The Last Trishaw in Town

When the school bell rang on the last day before the holidays, Arif already knew where he would be spending most of his time. Not the beach. Not the mall with his cousins. Not even at home gaming until his eyes went square.

He would be with Tok Aki and the trishaw.

“Eh, boy, tomorrow you come early ah,” Tok Aki had said the night before, sipping kopi from a chipped mug. “Morning air got good mood. City also still waking up.”

Arif nodded, even though part of him felt lazy just thinking about waking up before sunrise. He was twelve already, after all. Holidays were meant for sleeping late. But when Tok Aki spoke like that—slow, steady, like each word mattered—it was hard to say no.

Tok Aki was his grandfather, but everyone else in George Town just called him Uncle Aki. Some tourists called him Sir, some called him Boss, and some didn’t call him anything at all. They just pointed at the trishaw, eyes wide, cameras ready.

The trishaw stood under the mango tree beside their shophouse, old but proud. The red paint had faded into something closer to pink. The bell on the handlebar gave a soft kring instead of a loud ring. The seat cushion had been patched so many times it looked like a quilt.

“Last one already,” Tok Aki always said, patting the handle. “Last trishaw in this part of town.”

Arif wasn’t sure if that was true, but it felt true.

The next morning, Arif woke to the sound of pigeons fluttering on the roof and Tok Aki humming an old tune. The air smelled like wet stone and leftover rain. George Town always smelled different in the morning—cool, salty, with a hint of kopi and frying dough from somewhere far away.

They pushed the trishaw out together, its wheels groaning softly.

“Careful, don’t knock the wall,” Tok Aki said.

“I know lah,” Arif replied, steering gently. The streets were narrow, lined with old buildings that leaned slightly forward, like they were trying to listen.

They rode slowly through Lorong Pintal Tali, past closed shops with metal shutters painted in bright colours. A stray cat stretched and yawned, watching them pass.

“Why you still do this, Tok?” Arif asked suddenly. “You can rest already. Uncle Rahman say trishaw no future.”

Tok Aki chuckled. “Future always come whether you like it or not. But heartbeat? That one you must listen.”

Arif frowned. “City got heartbeat meh?”

Tok Aki smiled but didn’t answer. He pedalled on.

By mid-morning, the sun had climbed higher, and the streets were alive. Tourists appeared like colourful birds—hats, backpacks, water bottles swinging. The trishaw bell rang softly as Tok Aki navigated the crowd.

“Slow, slow,” Tok Aki muttered. “City don’t like to be rushed.”

A couple from somewhere far away waved them down. The woman had freckles and the man carried a big camera.

“Can you take us around?” the man asked.

Tok Aki nodded. “Short ride or long ride?”

“Long,” the woman said. “We want to see the real town.”

Tok Aki grinned. “Then you choose the right trishaw.”

Arif climbed onto the back footrest, holding onto the frame. As they rolled along, Tok Aki pointed things out—not with his finger, but with stories.

“This road last time got rickshaw jam,” he said. “People argue until ayam also stop crossing.”

The tourists laughed.

“That shophouse there, used to sell paper fans. During hot season, whole street sound like fwap fwap.”

Arif listened, surprised. He’d walked these streets many times, but he’d never really heard them like this.

They passed a mural half-hidden by a parked motorcycle. A street vendor stirred a pot, the spoon clinking rhythmically. Somewhere above, someone practiced violin, the notes floating down like thin threads.

The tourists tipped generously when they got off.

“Thank you for the stories,” the woman said.

Tok Aki bowed slightly. “Stories belong to the city. I just borrow.”

During lunch, they sat by the jetty, sharing nasi lemak wrapped in brown paper.

“Tok,” Arif said, mouth full, “how you remember so many things?”

Tok Aki chewed slowly. “Because I move slow. When you rush, memory cannot catch up.”

Arif thought about his friends, always rushing—rushing to grow taller, to get better phones, to be older. He wondered what memories they were leaving behind.

After lunch, the sky darkened slightly. Clouds gathered, thick and heavy.

“Rain coming,” Tok Aki said. “Good time.”

“Good time for what?”

“For listening.”

The rain began as a soft tapping, then grew louder. They sheltered under a five-foot way, the trishaw parked beside them. The city changed its sound—rain drumming on tin awnings, water rushing along drains, laughter echoing louder in the quiet spaces.

Arif closed his eyes.

He heard footsteps splashing. A radio playing an old song. The rain softened everything, like the city was breathing out.

“Tok,” Arif said softly, “is this the heartbeat?”

Tok Aki looked at him, eyes shining. “One of them.”

Later that afternoon, they rode past a group of boys on bicycles. One of them shouted, “Eh, trishaw still exist ah!”

Arif felt a pinch of anger, but Tok Aki just laughed.

“Exist because still needed,” he said.

“But who need slow?” Arif asked. “Everyone want fast.”

Tok Aki stopped the trishaw and rested his feet on the ground.

“You see that uncle there?” He nodded toward an old man sitting outside a shop, feeding birds. “If you rush past him, he just background. If you slow down, you see his hands shaking, his smile gentle. You see life.”

Arif followed his gaze. The old man looked up and waved.

Arif waved back.

Something warm settled in his chest.

On the last day of the holidays, Arif woke up early without being asked. The mango tree leaves rustled softly. The trishaw waited.

They rode together one more time through the narrow streets. Tok Aki pedalled, Arif rang the bell—kring, soft and clear.

People turned. Some smiled. Some stared. Some didn’t notice at all.

But Arif noticed everything.

The cracks in the road. The smell of morning bread. The way the city hummed, steady and alive.

When they returned home, Tok Aki wiped the trishaw carefully.

“One day,” he said, “this trishaw maybe cannot move already.”

Arif swallowed. “Then what?”

Tok Aki smiled. “Then you carry the listening. City heartbeat don’t belong to trishaw. It belong to people who slow down.”

Arif nodded.

That night, as he lay in bed, he realized something had changed. He didn’t feel like rushing anymore.

Because sometimes, the slowest way was the only way to hear what really mattered.

And George Town was still beating.