Ah, the KL Book Club—a sanctuary for the city’s literary souls long before the digital age took over. This wasn’t just a spot to swap novels; it was where minds met over the pages of classics, devouring ideas as much as they did tea and biscuits. The club fostered a community bound by a shared love for the written word.

Just a stone’s throw away, the Malay Handicrafts Society Centre stood as a beacon for traditional arts. Here, artisans wove the rich heritage of Malaysia into every thread, stitch, and carving. But, as KL’s skyline soared and the city modernised, both the Book Club and the Handicrafts Society faded from the streets facade, leaving behind quiet remnants of a time when cultural and intellectual pursuits were at the heart of the city.

Yet, there’s a lesson in all this: just as the petition writers dwindled into history, the Handicrafts Society, too, found itself swept aside. But Bujang Masa Lalu? Oh, is far from forgotten. So long as these streets whisper their tales, BML’s legacy stays front and centre—an eternal echo amid KL’s ever-changing skyline.

So here’s a thought to ponder: Imagine this space next door (former FMS Survey Office), go ahead take a look, left to its own devices, transformed into a craft centre—a revolving showcase of Malaysia’s finest artisans. Picture it: a vibrant venue where skill and artistry intertwine, each month a new rotation of craftspeople offering a glimpse into their mastery. What a splendid way to stay in awe of our local talent and perhaps even enjoy a bite or two of local delicacies. Speaking of which, I must say I do miss those days when I could pop into Chef Adu’s former café at the Textile Museum. Now there’s a man who knows how to serve up both culinary delights and a touch of class!

15. Sanitary Board (later Town Hall), Municipal Office and High Court (later Supreme Court)

Ah, the grand old days of bureaucracy, typewriters clattering, and furiously crafting petitions! What we have here is not just a collection of bricks and arches, but the architectural equivalent of a stiff upper lip.

At the front, we’ve got the former Town Hall. Picture it—back in 1904, it wasn’t just a place for town meetings. Oh no, it was the esteemed headquarters of the Municipal Office / British Sanitary Board, a name that practically screams excitement (… not). And yet, somehow they managed to make it even more thrilling by rebranding it the Kuala Lumpur Sanitary Board (… how poetic). Today, that institution is better known as DBKL, but let’s not dwell on such mundanities when we could be marvelling at the City Hall Theatre that now occupies this space.

The tale of “Naboth’s Vineyard” in Kuala Lumpur—a story dripping with irony and missed opportunities. Picture this: prime land, owned by the affluent Inche Soh, once the object of governmental desire, but negotiations fizzled out. Enter a shrewd Singaporean middleman in 1913, who secures a quick sale, pockets a generous commission, and vanishes. The land, bought for a whopping $200,000, was intended for a grand Town Hall, but fate had other plans. For two decades, it sat idle, occasionally hosting impounded rickshaws, only to end up as a simple car park. If Inche Soh’s spirit could see the outcome, he’d probably be having the last laugh, thinking, “Well, looks like the joke’s on me after all.”

Next door? The former High Court, built in 1915, where justice was dispensed with a flourish of robes and the clack of petition writers’ typewriters. Picture the scene: men hunched over, furiously typing, likely with one eye on the courtroom door and the other on their tea breaks. That domed porte cochere? Perfection in architectural form. The arches, the chattris, the sheer elegance of it all—it’s as though they wanted the building itself to deliver the verdict: “Guilty of being a stunning masterpiece.”

But alas, time spares no one, not even the petition writers. As the courts packed their bags and trotted off to Putrajaya in 2001, the once-bustling porch gradually emptied. Now, it’s just the ghosts of typewriters echoing in the wind. And with that, we turn and glance across the road at the Countdown Clock, ticking away like some ominous reminder of… something important, probably. One can’t help but wonder—are we, too, racing against time?