beginning of my Asrama journey, I had no desire to quit the Asrama. This sentiment appeared to be shared by my fellow newcomers, who exuded contagious enthusiasm, and departures were rare, usually only for those fortunate enough to secure admission to superior schools in distant places.

Living in the confines of a small and cozy dormitory was a unique experience I had to get used to. The concept of personal space seemed like a luxury we couldn't afford, except for the small refuge behind our individual lockers. Luckily, at that point in my life, personal space wasn't a significant concern for me.

Unfortunately, my memory fails me when I try to recall the full list of my dormitory mates from that time. It seems my memory took an enigmatic break at that time. Oh, but there was one person I remembered - a senior named Aedes (Not his actual name).

Living in the dormitory required cooperation and consensus. Overseeing our Asrama life was a man named Encik Hussin, a repository of countless stories. He worked tirelessly to instill in us a deep affection for our dormitory, emphasizing the daily ritual of keeping it immaculately clean through a rotating schedule.

Essentially, there were two main duties: scrubbing the floor until it gleamed and ensuring the trash receptacle remained spotless. Unfortunately, aside from one lone individual, Aedes, compliance with these duties was sporadic.

Aedes, a Form 4 senior, came from a prestigious all-boys' school in Johor Bahru and resided in our dormitory. Interestingly, he exuded an air of worldly maturity that seemed disproportionate to the mere three-year age gap between us.

He subjected me to some teasing, but it was far milder than what my more boisterous peers endured. My introverted and quiet nature didn't seem to pique his curiosity, making me largely immune to his provocations. Whenever Aedes played the role of tormentor to my fellow dormitory mates, I took the opportunity to quietly withdraw.

In due course, Aedes also left the Asrama, but not through the front gates. He chose to make his exit through the secret exit in the back fence, a decision that left me utterly amazed. It seemed that his patience had reached its limit, compelling him to sever ties with the Asrama, driven by profound dissatisfaction with the actions of our respected warden, Encik Hussin.

The memory of that momentous incident remains vivid in my mind. It happened on a crisp Saturday morning, with the world beyond the Asrama just beginning to stir from its nightly slumber. The call to Subuh jemaah prayer echoed through the surau, calling everyone within the Asrama to assemble and partake in the morning devotion.

After the prayer, we stayed at the surau for an hour-long ceramah, not religious in nature but focused on behaviour within the Asrama, explained according to Encik Hussin's strict principles.

The lecture ended, and we headed back to our respective dormitories for a short rest before breakfast. My heart urged me to hurry back to my bed, but I suppressed the urge to sprint, knowing that Encik Hussin was also making his way to the dormitories.

It quickly became apparent that Encik Hussin's intention was not to take a short break but rather to confront Aedes, who had missed the Subuh prayer. Aedes' bed was in front of mine, and I watched as Encik Hussin, without his usual cane, woke Aedes with a series of sharp slaps.

In a fit of anger, Encik Hussin called Aedes to follow him, his face contorted with fury and his eyes burning with indignation. Aedes, in a state of panicked frenzy, quickly grabbed a notebook from someone else's belongings, hiding it discreetly in his trousers, preparing for the impending punishment.

As our dormitory mates watched in shock, Aedes returned soon after, hurriedly packing his meagre belongings into a bag. This included not only his personal items but also the possessions of other unsuspecting dormitory residents. We stood there, frozen in uncertainty, torn between various emotions. Some of us tried to offer comfort to Aedes during his difficult moment.

Finally, Aedes made up his mind - he was determined to escape from the Asrama. As he left, Dorm 3 collectively breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that our lives might become less tumultuous without him. As far as I can remember, Aedes' actions led to a police investigation, but for us, the most important thing was that he had disappeared from our daily life.

Thinking back, I couldn't help but recall my friend's act of rebellion - applying his own nasal discharge to Aedes' padlock locker - a small yet powerful form of protest against the constant intrusions into our personal belongings. Despite the discomfort of that entire episode, we firmly believed that our lives were significantly better in Aedes' absence.