Chapter 1: Fourteen Kenduris in Nine Days
When you are a YB and you have just fixed the tax hotline, everybody wants to invite you to their kenduri.
In nine days, YB Zainal attended fourteen of them. Two weddings, three aqiqahs, a housewarming, a retirement party, a durian festival (obviously), and several events that Farid later admitted he could not explain.
At every single one, somebody handed him a plate of nasi minyak, a slice of kek lapis and a tall glass of teh tarik, extra manis, "specially for YB." And a YB cannot refuse. Refusing food at a Malaysian kenduri is a political act. Possibly a constitutional crisis.
On day nine, at the durian festival, the YB climbed the four steps to the stage and arrived at the microphone sounding like he had just climbed Gunung Kinabalu.
That evening, his wife put a piece of paper in front of him.
"What is this?"
"Your medical appointment. Tomorrow. 8am."
"I am perfectly healthy."
"You were breathless on four steps."
"The steps were very steep."
"They were four steps, Zainal."
Farid, standing in the doorway, quietly backed out of the room. Some battles a political aide does not join.
Chapter 2: Number 247, Now Serving 112
The YB decided he would go to the government clinic incognito. "To feel the pain of the rakyat," he explained. His disguise was a baseball cap and sunglasses. Everybody recognised him in nine seconds.
He took a number. It said 247.
The screen said: NOW SERVING 112.
The YB sat down next to an uncle who had been there since Subuh, and an aunty who had come fully prepared: a tiffin carrier, a flask of kopi, a cushion and her knitting. By the time the YB was called, she had finished an entire scarf and started on matching gloves.
At 10:30am, his phone buzzed. His wife reminded him he also needed to book a follow-up appointment. So the YB called the appointment line.
And there it was.
Hold music.
Not the tax office song. That one had been retired with honours in Part 3. This was a different song. Different melody, same suffering.
"Farid," he whispered. "There is another one."
"Another what, YB?"
"Another hold song. Out there. Still playing. To innocent people."
At 12:15pm, number 247 was called. The consultation took ten minutes. The doctor, a calm young woman who had clearly seen many YBs and was impressed by none of them, wrapped the cuff around his arm and frowned at the reading.
"Your blood pressure is high. You need to cut down on sugar. Especially the teh tarik."
The YB leaned forward, ready to negotiate like a man who has sat through many budget debates.
"Kurang manis?"
"Kosong."
The YB looked at her as if she had just abolished Hari Raya.
Chapter 3: Press 9 to Hear These Options Again
For his specialist follow-up, the YB's wife suggested a private hospital closer to home. The YB called the hotline himself. "How hard can it be?"
"Welcome. For appointments, press 1. For billing, press 2. For insurance, press 3. For visiting hours, press 4. For cardiology, press 5. For orthopaedics, press 6. For maternity, press 7. For pharmacy, press 8. To hear these options again, press 9."
The YB pressed 9.
Then he pressed 9 again.
Then, out of pure confusion, he pressed 7.
Twenty minutes later, YB Zainal, 58 years old, had been successfully booked into a Saturday maternity ward tour for expecting parents.
Farid laughed so hard he had to sit down on the pavement outside the office. A passing makcik asked if he needed an ambulance.
The YB stared at the confirmation SMS for a long time. Then he took out the laminated card from his wallet, the one that said FOR NATIONAL EMERGENCIES ONLY, and dialled.
"Saloma?"
"Selamat petang, Yang Berhormat. How can I help?"
"Saloma, I have just been booked for a maternity tour."
There was a very short pause.
"Congratulations, Yang Berhormat?"
"Saloma. We are going to the hospitals."
Chapter 4: Public Meets Private
The YB arranged a joint session with the Ministry of Health's patient services team, one of the big public hospitals and a large private hospital group. Two people would decide whether Saloma got the job.
Matron Siti ran the public hospital's appointment centre. She had thirty years of nursing behind her, a voice that could silence a ward of forty patients, and a reputation for being able to find a missing case file just by staring at a room.
Dr Mei Ling ran patient experience for the private hospital group. She had an MBA, three phones and a smartwatch that buzzed every eleven seconds.
They had known each other for years. They agreed on almost nothing. In the first ten minutes, they argued about waiting times, parking, hospital food and the air-conditioning temperature in the meeting room.
"Twenty-two degrees is comfortable," said Dr Mei Ling.
"Twenty-two degrees is how we store vaccines," said Matron Siti.
The YB raised his hand. "Ladies. Allow me to introduce a friend."
Farid put Saloma on speaker, and the YB explained the rules, which he had rehearsed in the car:
- Saloma does not diagnose.
- Saloma does not give medical advice.
- Saloma books, reschedules and confirms appointments, sends reminders, answers questions about visiting hours, directions, parking, billing and insurance letters, in the caller's language, at any hour.
- If anything sounds like an emergency, Saloma tells the caller to call 999 immediately and gets a human involved.
Dr Mei Ling folded her arms. "So she's a receptionist who never takes a lunch break."
Matron Siti nodded slowly. "My receptionists take ninety-minute lunch breaks. She's already ahead."
It was the first thing they had agreed on in eleven years. Farid wrote down the date.
Chapter 5: Uncle Lim's Prescription Request
The pilot began on both appointment lines the following week. And of course, one of the very first callers was a familiar voice from Penang.
"Hello? Saloma? Is that you? The tax one?"
"Hello, Uncle Lim! Yes, it's me. I'm helping the hospitals now."
"Wah, you change job so fast. Good, good. I want to ask doctor something. My blood pressure a bit high. My friend say durian is good for blood pressure. Can doctor prescribe Musang King? Then my insurance can pay."
In the monitoring room, Matron Siti closed her eyes.
Saloma, as always, stayed perfectly calm.
"Uncle, I'm not able to give medical advice, and I'd hate to guess about something so important. But I can book you an appointment with a doctor, and you can ask about durian directly. Is Thursday morning okay?"
"Doctor sure say no one."
"That's exactly why I'm booking you a doctor, Uncle."
There was a long pause from Penang.
"You are very clever, ah. Ok lah. Thursday."
Matron Siti turned to Dr Mei Ling. "Did she just talk a Penang uncle out of a durian prescription without upsetting him?"
"In under two minutes," said Dr Mei Ling, checking her smartwatch. "I've seen board meetings handled worse."
Chapter 6: 3:12am
Not every call was funny. This one wasn't.
At 3:12am, a man named Encik Gopal called the hospital line. He sounded tired and a bit embarrassed.
"Sorry to call so late. I just want to book an appointment for next week. My chest feels very tight, and my left arm is a bit numb. Probably nothing. Probably gastric."
Saloma did not book an appointment.
"Encik Gopal, what you're describing could be an emergency. Please call 999 right now, or ask someone with you to call. Please don't drive yourself. I'm alerting the hospital team that you may be on your way."
"It's probably nothing..."
"It may be nothing. But it should be checked tonight, not next week. Please call 999 now."
Encik Gopal called. The ambulance came. It was not gastric.
Two days later, he was recovering well. The cardiologist told him that getting help quickly that night had made a real difference.
When Matron Siti reviewed the transcript the next morning, she read it twice. Then she said something her team would quote for months:
"She didn't try to be a doctor. She just knew exactly when to stop being a receptionist."
Chapter 7: The Husband Who Could Not Find the Door
At 1:40am on a Saturday, the private hospital's line rang. The caller was a man named Hafiz. He was not calm. He was the opposite of calm. He was what calm would look like if calm drank four espressos and fell down a staircase.
"Hello! Hello! My wife! Baby! Coming! Now! What do I do? Which door? Where do I park? Do I bring the hamper? My mother-in-law made a hamper!"
"Hafiz, you're doing great. Is your wife with you right now?"
"Yes! She's in the car! She's very angry with me!"
"That's normal. Come straight to the hospital. Use the emergency and maternity entrance on the east side, there's drop-off parking right at the door. I'm letting the labour ward know you're on your way. If anything feels wrong on the drive, call 999."
"And the hamper?"
"Bring the hamper. Hamper is not a priority, but your mother-in-law will ask."
There was a pause. Then Hafiz, still panicking, asked the question every monitoring room in Malaysia will remember:
"Saloma, can you choose the baby's name?"
"That's a very special decision for you and your wife. I'd be honoured to book her follow-up appointments, though."
"What if we name her Saloma?"
"That is entirely up to you and your wife. Please focus on driving."
A healthy baby girl was born at 3:05am. The labour ward nurses said Hafiz arrived carrying his wife's bag, two pillows, a phone charger and an enormous hamper, wrapped in cellophane, containing kuih, dates and, for reasons nobody could explain, a pineapple.
Chapter 8: The Mystery of the Missing Patients
For Matron Siti, the biggest headache wasn't busy phone lines. It was empty chairs.
Every week, hundreds of patients simply didn't turn up for their appointments. They forgot. They mixed up dates. They lost the card. Meanwhile, other patients waited weeks for a slot that someone else never used.
So they turned on Saloma's reminder calls: a friendly call a few days before each appointment, in the patient's own language, with an easy way to confirm or reschedule.
And because hospitals are a favourite target for phone scammers pretending to be "from the hospital billing department," the team built in one golden rule: Saloma never asks for passwords, bank details, OTPs or payment over the phone. Ever. She says so at the start of every reminder call.
The first person to test the rule was Auntie Kamala, who had an eye check-up coming up.
"Hello, Auntie Kamala. This is Saloma, an AI assistant, calling from the hospital with a reminder about your eye appointment on Tuesday. I will never ask for your bank details or any payment."
"Saloma? The clever Tamil-speaking one? From the tax office?"
"Yes, Auntie. I got a second job."
"Aiyo, you also must work two jobs? This economy, I tell you."
Auntie Kamala confirmed her appointment. Then she hung up and called the hospital back on the official number printed on her appointment card, just to check the reminder was real. It was. Saloma praised her for checking. "That's exactly right, Auntie. Always verify."
Auntie Kamala told her WhatsApp group: "The hospital AI told me to be suspicious of the hospital AI. Very honest. I trust her more now."
Then there was Nenek Rosnah, 74, calling from a kampung in Kelantan about her knee surgery date. She spoke Kelantanese Malay at a speed that could outrun most ambulances. Half the monitoring room, born and raised in KL, could only catch every third word.
Saloma kept up, confirmed the date, explained what to bring, and arranged a callback with the nurse for her questions about fasting before surgery.
"Terima kasih, cu," said Nenek Rosnah.
And then there was Mak Cik Salmah, who had missed three appointments in a row because, in her words, "the card is somewhere in the house, the house is big, and I am old." After Saloma's reminders, she not only arrived on time. She arrived forty minutes early, with a box of kuih for the nurses, "to apologise for the last three times."
Within two months, the number of missed appointments had dropped sharply. The empty chairs were filling up. Matron Siti printed the chart and stuck it on the nurses' station, right next to a sign that said: THE DURIAN CALL. NEVER FORGET. Puan Rohani from the tax office had sent it over as a gift.
Chapter 9: Aiman's Armpit
You knew he would come back.
Aiman, the 23-year-old content creator from Part 3, now properly declaring his sponsorship income, decided to go live with a new video: "Asking the Hospital AI to Diagnose Me."
His ring light was bigger. His confidence was bigger. His medical knowledge was the same.
"Saloma, my armpit is very itchy. Is it serious? What disease is it? Tell me now, 400,000 people are watching."
"I'm not able to diagnose anything, Aiman, and I'd definitely not want to do it in front of 400,000 people. I can book you an appointment with a dermatologist, though. Is Monday afternoon okay?"
"Ok, ok. But can I skip the queue if I mention YB Zainal?"
"Everyone waits their turn, including Yang Berhormat. He waited four hours."
The live chat exploded. "SHE EXPOSED THE YB." "Four hours bro." "Even YB also queue, you think you who?"
In his office, YB Zainal watched the stream on Farid's phone with great dignity.
"Farid," he said. "She is not wrong."
Aiman's dermatologist confirmed it was a reaction to a new deodorant he had received from a sponsor. Aiman made a follow-up video titled "The Hospital AI Was Right Not to Diagnose My Armpit." It did better than the first one. The sponsor did not renew.
Chapter 10: The Highlighter Goes to Hospital
Of course, a pilot in healthcare must survive the toughest meeting of all: data protection.
Matron Siti and Dr Mei Ling invited a guest reviewer: Encik Zulkifli from the tax office, the man with three highlighters, who was now informally known across the civil service as "the man Saloma made smile."
Encik Zulkifli asked his questions in his usual order.
Is every call recorded and transcribed? Yes.
Does Saloma only answer from approved information, and never give medical advice? Yes.
Does she hand emergencies and clinical questions to humans? Yes, and here are the logs.
Can you prove she never asked anyone for payment or bank details? Yes, every reminder call, word for word.
Does patient data stay in Malaysia? Hosted locally, designed for Malaysia's data protection requirements.
Encik Zulkifli reached for his yellow highlighter. He paused. Then he handed it to Matron Siti.
"You won't need it," he said. "But keep it. For tradition."
Dr Mei Ling looked at the highlighter. Then at Matron Siti. "Can I have the green one?"
"No," said Encik Zulkifli.
It was the second thing Matron Siti and Dr Mei Ling agreed on: they both thought he was being unreasonable.
Chapter 11: Next Question
There was, naturally, a press conference.
YB Zainal arrived in his best baju Melayu, holding a glass of teh tarik kosong, which he raised for the cameras like a trophy.
A reporter asked: "YB, is it true you waited four hours at a clinic in disguise?"
"I prefer to say," said the YB, "that I experienced the system as a member of the rakyat. Leaders must feel the pain of the people."
"And is it true you were booked into a maternity tour?"
Farid looked at the ceiling.
"Next question."
"YB, how is your blood pressure?"
"Next question."
The room laughed. The YB laughed too. Then he added, more seriously: "Nobody should miss their treatment because they forgot a date, or lost a card, or could not get through on the phone. Nobody should wait on hold when their chest is tight at 3am. Answering people kindly, in their own language, at the right moment, is good healthcare. And good government."
After the cameras left, his phone buzzed.
"Good afternoon, Yang Berhormat. Friendly reminder: your follow-up check-up is next Wednesday at 9am. Also, Dr Mei Ling asked me to let you know that your maternity tour has been cancelled."
"Thank you, Saloma."
"You're welcome. And Yang Berhormat? Kosong."
The YB looked at his teh tarik for a long, sad moment.
"Kosong," he agreed.
What Can Hospitals and Healthcare Providers Learn From Saloma?
Under the jokes about durian prescriptions and maternity tours, this story is about very real problems in public and private healthcare: jammed appointment lines, confusing phone menus, missed appointments and patients who don't know when to call for help. Here's how an AI voice agent like Saloma helps:
- Answer appointment calls instantly. Booking, rescheduling, confirmations, visiting hours, directions, parking, billing and insurance letter questions, at any hour.
- Replace confusing phone menus. Callers just say what they need, in their own words and their own language.
- Reduce missed appointments. Friendly reminder calls in Bahasa Malaysia, English, Mandarin, Tamil and more, with easy confirm or reschedule.
- Never diagnose, always escalate. Saloma gives no medical advice, and directs anyone describing possible emergency symptoms to call 999 immediately.
- Be scam-safe by design. No passwords, bank details, OTPs or payment requested over the phone, ever, and callers are encouraged to verify through official numbers.
- Keep a full audit trail. Every call recorded, transcribed and searchable.
- Keep patient data in Malaysia. Designed for local hosting and Malaysian data protection requirements.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is Saloma? Saloma is an enterprise AI voice agent developed by Astiostech, a Malaysian technology company. It handles inbound and outbound phone calls in natural speech in more than 20 languages, including Bahasa Malaysia, English, Mandarin, Tamil and Arabic. Saloma was previously known as Vocalis.
Can an AI voice agent be used in hospitals? Yes, for non-clinical tasks such as appointment booking, rescheduling, reminder calls, visiting hours, directions, billing and insurance questions. Clinical questions and emergencies are always handled by people and emergency services.
Does Saloma give medical advice? No. Saloma does not diagnose or give medical advice. If a caller describes symptoms that could be an emergency, she tells them to call 999 immediately and alerts the hospital team.
How can hospitals reduce missed appointments? Automated, friendly reminder calls a few days before each appointment, in the patient's own language, with an easy way to confirm or reschedule, can significantly reduce no-shows and free up slots for other patients.
How do patients know a hospital reminder call isn't a scam? Saloma identifies herself as an AI assistant and states at the start of every call that she will never ask for bank details, passwords, OTPs or payment. Patients are encouraged to verify by calling the hospital's official number.
Is patient data kept in Malaysia? Saloma is designed for Malaysian hosting and data protection requirements, with every call recorded and logged for audit.
How do I learn more about Saloma? Visit astiostech.com to get in touch with the Astiostech team.
This is a work of fiction. The YB, the doctors, nurses, patients, hospitals and events described are imaginary and are used for storytelling only. Any reference to the Ministry of Health or to public or private hospitals does not mean they use, endorse or have evaluated Saloma. If you have chest pain, please call 999. If you have an itchy armpit, please see a doctor, not a livestream.
Coming up in Part 5: Saloma gets her first assignment outside Malaysia. Sort of. The YB insists on coming along. Farid has already packed antacids.