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I took a GrabCar to KL Sentral a few years ago, and what I thought would be a simple ride turned into an unexpected conversation with a driver who just needed someone to listen. He was a Chinese-Muslim man, married but separated for almost ten years. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of years of unresolved pain.
“She was 20, and I was 25,” he began, eyes focused on the road, but clearly lost in his memories. “We were both from the same kampung in Alor Setar. I converted to Islam seven months before I approached her father to ask for his blessing. But he gave me an ultimatum—either I marry his daughter that same month or I walk away. I wanted time to learn more about the religion, time to build a relationship with her family. But I loved her, so I accepted. We got married a few weeks later.”
He paused, the hum of the engine filling the silence before he continued. “A year later, we had our first son, and that’s when the financial struggles started. I was doing everything I could, but money was tight. So I made arrangements for someone to look after my mother and sent my wife and son to live with her family for comfort. I moved to KL for work, hoping to provide a better life for us. Every month, I traveled back up north to spend time with them. My wife was content, and my mother was proud of me—her son, the responsible family man.”
His voice softened as he spoke of those early days, but it grew heavy again when he recounted what came next.
“Everything was fine until our second son was born. That’s when things started to unravel. My wife became suspicious of me, out of nowhere. She’d call me multiple times a day, asking where I was, who I was with. Sometimes she’d call while I was in a meeting with clients, and if I didn’t answer, she’d accuse me of cheating. Apparently, her aunty had planted the seed in her mind—telling her that any man who worked in KL would end up with a second wife or a mistress.”
He let out a deep sigh, his frustration still raw.
“I tried explaining, reassuring her, but it didn’t work. I suggested she and the boys move to KL so we could be together, but she refused. She didn’t want to leave her mother. The distance between us only grew. During one of our arguments, I told her that if she kept accusing me, things could get worse, maybe even end in divorce. That’s when everything fell apart. Her aunty told her that just by saying the word ‘divorce,’ I’d already pronounced talak. It didn’t matter that I didn’t mean it that way, that it was said in the heat of the moment. She refused to believe me when I suggested we go to the religious office for clarification. She was convinced—convinced that we were no longer husband and wife.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel as if he was trying to hold on to something long lost.
“On top of that, she accused me of failing as the ketua keluarga, the head of the family. She said I never led prayers in the house, never taught her or the kids about the agama. But how could I? I was still learning myself. I had converted not long before we got married. I thought she would guide me—after all, she was born a Muslim. But instead, it became a reason for her to push me away.”
The pain in his voice was palpable.
“It’s been almost ten years since we separated. Our boys are now 15 and 14, but they don’t see me as their father. To them, I’m the absent one. They think I’m irresponsible because their mother worked hard to support them. They don’t know that I’ve been sending money every month, covering all their expenses, even now. My own mother suggested I take pictures of the bank deposit slips and send them to my boys as proof. But what would that do? It would only hurt them more, confuse them. What would they think of their mother if they knew the truth?”
As the car pulled up to KL Sentral, I felt a heaviness in the air between us. I looked at him and saw not just a driver, but a man caught in the gap between love and duty, between sacrifice and loss. I wanted to say something to ease his pain, to reassure him that all his efforts weren’t in vain.
“One day,” I said quietly, “your sons will know the truth. And when they do, they’ll love you for it.”
He smiled, but it was a small, fragile thing, weighed down by years of waiting.
“One day,” he echoed softly. “I just hope I’ll still be around when that day comes.”
I tried to smile back, but it came out bitter, my heart too full to offer the warmth I intended. I blinked quickly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. What could I say to someone who had endured so much, quietly, without recognition, without resolution?
“Assalamualaikum. Have a good trip, sister,” he said, his voice gentle, as if he sensed my struggle.
“Waalaikumussalam,” I replied, stepping out of the car.
As I walked into the station, I couldn’t shake the weight of his story. There are so many people in this world, moving through life with smiles on their faces but carrying the heaviest of burdens in their hearts. My GrabCar driver was one of them. And, in my own way, I am too. Our circumstances are different, but there’s an unspoken connection between people who carry pain quietly.
Perhaps that’s one of the universe’s gifts—to bring us together in moments when we need it most, to offer a fleeting but profound sense of understanding. A reminder that even in our darkest times, we are never truly alone.
Fa Abdul is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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