Somewhere Between Memory & Home

The story of Sambal House

The sky over Sambal House had been darkening since lunch. By late afternoon, the clouds hung low and swollen over Kuala Lumpur, even the birds seemed to have gone quiet. Somewhere beyond the garden, thunder rumbled in the distance, getting closer and closer, until finally—the sky gave way.

Rain pelted down, drumming against the terracotta-tiled roof. Streams of water gathered along the driveway, rushing into the drain and darkening the concrete almost at once. An old frangipani tree trembled in the downpour, scattering flowers onto the ground like little white stars. Then came the smell. The earthy scent of afternoon storms in the tropics—wet soil and leaves, rain-soaked stone, and the lush mossy green of the garden rising into the air.

Against the dark afternoon, Sambal House glowed from within. Amber light washed over aged teak and polished brass, while sheer curtains billowed gently in the rain-cooled breeze. White orchids rose from pewter vases and the slow sweep of a ceiling fan sent shadows drifting across the walls. Beyond, the rooms disappeared into pockets of light and shadow, and from somewhere unseen came the clatter of a wok—garlic and ginger, curry leaves blooming in hot oil, their warmth mingling with the cool green scent of the rain.

I have imagined this house down to its smallest details.

Sambal House is in Kuala Lumpur.

I am not.

But I was born there, in this city just three degrees north of the equator. I left when I was two years old—too young to remember it in the way we are supposed to remember the places we once called home. I have no recollection of long weekends playing in the front garden, there are no streets and shortcuts I know by heart, nor a bedroom where I can close my eyes and summon the layout, the smell, the way the light came in at dawn.

And yet Kuala Lumpur has followed me whenever my life moved. To Perth to Adelaide to Sydney. Then to Singapore, Hong Kong, and now Atlanta. I made homes in each of those other places. Real homes with people I loved, familiar streets, favorite shops and restaurants, and all the little routines that make a city feel like your own.

Kuala Lumpur, though, has always been different. It was where it all began, yet the place I knew the least, pieced only together by regular visits back as a child and then into adulthood. And somehow, through all the distance and time spent away, it is the city that has stayed with me the most.

Seems, you can leave a place. But sometimes that place never leaves you.

In Kuala Lumpur, there is a small street called Lorong Kekabu. In English it means “lane of the kapok”, a towering tropical tree with pods that burst into soft white down. It is the street on which I was born, though what I know of it comes mostly from old photographs, family stories, and the visits we made in the early years since leaving. As a child, we returned there often, a few times a year. Enough for the house and street to feel familiar. But in the later years, the visits became fewer and the memories more fragmented.

And familiarity and memory are different things.

Perhaps because so little of Lorong Kekabu exists in my own memory, it has grown larger in my imagination over time. I have also lived in enough places to know that home is not always one place, nor is it always where you happen to be. Sometimes you inherit it. Sometimes you choose it. Sometimes you carry pieces of it with you for years without even realizing you have them.

So what do you do with all the pieces you’ve carried?

I built a house.

Sambal House.

It began on Lorong Kekabu, but somewhere along the way, it became something much bigger. It sits somewhere between my memory and my imagination, filled with things gathered along the way. A smell. A recipe. A rainy afternoon. A photograph of my mother before I knew her. Stories my father told so many times we could finish them ourselves. Everything remembered, inherited, witnessed, observed, and perhaps even longed for, finally found a place to belong.

This is Sambal House.

The moment we step into Sambal House, the heat of Kuala Lumpur falls away almost immediately. A cold towel, scented with pandan, feels cool on our sun-kissed hands and face. A chilled calamansi and honey water, the glass slick with condensation, is sharp with citrus and just sweet enough to shake off the languor of the afternoon heat.

We sit awhile, in the delicious cool of the house, catching up on news and gossip. Stories wander from someone’s anniversary to another’s travels, and every now and then the room erupts in laughter.

Then, as the afternoon begins to fade, fresh linen is laid across the dining table, with room for ten, perhaps twenty of us. Extra places are always set at Sambal House, and the good china comes down from the cupboard.

Frangipani is cut from the garden and floated in shallow bowls dotted between porcelain plates. Music plays and before long, Sambal House has slipped into its evening mood. Rattan lamps cast pools of golden light, and candles flicker as dinner begins its procession to the table. Hainanese chicken rice comes first, silky and succulent, then beef rendang, sambal okra, and braised pork belly—so tender it yields to the touch of a spoon.

The table is abundant with dishes and condiments jostling for space between half-filled glasses and open bottles of wine. We reach across one another to fill our plates, stories are told and interrupted, glasses are topped again and laughter rises above it all. Dinner and conversation stretch long into the night.

Though there is much more to Sambal House than one evening can hold. Upstairs, there are old photographs waiting to be taken from their albums, and family recipes with stories of their own. There are places in Malaysia I want to return to, and others I have yet to discover. People I want you to meet. Ingredients whose journeys we will follow. Objects we will find along the way and somehow make room for in our suitcases. And, of course, there are the family stories, although exactly what happened will depend entirely on who is telling them.

We will cook. We will travel. We will collect things along the way.

But all in good time.

Night has now settled over Sambal House, and the storm has long passed. Water still falls from the frangipani leaves, one drop at a time, and the garden glistens beneath a darkened sky.

The cicadas have been calling for hours, their chorus rising from every corner of the garden. Beyond the gate, a thin whine of a motorbike fades into the distance. An owl hoots from high in the trees, and somewhere in the darkness, leaves stir beneath the weight of a passing monkey.

Inside, dinner is over and the last plates have been cleared from the table. The candles have burned low and the frangipani petals have started to soften around the edges. But the music plays on, floating through the amber-lit rooms. Somewhere deeper in the house, voices linger, glasses clink, then sudden bursts of laughter.

The House has surrendered to the spell of the night.

Still, the front door is open.

Come in.