"Kacang rebus, kacang rebus, aunty, tolonglah beli kacang rebus, lima puluh sen."
Some voices linger long after the train has gone.
For many in Kluang, it’s Aunty Tan Sua’s - soft, insistent, familiar. Her call once drifted through the station platform and in the train like steam from her basket: “Kacang rebus, kacang rebus…”
She carried baskets of steamed peanuts - lightly salted, always fresh - to the station, waiting for the moment the train doors opened. In those moments, she offered not just a snack, but a glimpse of local life - a connection, a smile. Her customers were passengers, porters, soldiers, school kids - each one part of the town’s daily rhythm.
Decades passed. Trains changed. Prices shifted. But Aunty Tan Sua remains.
"After she retired, she missed the train very much. I would take her to the station three days a week, just so she could sit there and listen to the sound of trains," said her son, who would like to remain anonymous.
Her presence became part of the station’s rhythm - a living reminder of the people who held Kluang together in quiet, steadfast ways. She is more than a vendor; she is a keeper of memory - a witness to a thousand arrivals, departures, and in-between moments that shaped the soul of this town.
To read more about her, check out Postcards from the South by Mahen Bala, from which the above quote was taken.
For many in Kluang, it’s Aunty Tan Sua’s - soft, insistent, familiar. Her call once drifted through the station platform and in the train like steam from her basket: “Kacang rebus, kacang rebus…”
She carried baskets of steamed peanuts - lightly salted, always fresh - to the station, waiting for the moment the train doors opened. In those moments, she offered not just a snack, but a glimpse of local life - a connection, a smile. Her customers were passengers, porters, soldiers, school kids - each one part of the town’s daily rhythm.
Decades passed. Trains changed. Prices shifted. But Aunty Tan Sua remains.
"After she retired, she missed the train very much. I would take her to the station three days a week, just so she could sit there and listen to the sound of trains," said her son, who would like to remain anonymous.
Her presence became part of the station’s rhythm - a living reminder of the people who held Kluang together in quiet, steadfast ways. She is more than a vendor; she is a keeper of memory - a witness to a thousand arrivals, departures, and in-between moments that shaped the soul of this town.
To read more about her, check out Postcards from the South by Mahen Bala, from which the above quote was taken.