Aruz Ambitions and Axia Awakenings
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
Returning home for Chinese New Year in a borrowed car, Mattieu knows he's about to surprise his family — but not in the way they’d like. While his father eyes bigger cars and flashier status, Mattieu quietly charts his own path: one built on self-reliance, quiet defiance, and a manual-gear future.
Set against red lanterns, pineapple tarts, and simmering sibling tensions, this is a gently humorous and emotionally grounded story about choosing authenticity over appearances — and coming home not just with a car, but with clarity, conviction, and keys of his own.
They are never easily impressed. Rarely by me, anyway. After all, I was considered the black sheep: rebellious and too much of a narcissist, they said. I never set out to impress them. Maybe just to surprise them — especially on such an auspicious occasion.
The streets of Seremban were decorated with lanterns — red ones — announcing to all and sundry “it’s that time of the year”. Loud music blaring from somewhere I couldn’t see added to the festivities as one drove along the road. The lyrics tell us that birds would chirp louder, and flowers would bloom everywhere to herald the coming of spring. That might have been the atmosphere in China half a century ago, if not longer. In reality, this is Malaysia — where birds sing and flowers bloom all year round.
Zayn doesn’t celebrate Chinese New Year, so he took extra leave days for an extended break to go on an overseas holiday — two whole weeks away.
“Rich fella,” I teased.
“I’m travelling on a shoestring. Economy class. Hostels, not hotels, you know.”
It was such a gracious gesture when he said I could use his car to return to my hometown for the celebration. And I declined.
“I just got my licence less than two years ago. I don’t drive often.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen you drive.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to wreck your new car in the heavy traffic on the highway.”
“The car is under comprehensive insurance, Mattieu. Not third party. Just remember to put the P stickers front and back. The law calls for it.”
I agreed.
Zayn and I are colleagues. We joined the same manufacturing company as management trainees three years ago. We’re so different — like chalk and cheese. He graduated from overseas, while I got my degree from a local public university. He has travelled to many countries in Europe — flying out from Hamburg where he studied for three years — while I haven’t even renewed my passport since using it once, for that trip to Singapore. Holidays can wait. I’m saving up for other things.
I’m not envious, not complaining, nor competing with Zayn. We are great pals. Otherwise, would someone make you an offer like that? We respect each other because I always pull my weight — insisting on paying my share of food, drinks, and petrol every time.
“I’ll top it up to a full tank before you take over. And please return it with a full tank.” He chuckled. Zayn’s never the calculative type.
I nodded sheepishly.
“I’m sure your folks will be surprised to see you drive a car home.”
“And I’ll tell them it’s a colleague’s.”
“You don’t. You tell them it’s a sample.”
“Samples are free and need not be returned.” I winked at him.
“Okay, tell them you’re test driving and will be getting yours soon. You are, right?”
“Yes. About time. Perodua’s Ramah offer is very enticing.”
“But that’s a manual transmission, bro.”
“I know. My licence covers both.”
“You’re great, man.” He gave me a thumbs-up.
“I always imagine, someday I may migrate to a prosperous country and there, I’ll have to drive trucks for a living.”
“Yeah, right. Trucks will all be automatic by the time you migrate,” he laughed.
And that was how I ended up with a car at my parents’ home in Tanjung Malim for Chinese New Year. They were surprised, all right — but I was more taken aback by my father’s reaction.
“Why such a small car? What will the neighbours say?” Pa barked, arms already crossed.
Sure, his gleaming Camry dwarfed the Axia, making it look dull and smaller than when I was driving it. But do I care what the neighbours think?
“It’s not my car, Pa.”
“Thank god,” Pa muttered, relaxing his arms.
He gave the Axia another look — like it was a stray dog I brought home. “Even when you rent a car for the season, you could’ve paid a little more for something decent. Something that matches our status here.”
Our status. He meant father and son. Family. Reputation. Expectations.
Sorry — not ours. Not mine. Just his status.
The Axia may be small, but it’s reliable, economical, and well within my means. And that, to me, is decent. Very decent.
“It is my colleague’s car, Pa.” I didn’t elaborate — which colleague, or why he wasn’t using it. Just let the words hang there, like the scent of incense smoke that clung to our front porch this time of the year.
“So, when you get your own, make sure it is something more presentable. Never mind if you want to support buy local. Get an Aruz.”
To Pa, a Perodua Axia screams poor. An Aruz — taller, roomier, shinier SUV — could pretend to be respectable, even if it comes from the same national carmaker.
And he was already walking away. Classic. That’s how my father works — he never argues. He declares.
Honestly, I don’t care what the neighbours think. Or what Pa thinks they think. I never did. Not when I chose to study psychology instead of engineering. Not when I turned down his suggestion to work at Uncle Patrick’s company.
I didn’t want to tell him what car I was planning to get. I didn’t need to hear him continue berating an Axia. He would be very annoyed, especially if he knew that mine would be a cheaper version — the manual one. At RM23,000, it was practically a steal. And it would be a cash purchase. I didn’t want debts for something that only loses value.
There are two things in my five-year plan worth spending on: a postgraduate degree and a property — in a PR1MA project for first-time buyers. Small. Affordable. But mine.
Zayn has similar thoughts. We joked about being balloted into the same project in Seremban, but hopefully not as immediate neighbours.
Our backgrounds could not have been more different.
Tan Sri Murad is far wealthier than Pa. Yet Zayn does not want to be dependent on his father or Puan Sri. So, a small car is good enough for him. I am pretty sure his parents did not view an Axia with the same disdain as my father.
Like me, Zayn is saving up — diligently — for his PR1MA home. He says he wants a place near his parents, yet far enough to be independent. He also budgets for overseas travel. He wants to see the world before settling down. Solo holidays now is cheaper than doing so with a family later.
A postgraduate degree? Not in his plans. “The world is the only classroom I need,” he always says. His ambitions are outward, always expanding. Mine, for now, are rooted — not stagnant, but grounded.
We’re not the same.
So, when he tossed me the car keys without blinking, it proves something. Trust doesn’t always come from being alike. Sometimes, it’s about seeing something in someone you don’t resemble — and respecting it.
The Axia sat there. Shiny. Practical. Small, yes — but it got me here. It got me home. And my own car will be just that: a vehicle that gets me to where I’m going.
Inside, Ma was meticulously storing her home-made pineapple tarts — lining them nicely like thick gold coins into a large transparent plastic container. Her smile said more than any word. She glanced at the small car in the porch. Smile. Back to the tarts.
I sat beside her, popping one tart into my mouth. Crumbly, buttery, and warm — still the best in the neighbourhood, despite her age.
“You have to forgive your old man. You know he’s like that,” she said quietly, not looking at me.
“I know.” We both know my father is always out to impress rather than express.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said. “Guess it worked.”
She smiled — the kind that says, yes, it worked, but not pleasantly.
We were halfway through the pineapple tarts when the front gate clanked open. A familiar beep from a car lock. Then the sound of shoes on concrete.
Devina was home. With Krishan. Kris for short.
She’s two years older — just the two of us siblings. Grew up side by side, but somehow we ended up on opposite shores: she on the side that played by Pa’s rules; I on the side that questioned who guided him on those rules.
Kris celebrates Deepavali, not Chinese New Year. This is the second time he was spending time with us. He still drove the same Honda Accord as before — the one with the plate number ending in double 8s. Registered under his father’s name, if I remembered correctly. Still bore that little "Datuk" insignia on the grille — a token some Sultan pinned on his father years ago, for reasons no one ever really clarified.
Devina stepped into the house and gave me a once-over.
“Surprised to see you got a new car,” she said, smiling. “Congratulations.”
Before I could reply, Kris cut in.
“That’s not his car. Unless he’s converted. I saw some Jawi quotes on the dashboard. Probably from the Quran.”
Nosey fella, I thought. Couldn’t keep an observation to himself.
Devina is always impressed by Kris’ confidence, mistaking his loudness for strength, his meddling for protectiveness. He mirrors Pa’s materialism, making him familiar. And beneath his bluster, he dotes on her — something she mistakes for devotion.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my tone light. “It’s my friend’s car.”
I said ‘friend’ instead of ‘colleague’. Easier. Less to explain.
“Magnanimous friend,” Kris said, his grin a little too wide.
Devina chimed in. “So you can’t fetch Ma to the market tomorrow. Obviously, she’ll be buying some pork. Among other things.”
“Not an issue of, can’t,” I said. “I won’t.”
Kris shrugged. “Should be okay, right? If your friend can lend you the car, surely he doesn’t mind. I’d withdraw the term magnanimous if he set conditions on how you use it. Moreover, he won’t know unless you tell him.”
“You’re right. He won’t know, but I do. Sure, even if he knows, I don’t suppose he minds,” I said. “But I mind. This isn’t an e-hailing vehicle. Or an Avis or Hertz Rent-a-Car. It’s not at anyone’s mercy.”
Ma looked up from the tray. “Yes, we should respect your friend’s faith,” she said. “Your Pa can drive me there.”
Kris perked up. “I can take you, Mum.”
Ma didn’t even look at him. Just smiled faintly. “No, it’s okay, Kris. Devina’s father will drive me. I don’t want people wondering why I’m riding in a Datuk’s car.”
There it was — that little twist in her voice. Sweet. Sharp. I caught the smirk on her face.
A door creaked open upstairs. Heavy footsteps. Then Pa appeared at the stairs, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt like he was making an announcement.
“We’re all going out tomorrow,” he said. “First to the market. Then breakfast. Those who don’t fancy the smells of fresh produce can meet us for breakfast later.”
I nodded. “I’ll go with Ma.”
I hadn’t been to the local market in ages. Not since I moved out six years ago — first to college in Kuala Lumpur, then settled in Seremban for work.
Devina mumbled something about wanting to sleep in. Kris followed suit. Figures.
“We’ll just leave the small car at home,” Pa said, stating the obvious. As if it might tarnish his reputation just by being seen in motion.
Morning came. Ma stood at the doorway, clutching two shopping bags like a general with a plan.
She handed me the keys to Pa’s Camry. “You drive,” she said. “I’ll sit up front. Let him play boss in the back.”
She was grinning — not joking.
She hadn’t forgotten. Years ago, Pa had said that if he ever had a driver, he’d sit in the back. The other seat in front would be reserved for a bodyguard, who could conveniently and swiftly get out and open the car door for him.
Pa scowled. “He’s on a probationary licence! Can he handle such a big car?”
Ma didn’t miss a beat. “Then why did you edge him on to buy a bigger car yesterday? Crashing a new Aruz is okay, as long as it’s not yours?”
The words hung in the air.
I stepped in before it thickened. “It’s okay, Ma. Pa can drive. I’ll sit in front, and you’ll be the queen.”
That line did it. Defused the moment. A smile from Ma. A grunt from Pa. Peace, for now.
We headed out. The day had barely begun, but I could already feel the heat rising.
Later, while Pa haggled over pomfret prices, Ma nudged me toward a stall selling my favorite kueh — the kind I hadn’t had since I left town. I didn’t say anything, but she knew. Somehow, Ma always knew what mattered. Even when Pa didn’t.
“Buy extra,” she murmured. “Keep it in your room. For when you need something sweet.” Her fingers lingered on mine — a silent pact. She knew.
After picking up the meat, the fish, the vegetables, Pa drove over to the dim sum restaurant. Devina and Kris had arrived — Devina knows that Pa observes punctuality to the T. It was a small, quiet eatery, commensurate with how different Tanjung Malim is compared to Kuala Lumpur, or for that matter, compared to Seremban.
The meal — over shrimp dumplings, minced pork dumplings, BBQ pork buns, glutinous rice with chicken, rice noodle rolls, and many more — started peacefully. That was before Pa condemned the Axia again.
“The Axia is so small. Get an Aruz or a Proton X70.”
“Enough, Pa. I’ll buy what I want to drive. And it will not be an SUV,” I said matter-of-factly. Under the table, Devina softly kicked my leg, signaling me to mind my manners.
Pa sighed, breathing heavily.
“Axia is better than Kancil. That small animal will pee and poop on the highways.” Kris made one of his bad jokes. And no one was amused, let alone laughed.
“Stay out of this, Kris,” Devina snapped.
Kris used a fork instead of chopsticks to pick up a shāomai. And for the rest of the breakfast, he remained quiet.
“I am getting an Axia,” I finally said. “It’s my car. It’s what I will be driving, so I decide.” If Devina shut Kris up, I tried to do the same with Pa.
“It’s Chinese New Year tomorrow. Let’s not debate over such trivial matters,” Ma said. She always chooses her words carefully. A debate is not a quarrel.
“I don’t want to debate. I just want to get this off my chest. I don’t want to further surprise anyone of you. But the car will be a manual one. No frills.”
“I can give you an interest-free loan for a bigger car,” Pa toned down his voice with an offer.
“It is never about that. I earn my keeps. I went to university on a scholarship. I don’t need any loans from you. Not then. Not now. Keep your money for rainy days, Pa.”
“What arrogance! Obviously, you don’t care what the neighbours think.”
“You’re right. I don't care. If I'm seen driving home a flashy car tomorrow, anyone who cares will know it is bought with your money. Is that still a symbol of success? Your success, or mine? I’ll get my own Lexus when I earn RM20,000 a month.”
I dug into the bowl of porridge — century egg with minced meat — sitting in front of me.
Spring Festival came and went, loud and quiet. There were the repetitive greetings, noisy drums accompanying lion dances, and loud firecrackers, but all mention of cars and Thorstein Veblen’s “conspicuous consumption” died earlier at that breakfast table.
On the drive back to Seremban, I stopped at a rest area. As I stretched my legs, an old man nodded at Zayn’s Axia.
“Good choice,” he said. “Easy to park, cheap to run.”
I smiled. No one had ever called it a good choice before. Maybe that’s all the validation I need — from a stranger who sees the car for what it is, not what it represents.
Next week, I’ll be booking a new Axia. Red. I need a car that people can see — not for vanity, but for safety. I may drive slowly and safely, but sometimes accidents happen because the other party can’t see me.
Buying a car isn’t about image or investment. It’s necessity. Unlike some loud 19-year-old celebrity who thinks a RM300,000 Mercedes AMG A-Class is an “investment” because his name carries weight, mine will be modest, paid in cash, and driven without fanfare.
Contentment isn’t about settling. It’s about knowing what you need, and being at peace with getting it — in your own time, on your own terms.
Zayn has done some research and will guide me about applying for a unit under PR1MA. And I haven’t told my folks about my home plan. Maybe that will be next year’s surprise — for Chinese New Year.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from Zayn, it’s that happiness doesn’t come from impressing others. It comes from knowing what you need and claiming it without apology.
Even if you drive just a small car.
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