An old Indian tapper looks at the Malaysia he built

Before offices rose and clocks learned haste,
Before the Twin Towers and LRT rails
and before today’s modern highways
my hands woke the country.

Rubber at dawn.
Rails by noon.
Roads beaten flat by feet and sweat.

We did not arrive with titles.
From Tanjavoor, we arrived with tools.
Knives for trees.
Hammers for iron.
Baskets for stones that made the
Malaysia as it is today

I tapped rubber so the economy could breathe.
Each cut carefully –
too deep, the tree dies;
too shallow, the bowl stays empty.
That is how I learnt this country:
give, but never too much of yourself.

We laid tracks that carried tin from Ipoh, timber from Bahau,
and coal from Kampar; ports hummed with cargo we helped move,
towns like Klang and Penang grew on our backs.
I watched trains leave with wealth inside them
while we walked home barefoot.

They called it development.
We called it uzhaippu (toil!)

When the estates closed,
the land forgot our names.
No grant, no ground, no goodbye.
Just eviction notices nailed like insults
to walls we did not own.

My children grew up between promises.
Too Indian for power.
Too poor for protection.
Now I watch the news.
I see sons in police stations
and returning in body bags.
Custodial death, newspapers say –
as if death were a clerical error.

But my question is, why so many look like us?
Kugan, Gunasegaran, Karuna Nithi
no one explains.

Across the water, ropes wait.
Singapore is clean.
Its gallows do not smell of rubber or sweat.
Our Indian Boys hang there –
Datchinamoorthy, Pannir Selvam Nagaendran, Saminathan,
mules for other men’s profits.
Poor is not a defence,
but it is always the explanation.

And sometimes there is no rope,
only bullets.
Durian Tunggal –
the name sits heavy on my tongue.
Shot even as they were kneeling, surrendering
As if seeing brown skin
is reason enough to kill

I taught my children to respect uniforms,
to keep receipts,
to lower their voices.
Still, the sirens choose us first.

They tell me Indians are part of Malaysia’s success story
If that is true,
why do we die so easily in its hands?
Look at the roads.
Look at the rails.
Look at the trees that once bled white for us.

My hands helped build this country.
All I ask now is simple, Malaysia Madani:
Do not let my grandsons and great-grandsons,
pay for development with their lives.

My sons and I
have already paid the ransom …
with our blood, sweat and tears

Joseph Masilamany is a veteran journalist based in East Malaysia.

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