Around 15 to 18 years ago, I was tasked with managing a national-level programme involving VIPs from across Malaysia. The name of the event shall remain confidential, but it brought together key officials from every public university.
The programme consisted of formal meetings and presentations, often running late into the night. As the project lead, I ensured everything was delivered in line with the allocated budget and the organiser’s instructions. My role was simply to execute the event successfully.
As the story goes, one evening, a Datin—rumoured at the time to be next in line for Vice-Chancellor (although she was then the Deputy, and it ultimately wasn’t to be)—unexpectedly expressed a craving for Laksa Sarawak. It was already 11.30 p.m.
Though the dish wasn’t part of the official itinerary, she announced to several people, “Tonight, we’re going to have Laksa Sarawak.”
Our secretariat team panicked and alerted me immediately. I consulted the hotel and offered to cover the cost personally, but they replied that it couldn’t be prepared on such short notice.
I contacted every connection I had, trying to find a restaurant or outlet in Kuching serving Laksa Sarawak at that hour. Ultimately, none were open. I had to explain to the Datin that the request wasn’t part of the scheduled programme, and that no eateries were operating at that time of night.
I reassured her that we had arranged a special Laksa Sarawak breakfast the next morning, even securing transportation for attendees. Unfortunately, the Datin—perhaps driven by pride—told her group not to attend the breakfast.
I still vividly remember her voice cutting across the room:
“Never mind. Let the whole component die without eating Laksa Sarawak.”
And the line that has lingered with me ever since:
“I really don’t like the way you manage things.”
All I said in return was, “Datin.”
That event left a lasting impression on me. After it ended, I carefully reviewed every instruction and request from the organisers. The truth was, Laksa Sarawak had indeed been listed in the hotel’s menu for the programme—but there was no directive to take participants outside the hotel, due to safety and budgetary concerns raised by the organisers.
Some time after the incident, I heard that the Datin was not appointed Vice-Chancellor. Time passed. She eventually retired. And when retirement comes, we are left with only ourselves—we are all we truly have.
Last week, I learned that she would be attending an event I was also required to attend. I made a point to greet her, despite the visible passage of time on her features. To my surprise, she recognised me. And from her own lips came these words:
“I like you. Your commitment and professionalism were always clear. I’m sorry if I ever disliked you.”
I simply replied, “Thank you, Datin.”
A deep sense of peace and contentment washed over me in that moment. Alhamdulillah.
And the fact remains—even today, it’s still quite difficult to find Laksa Sarawak in the middle of the night. Just imagine how much harder it was 15 to 18 years ago.
