I was out in the streets of Yangon, Myanmar yesterday afternoon, hunting for wheat flour. Having accepted the kind invitation of the director of the Goethe Institute of Myanmar to stay at his house while I worked on my project, I thought it a nice gesture to cook something pleasant for him and his family.

So I trudged down almost every street in the Palanztung township, in search of a couple of bags of wheat flour. I went in and out of dozens of ‘Grab & Go’ (Myanmar’s 7-Eleven) and many other grocery stores – only to leave empty handed every time.

It soon dawned on me that it was not the endless walking that drained me – it was the language and my limited ability to speak it with any degree of proficiency.

“Mingalabar. Do you have flour?”

“White…powder?”

“Flour. To make cake?”

“You know – flour, butter, milk – make bread?”

In every store, it was the same story. One store assistant flashed an “aha!” moment grin, and scurried away only to return with a loaf of white bread in one hand and a butter cake in the other. Ayoyo kadavule!

In a different store, I pointed to a packet of sugar and said flour was also white – like sugar. The store assistant grabbed the packet of sugar and obediently placed it into a plastic bag for me. I explained that flour was not only white but powdery, pointing to a packet of milk powder, only to have her grabbed that too and hand it to me proudly. Sigh.

It was already almost 6.30 in the evening and I had been walking around for an hour and a half, looking for that darn wheat flour. So I decided to call it quits.

While waiting for a taxi at the pavement of a bustling street (well, every street in Yangon is bustling actually), I wondered how I would break the news to my kind host that I was unable to cook them rotis and curry for dinner because I could not find any wheat flour in all of Yangon (yes, I shall exaggerate).

But just as I was about to hail a taxi, I realised there was one place I had not explored yet – the market! You see, in almost every corner of every township in Yangon, there are street markets. Would it not be ridiculous if I was told by my host later that I could have bought bags and bags of wheat flour at any one of those markets, I thought.

So I dutifully crossed the street and hopped from one stall to another, trying my best to ask for a packet of wheat flour using whatever smidgen of the language I could think of. After a good fifteen minutes or so, I came to a stall selling all sorts of flour.

An old lady came out, all smiles.

“Mingalabar,” she greeted.

“Mingalabar. Do you have wheat flour?” I asked.

“No English,” she said.

“It’s okay. Do – you – have – wheat – flour?” I asked, soon realising that speaking a language slowly did not help any better in getting one’s message across.

“You India?” she was more interested in my ethnicity.

As I nodded, she continued, “Delhi?”

“No. Malaysia. I am Malaysian Indian,” I explained, wondering what my race had to do with anything.

She uttered a few words in Hindi. As I shook my head, I replied, “Hindi nehi malum hai,” and soon realised how silly it sounded to say in Hindi that I didn’t understand Hindi.

Anyway, since she wasn’t keen on helping me find my wheat flour, I decided to go through every packet in her stall myself – rice flour; sugee flour; corn flour; tempura flour – she had all types of flour but not plain wheat flour. What a bummer!

“Alahai…” I whispered to myself, my Bahasa trickled off my tongue naturally.

“Allah?” she placed her hand on my shoulder, “Muslim? India Muslim?” I could almost see her eyes twinkle with delight.

“Yes, Muslim.”

“Asyhaduallaillahaillallah,” she pointed at me at the end of the Muslim vow, testing if I knew the second part of it.

“Waasyhaduannamuhammadarrasulullah,” I completed the vow and smiled.

“Alhamdulillah!” she cheered, her hand on my shoulder, now resting at my waist. “You Muslim. I Muslim!” she laughed, showing off her not so good looking set of teeth – or whatever was left hanging on her gums.

All of a sudden, the old Burmese lady became my long lost grandma. She took my hands and pulled me to another stall selling flour, introducing me proudly to her other friends. When I could not find my wheat flour there, she dragged me to another and another and another, until I finally found what I was looking for.

“Chet-zu-bar,” I thanked her with a very big smile.

“I Muslim. You Muslim,” she uttered as she gave me a thumbs up.

I left the marketplace with five packets of wheat flour and a warm, fuzzy heart bursting with love. Having been critical in the past of those who had a soft spot for others of their “kind”, I felt decidedly awkward now. I mean, I do not condone favouritism as much as I oppose discrimination, but it was rather a nice feeling to feel a sense of belonging. It was nice to receive some special treatment because I was an Indian and a Muslim.

It’s the same feeling you get when you meet a fellow Malaysian on the opposite side of the globe; or a long lost friend at a convention; or a mamak in Kelantan and Terengganu. In this particular case, I had met a fellow Indian Muslim on the streets of Yangon.

While I must confess to not liking to see Malaysians of any particular race in cliques, yet here I was, feeling grateful to have found one of my own kind. It’s somewhat hypocritical I must admit, but it felt nice nonetheless.