Just like you, I was born race blind. So blind that it wasn't until my debut novel in Malay was published in 2010 that I began to see, or rather, society began to highlight to me, that we are of different races and our differences should be jarring and acknowledged. Then again, to me, what does it matter?

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I was born in 1986, the eldest of three in a middle-class family, and was brought up by my paternal grandmother whom I fondly called "Popo". Her home in Sungai Besi was where I spent most of my childhood days. Every day after school, I came home to leftover meals from the night before and a bowl of warm home-boiled soup. It was bliss.

After lunch, Popo and I would sit down in front of the television and watch Hindustan movies. Though she could hardly understand a word of the language and would occasionally drift asleep, it was our daily routine. By 5pm, we would adjourn to the kitchen at the back of the house to prepare dinner. I would measure and wash the rice grains meticulously the way she taught me and put them to cook in the rice cooker. Then I would sit in the doorway facing our backyard while keeping her company as she cooked.

At the end of our backyard lived a Malay family. They grew vegetables on our yard but Popo just let them be; she generously shared our land with them. Sometimes she plucked mangoes off our tree and passed some to the little boy who always seemed to be looking into our yard in the evenings. He watched us feed the chickens, chase them into their coops, and slaughter them for food. Most of the time, his mother cooked dinner at the same time as we did. From their kitchen came the regular choking spicy smell of sambal belacan while Popo filled the air with oyster sauce goodness. I didn't think much about our different menus; I assumed Popo didn't like spicy food and they didn't like salty brown chow.

On weekends, I followed Popo to the morning wet market just opposite our street. We had roti canai at the Indian mamak stall, bought santan from the Malay lady whom Popo always chatted with, and meat from the Chinese butcher. Sometimes we bought fish from the Malay sellers as well. She mainly spoke in conversational Malay with everyone except the Chinese folks and I used to find that amusing. When I asked her why, she explained the importance of respecting others for who they are. Besides, language is just what it is: a language. As long as two parties can communicate, who cared which language they communicated in.

Popo and I communicated in Cantonese. At home with my parents and siblings, we communicated mostly in English, though my sister and I sometimes chatted away in Malay as we sat side by side in the study room working on our homework. We sometimes did that in school too. Our schoolmates thought we were being funny; we were just being us.

I went to a kebangsaan school where the syllabus was taught in Malay and the nature of communications was generally conducted in Malay. Except when I was talking to other Chinese students, most conversations were held in Malay and it felt natural; after all, I had Popo as my role model. I learned to read and write the Malay language so well that it became second nature to me. I excelled in it. Eventually, I fell in love with it—I was smitten by our national language.