When the ink runs out
It’s a dying trade but petition writer Ezekiel Velu is determined to continue for as long as he can, writes Intan Maizura Ahmad Kamal
TAP tap tap. Ding. Zzzzip. And so it continues, incessant. The sound of the typebars hitting the paper and the ‘zipping’ back into place as the carriage returned across the page at the end of every line is almost hypnotic, hurling me back to my childhood.
It’s a familiar sound because my dear late grandfather had one of these — a manual Brother typewriter, if my memory serves me right. And I coveted it. Seeing the typebars rocking back and forth onto the paper was fascinating to my young, inquisitive eyes. And I’d always wanted to steal a turn.
The sudden roaring of a motorcycle being revved up just across the road startles me and I’m hurled back to the present, perched against my car, staring transfixed at the “typewriter uncle” whom I’d heard so much about from NST photographer, Effendy Rashid.
Although I’m standing mere metres away from him, the elderly gentleman, whose modest “office” in front of the State Mosque along Jalan Dato Sagor is under the canopy of a shady Yellow Flame tree (Peltophorum pterocarpum) and furnished with a single plastic table and a couple of chairs, is oblivious to my presence, his eyes never leaving the array of keys on his trusty typewriter. Seated closely next to him, expression anxious as he relays his requirements, is a lone customer.
Ezekiel Velu is a petition writer, an “ancient” trade that’s headed towards extinction in today’s era of the Internet and Information Technology. There are not many of them left, I’m told, and in this area of Ipoh, where I’ve made my pit stop today, there’s only one other, out of the initial 40, who has continued to steadfastly hold on to this trade. “I think there’s one old Chinese guy who’s doing this, somewhere nearby,” whispers Effendy.
Not wanting to interrupt him, we continue observing the 72-year-old Ezekiel at work, noting how his brows would furrow as he trained his eyes on the paper and the way he typed, using a single finger, his index finger, to ferociously tap on the keys, letter by letter. Occasionally he’d pause to ask questions and clarify points, but that aside, Ezekiel, who has been doing this for more than 50 years, is in his own world.
“Done! Cuba baca (have a read),” exclaims Ezekiel to his customer, as he yanks the paper out with a flourish. His work done, he leans back contentedly onto his plastic chair as his work is scrutinised.
The man beams his gratitude, money is exchanged, and the customer leaves, his steps jaunty.
Sensing an opportunity to catch a quick chat while there’s a lull, I make my move, hastening my steps towards Ezekiel. He looks up in surprise as I pull the recently vacated chair and sit down. “You want what document?” he asks, turning to a stack of papers on his right before rolling in a sheet into the typewriter.
I tell him that I’m a journalist and just want to hear his story. “What newspaper?” he shoots back, his eyes squinting at me in scrutiny. “NST uncle,” I reply anxiously. To my surprise, he breaks into a wide toothy smile. “I used to read the NST when I was younger. That’s why my English is good. I can type any documents in English!” he says, pride lacing his voice. “What do you want to know?” he adds, tone softer, and I heave a silent sigh of relief as I set my recorder on.
LURE OF THE TRADE
In the past, all the professional petition writers used to make their port under trees near the court house or government offices, begins Ezekiel, recalling the trade’s heyday back in the 60s and 70s. “Our work was basically to draft letters, fill up forms and translate documents from English to Bahasa and vice versa. There used to be at least 40 of us before; now only me and one more. These days, the younger generation have their computers and they have easy
access to information so they don’t need us. Also, there are computer clerks in various service centres who do what we do.”
Although the number of customers have dwindled markedly, the father of five shares that his services are still sought after by his regulars and those who know of his work over the years. Proudly, he confides: “Some of my customers today knew me as children. They used to come with their fathers who sought my services. In the 60s and 70s, a lot of people were still illiterate or didn’t know how to craft official letters. So there was a demand for people like us. All they needed was to tell me their name, address and what they want, and I will compose everything and type for them. I can complete a full page in less than five minutes!”
Pursing his lips, Ezekiel, who lives in Taman Kledang Mas, shares that the Ipoh City Council had previously built some structures for petition writers next to the Dato Sagor Food Court, which was located along the same road. He and his fellow petition writers paid a rental fee of RM30 in addition to forking out RM15 to renew their licence annually with the District Office. However, when the food court was renovated, the structures which had been constructed for the petition writers were demolished and he and his colleagues were forced to ply their trade from under a tree.
THE JOURNEY
“I’ve been doing this for 50 years,” says the Prai-born Ezekiel proudly, before sharing that his early days were in Kelantan where he worked for a timber company in Tumpat as an assistant manager for two years. “My father was a locomotive driver back then. He worked everywhere so wherever he was transferred, we would go too. In Tumpat, I studied at a government English school and after I completed my schooling, I joined the timber company, which sent timber to Japan and all. After two years, my father was transferred to Ipoh so we all left Kelantan to make our home in Ipoh.”
His initial enchantment with the trade occurred when he was 19, confides Ezekiel. “It was in the early-60s and I saw so many petition writers around town. I remember saying to myself that I wanted to do what they did — type!”
But it was only a few years later, recalls Ezekiel, that he decided to forge a ‘career’ as a petition writer. “I’m very brilliant,” he declares, matter-of-factly, without the slightest trace of arrogance. “Even in the early days, I used to help my friends craft their letters. They were the ones who urged me to do something with my God-given skills. They told me that they would buy me a typewriter so that I could do this work and polish my skills at the same time.”
True to their words, they presented him with a brand new manual typewriter, a Brother model. Suffice to say, his stint as assistant manager at the timber company where oftentimes he’d find himself crafting official letters stood him in good stead.
Recalls Ezekiel, an avid marathon runner in his early years: “It was a skill I polished during my time in Tumpat. Also, my Malay was good because I was raised in Kelantan and spent a lot of time with the Malays. Meanwhile, I ensured that my English was good by reading newspapers like the New Straits Times.”
His aged eyes light up when he declares that he has never made a mistake in his typing. Not even once, I ask incredulously. He shakes his head vigorously. “Never. You know, it’s like I have a dictionary at the back of my head. I never need to draft anything beforehand either. It’s all in the head. Once the sheet of paper is in my machine, everything comes out perfectly.”
Chuckling, Ezekiel adds: “My eye sight is still very good. Sometimes these young fellows will come to me with their prepared letters to ask me to check and type. I’ll read what they have and most times, I end up telling them that it’s all nonsense. I teach them how to write properly!” He charges between RM5 and RM10 for his work, depending on the degree of difficulty.
FOR THE LOVE OF IT
This father of four boys and one girl concedes that he doesn’t really need to continue doing this now that he’s in his golden years. “I’m doing this by choice. My son is an estate manager, my daughter is a lecturer and I have another son who’s a newspaper circulation manager. We’re comfortable, yes. Sometimes my children tell me that maybe I should call it a day but they know I won’t — at least not yet.”
Being outdoors from 8.30am to 2pm and doing what he does keep him healthy, believes Ezekiel. “I just like to be outside. What for stay at home? Here I get to exercise my brain and the chance to meet a lot of people. I’ve been a regular fixture here for so long that everybody knows me. I enjoy the banter and small chat. It makes me feel alive.”
But when he does pack his papers and typewriter into his oversized suitcase and call it a day — for the day — Ezekiel shares that he’d go home and enjoy the company of his grandchildren. “I’ll play with them and potter around the house.”
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I spot a customer ambling in our direction, easily discernible by the sheets of paper clutched in his hand and a worried expression on his face. I squeeze in a final question, asking the kindly petition writer why he would want to doggedly continue with this dying trade.
He pauses momentarily, as if digesting the question. Then turning to me with a rueful smile on his face, Ezekiel replies: “Yes, it’ s a dying trade and there are not many of us left. But I don’t feel disheartened. I just keep coming. If I can get money, it’s okay, if I don’t, it’s also okay. I come here, sit down, enjoy the fresh air, and the company of the people who come by. I feel happy. As I said, I don’t need to do this; I’m well provided for by my children. It’s simple. I just want to do it.”