THE rain is pelting the road, splashing against the pavement with a fierce rhythm. Sitting in my colleague Jega's house, I can't help but feel a little anxious, wondering if the piano tuner would make it through the storm in time.
The upright piano against the wall of Jega's modest two-storey home in Bangsar brings back so many memories. I remember my piano lessons from primary school — the hours of practicing scales and arpeggios that filled our house. It feels like only yesterday I was practicing as hard as I could, hoping to pass my Grade 2 exam for the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music.
The piano was a staple in many middle-class homes, including ours, where parents like mine dreamt of passing down a love for music to their children. And with the piano came the piano tuner, a familiar figure who arrived at least once a year, carrying a bag of tools and a quiet expertise. Watching them work, carefully striking each key and turning their tuning fork was as much a part of our home's rhythm as the music itself.
A plain white van pulls up quietly in front of the house just as the rain softens to a gentle drizzle. From the driver's seat, an elderly Chinese man steps out and circles around to the passenger side. Carefully, a Malay man climbs down, moving with the kind of deliberate care that speaks of experience. He places a steadying hand on his companion's arm.
Side by side, they make their way to the front door with quiet purpose. The piano tuner and his trusted technician have arrived.
Ibrahim Karim pauses at the doorway, smiling warmly as he greets Jega like an old friend. Beside him, 61-year-old Lim Kok Guan, carrying a weathered briefcase, gently guides him inside. At 60, Ibrahim is blind and depends on Lim to help him get around.
BEST FRIENDS
From the outset, Ibrahim is refreshingly unbothered by his condition. "Oh, you're taking pictures?" he asks, retrieving a pair of dark glasses from his shirt pocket. "I'd rather wear these lah," he says, grinning cheekily. "Like Stevie Wonder!" Lim quips, prompting them both to burst into easy laughter.
The camaraderie between the two men is unmistakable. "We've worked together for nearly 28 years and have been close friends for just as long," Lim explains. Their bond began at Sunwave Music, the music centre where both have dedicated much of their careers.
For over two decades, their routine has remained unchanged. Each morning, Lim leaves his home in Klang and drives to Shah Alam to pick up Ibrahim. Together, they head out to fulfil their piano tuning appointments.
"It's about four pianos a day now," Lim explains. "It used to be more," Ibrahim chimes in with a smile, adding: "But we're getting older and it can be tiring, so we've scaled it back to four appointments a day."
They fulfil a few appointments in the morning before pausing in the afternoon for their favourite ritual: coffee. "That's our hobby lah… drinking coffee!" Ibrahim says, chuckling heartily.
Continuing, he shares: "In many ways, he's closer than a brother to me. Sometimes, I think he understands me better than my own wife. We have two children around the same age, so there's always something to talk about."
For Ibrahim, Lim isn't just a colleague but a constant in his life, a trusted friend through the years. "We've been through everything together. After so many years of working side by side, how could we not grow close? It feels like we've always been part of each other's lives."
Race has never been a barrier between them. "I never really thought about it lah!" he says, chuckling, adding: "He's Chinese, but this is Malaysia, what! Why would race be an issue? We all live together in this country. Our customers are also so diverse — Malay, Chinese, Indian and even expatriates. There's really no problem at all!"
Learning to be Ibrahim's eyes has been a journey of growth for Lim. "I was asked to drive Ibrahim on his rounds, and along the way, I've learned how to work with him. Helping him navigate is a skill I've had to pick up," he shares, adding: "You also learn what he can and cannot do. He may not be able to see, but he's capable of so much. You've got to appreciate that."
Ibrahim nods, adding: "You need to understand that you don't have to hold someone who's blind. Let them touch you first. They can read your body language — whether you're moving up or down, or stepping onto a stair — just through touch. If you hold us, you're actually limiting our ability to navigate and move independently."
LOSING SIGHT
Born with an eye defect, Ibrahim's future was shadowed by a grim prognosis from doctors — they warned his father that his eyesight would eventually fail. His father struggled to accept this, especially when he saw how active and spirited Ibrahim was, playing football and riding his bike with ease.
But by the time Ibrahim turned 17, the inevitable happened. His vision deteriorated to the point where he could no longer study and complete his Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM) examinations, marking a turning point in his life.
Ibrahim soon left Johor Baru and travelled to Kuala Lumpur in search of work. After registering as an Orang Kurang Upaya (person with disabilities), he explored various options, trying his hand as a telephone operator and even learning to be a stenographer. "Back then, you didn't have much choice as a disabled person," he recalls. "You either became a stenographer, telephone operator or a masseuse."
He pauses thoughtfully, adding: "These days, stenographers and telephone operators have all but disappeared. If you're blind, the only remaining option seems to be becoming a masseuse. You just can't compete with able-bodied people. Lagi susah nak cari kerja (it's even harder to find work)," he laments.
When the opportunity arose to become a piano tuner at the legendary C. Nam Hong, a piano assembler company in Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman, Ibrahim didn't think twice. "When I was studying, I was already playing in a band. We played at weddings and clubs, so I've always loved music," he shares.
Continuing, he adds: "Back then, mana ada duit nak belajar muzik? (Where would we have money to learn music?) We came from a poor family, so I taught myself how to play the guitar. I loved the piano and watching people play it. Becoming a piano tuner felt like the perfect chance — not just to work, but to play the piano too!"
The young apprentice spent over two and a half years mastering the art of piano tuning. Recalls Ibrahim: "My senior, who was trained in the United Kingdom, advised me to give up playing in the band so I could focus on passing the examinations. I was failing a lot back then. I had to make a choice, and I chose to become a tuner."
By the age of 22, Ibrahim hadn't only achieved his dream, but also carved out a purpose for himself as a fully qualified professional piano tuner. He remained loyal to the company that had given him his start, staying until the owner, who'd been instrumental in shaping his career, passed away. "I couldn't leave before then," he says softly. "I owed them everything. They trained me and gave me the chance to become who I am today."
Later, he joined Sunwave Music, where he met Lim, a piano technician from Klang. Lim was assigned to accompany Ibrahim on his rounds, visiting customers' homes to tune their pianos. What began as a practical arrangement gradually evolved into a partnership that has lasted decades.
STRONG PARTNERSHIP
It's soon time for Ibrahim and Lim to do what they do best. Lim gets to work, smoothly removing the front panel of the upright piano to expose its inner mechanics.
The motion is swift and practiced, part of a well-worn routine. He pulls out the bench and guides Ibrahim to sit at the piano, ensuring everything is in place before stepping back to let the real work begin.
Lim then opens the worn briefcase and hands Ibrahim the tools with care — a long felt strip, a tuning wrench and a few rubber mutes. Ibrahim takes them with practiced ease, his fingers instinctively finding their place. Carefully, he threads the felt strip between the strings, muting two of the three for each key.
"Every key has three strings," Lim explains, watching as Ibrahim begins his work. "You tune one string first, then match the other two to it."
Ibrahim's movements are deliberate, each turn of the wrench measured and precise. The muted strings allow him to isolate the sound, adjusting the pitch until it's just right. Slowly, one note at a time, the piano begins to regain its clarity, its voice restored through Ibrahim's steady hands.
"He's the best piano tuner there is," Lim says simply, pride in his voice. "The piano retains its tone longer when Ibrahim does the tuning."
As I sit across the living room watching Ibrahim work, I ask if he could teach someone — perhaps even me — to tune a piano. "Yes," he replies thoughtfully. "I think anyone can be taught. Of course, they need a basic ear for the sounds, but it's a lot of hard work."
Continuing, he says: "The problem is, there aren't many who can teach anymore. With no one assembling pianos in the country, you don't have people who truly know the piano inside out, let alone how to tune it."
When asked if he has trained any successors, he shakes his head. "No, I haven't," he admits quietly. Ibrahim is, in many ways, a member of a vanishing fraternity — a master craftsman with knowledge honed over decades. He continues his work, gently tugging on the tuning wrench to adjust the strings, with Lim at his side but no apprentice watching and learning.
The elderly Chinese man waits patiently as Ibrahim tests the strings one by one. Once the tuning is completed, the latter carefully points out any repairs or adjustments needed.
Lim steps in afterward, tightening loose screws, aligning hammers or addressing any other issues Ibrahim has identified, their teamwork smooth and practiced from years of collaboration.
When they finish, Ibrahim sits at the piano and lets his fingers glide over the keys, testing the fruits of his labour. "I'm not much of a player," he says modestly, but the resonant bass and clear, ringing treble tell a different story.
There's a quiet satisfaction in his expression, a connection to the music of an instrument he has painstakingly restored. Yet, as he plays, a sobering thought remains: there's no one to carry on his craft.
The indefatigable gentleman isn't just a master of pianos. He tells me he also tunes and repairs guitars. "I'm not trained in that, but I'm pretty good at it lah!" he says with a grin, dubbing himself Doktor Piano, Bomoh Guitar.
The laughter swells when he mentions he's part of a band called 'The Gout'. "Most of us are old and have gout. We can't even play standing up for long!" he says, chuckling.
Soon, it's time for them to leave. Lim carefully packs the briefcase before guiding Ibrahim to the doorway. They exchange warm goodbyes before walking together slowly toward the parked van outside. The rain has stopped and sunlight begins to break through the clouds.
The piano tuner and his trusted technician remind me of what Malaysia once was — and what it could be again. A place where friendships, like music, can rise above race and differences. In their work and in their bond, Ibrahim and Lim show that harmony — both in music and in life — is always within reach, if we're willing to take the time to listen.