The country we leave each other
By Nahrizul Adib Kadri
Every now and then, I find myself doing something that probably makes very little financial sense.
It usually happens at a nasi kandar restaurant (yes, the one in UM) after lunch. One of those places where you enjoy your meal first before walking to the cashier, telling them your table number and settling the bill afterwards. There is one particular restaurant I visit from time to time, and over the years I have developed a small habit there.
Before paying for my own meal, I quietly ask the cashier to include another table in the bill.
“Table number?” the cashier asked, casually.
“Table number 21, please. And 5 too,” I answered, typically.
Not every table and all the time, of course. Usually it is a family with young children, or a group of students, or someone who simply gives me the impression that saving a few extra ringgit today might make tomorrow a little easier. The cashier usually smiles, nods, and carries on as though nothing unusual has happened.
Then I leave. I have never stayed long enough to watch what happened afterwards.
I do not know whether the students looked around the restaurant trying to identify who had paid. I do not know whether the father smiled in disbelief, whether the children celebrated because there was now enough money left for desserts, or whether everyone simply accepted it as one of those unexpected moments that occasionally appear in life.
The truth is, I have never really wanted to know. Some people might think the nicest part of such an experience would be receiving a heartfelt thank you. Strangely enough, I have always felt the opposite. The moment the kindness becomes attached to a particular face, it somehow becomes a story about an individual. When it remains anonymous, it quietly becomes something larger. It becomes a reminder that goodness can still arrive from someone we may never meet again.
Perhaps that is why I have never regarded those lunches as acts of generosity. They feel more like small opportunities to contribute, in however modest a way, to the kind of country I hope we continue becoming.
As Merdeka and Hari Malaysia approaches each year, we naturally spend time reflecting on what this country means to us. We speak about history, independence, unity and the future we hope to build together. These conversations matter because nations, like families, need stories that remind us where we came from and why we remain together.
Yet I sometimes wonder whether another question deserves equal attention: what kind of Malaysia do the people around us experience simply because we happened to cross paths with them today?
For most of us, the answer will have very little to do with grand gestures. It is found in the driver who slows down to let another car merge instead of accelerating to close the gap. It is found in the customer who thanks the cleaner before leaving the restaurant. It is found in the lecturer who remembers the name of a struggling student, the employer who speaks respectfully to a new staff member, the neighbour who quietly collects someone else’s parcel before the rain arrives, and the stranger who returns a dropped wallet without expecting a reward.
None of these moments will ever appear in history books. Yet history itself is quietly shaped by millions of moments very much like these.
Countries are often described through their policies, economies and political institutions. Those things are undeniably important. But the Malaysia most of us actually experience each day is something much smaller and much closer. It is the queue at the supermarket. The conversation at the mamak. The receptionist who answers the telephone. The security guard who greets us every morning. The way we disagree with one another when opinions differ.
Those people at the restaurant will probably never know who paid for their lunch. They may remember the afternoon for a while before life, as it always does, moves on. I will never know whether the gesture changed anything beyond that single meal.
But perhaps it does not need to.
When we celebrate Merdeka last month and Hari Malaysia soon, I hope we continue flying our flags, singing our national songs and remembering the sacrifices that brought us here. Those traditions deserve their place because they remind us that a nation is always larger than ourselves.
At the same time, I hope we remember that every one of us leaves behind a small version of Malaysia in the lives of the people we meet each day. Most of the time, it is no bigger than a conversation, a smile, a little patience in traffic or an unexpected lunch quietly paid for before walking away.
Perhaps, in the end, the country we love is also the country we leave each other.
The author is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, the Director of UM Press, and the Principal of Tuanku Bahiyah Residential College (KK2), Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at nahrizuladib@um.edu.my