Once a week, I find myself sitting on a stool or chair at a long bench or table under zinc- roofed open air stall of about 20ftx20ft propped up metal poles in concrete in Negeri Sembilan.

Couple of broad-leafed trees whose branches overhang the roof take the bite off the sun's heat. Aside from humans, the others who clock in regularly are a variety of birds and a couple of dogs. Not to mention, of course, the pesky flies and their predators the cicak .

On lucky days, I can sit with a pleasing view of blue-tinted rolling hills in the distance, serving as a backdrop to a colony of red-tiled single-storey terrace houses behind the stall. Admittedly, the most attractive part of spending time there over a cup of coffee and roti canai is the parade of characters passing through.

Most of them have no time for Vision 2020 or the latest scandal involving politicians like those assemblymen who built mansions, practically giving the finger to the law. Or the dreadful state of local councils. Or politicians with too loose an insensitive tongue in their heads. Getting the rice to the table consumes a major part of their lives.

Among the stall's patrons are an elderly Chinese couple, with their grandchild, who surface now and then. And there they sit nattering away in Tamil as though born to it to, I presume, to the matriarch of the clan operating the stall.

The Michelin tyre-like matriarch is quite a personality in her own right and exudes an air of having the reins firmly in her hands. One morning when questioned on the unusual lack of patrons, she said: "This is like a bus stop. People come and people go". Made me feel like a proper Charlie.

Much wisdom in that remark. People do drop in and off throughout one's life. Some touch you and others leave dents. Yet others flicker by. On some occasions I sit back to the hills; looking at the traffic flowing past and also at the two forlorn bus stops. One on the stall side. The other on the opposite symbolically frames a Hindu cemetery rubbing against a Chinese graveyard.

I've gathered that the bus service was stopped when development descended on parts of the area bordering the near 5km long road that leads to the trunk route to Seremban. The reason for the decision remains a mystery though it's plain to see that hundreds would benefit from a resumption of the service. Perhaps from officialdom's air-conditioned Olympian heights such inconvenience to the lower masses isn't worth the bother.

Mr and Mrs Man Mountain

Once my eyes were automatically drawn to a chocolate-complexioned Man Mountain and his wife. Of Chinese and Indian extraction, I decided. She cut a slender radiant figure wrapped in a peach and cream skin. And was entertaining the darlingest of infants. Owl-like eyes and an unblinking all-absorbing gaze.

Man Mountain unwound himself from his stool, and was in danger of scraping his head against the roof while conducting a conversation in Hokkien of the southern variety over a cell phone. Bingo.

Slipping the phone into this breast pocket he urged his wife to hurry up in Tamil. Bingo again. She snapped back: "Hurry up? Hurry up? What hurry up?" Her stiffened gait as they walked towards their 4WD bespoke of an impending storm. Whoa, this was no fragile five-steps-behind the-husband variety of traditional Indian housewives. That being has gone the way of the black and white TV.

Aside from thosai , idli , roti canai and nasi lemak , the stall serves as a pit stop for heavy vehicle and bus drivers, taxi-drivers and motorcyclists as well as a convenient place for the immediate neighbourhood to bungkus (take-away) snacks or kill time with gossip.

An extraordinary aspect of this eatery is that it's enveloped by an open-house atmosphere. I mean where in the world can you find customers who pay to cook their own order? There is a soul to this place unlike your sterile modern food court.

Sideburns and walrus

It also offers snap shots of the state of the nation in some aspects. One of which is the bus kilang (factory buses) that has now acquired the user-friendly name of bus pekerja (workers buses). Whether that's reflected in their take home pay or the perks is moot.

The drivers seen so far seem to be elderly Indians. At least those who break journey there. I've spotted two of them more than once. On one, I was transfixed by a pair of magnificent white side-burns marching down scooped-out cheeks, bisected by a sharp nose, to smartly turn into a neat moustache.

It was apparent that oodles of tender loving care had been lavished on those facial works of art. Seated next to him, his friend had a fuller face decorated by a walrus of a moustache majestically matching his hefty body. What a pair.

Sideburns seemed to be in his mid-60s and, the Walrus, late 50s. Which means, of course, their employer saves a fair amount in overheads. In contrast to the elderly ones are the younger men who drive heavy-duty vehicles.

For example, there were three, two sporting torsos with whip-cord muscles, bright eyes set off by dazzling white teeth and golden ear-studs. The third boasted a bulk that could've easily accommodated both his friends' bodies with room left to spare for one more. They were chatting mostly about what the young would chat about girls and the idiosyncrasies of their bosses. The three exuded the image of being well satisfied with life. At least at that time.

No, I've not forgotten the patriarch. He's a near six-footer with a bulging belly. Doesn't walk but shuffles. The weight of years and woes obviously bearing heavily down on him. My head has to tilt back to focus on his broad careworn face where his pained eyes are perpetually locked into an over-the-horizon look.

The first time I saw his face light up was when he asked me about the amicable tiff his wife and I had over a sudden jump in price of my snack the previous week. His deep chuckle sent his two-and-a-half basket balls sized belly rippling with jiggles when I laughed my reply.

Clearly his sense of humour can still peep out from under all that angst. Looking at them, the couple appears to have been roasted, toasted and kneaded by life with, as usual, the wife coming out looking the better. I didn't realise then how close to the mark my assessment had been.

Nation's progress

I've the ingrained habit of sitting observing, gently easing myself into the pattern of any new spot before mining for information. One day, judging that time was ripe, I asked one of the workers (whose manner hints of another good yarn) the relationship between the couple and how long the stall had been in business.

They husband and wife team set up the stall eight years ago, the operating hours being from 5.45 to 11am. They only break for Deepavali for a couple of days.

The following week there was distinct change in her body language, telegraphing that news of my curiosity had reached her. All I needed to ask was how many children they had for the eyes to light up. The floodgates opened. And the words pumped out.

From the rushed words, I gathered that they have six children, four sons and two daughters. Two of the males and one of their sisters are teachers. The teacher-brothers have already won degrees with one reading for his Masters while their sister recently graduated. And is married to a lawyer.

Of the other two siblings, one brother runs a business and the other operates a general service van while the other daughter is a clerk in Seremban.

The stall itself is a by-product of the trauma produced by the nation's progress. It came through the compensation paid when the couple was tossed out of their jobs as rubber tappers when their estate passed into the hands of developers. A portion of the compensation also served as downpayment for a low-cost house.

The proceeds from the stall took care of the children's education and the house loan had been settled recently. The mother was bursting with pride when she described her children as being jewels.

However, the bleeding wound in their heart is the clerk who is still single as the biological clock ticks away inexorably towards 40.

"There's no god we haven't prayed to and no temple we haven't visited," she said in voice strained with pain in relating the ends they had gone to invoke divine assistance to heal that wound.

And as development looms, to likely gobble up the matriarch's bus stop or when the couple finally calls it a day, yet another hole would've been punched in my life.