Carried Away

 

Hivis orange (faded) lads in their mid/late 50s if not older, one hobbling, huddled under cover by the stairs. They were permitted to escape their labour in such weather, even only steady drizzle now. Electric bikes with mounted milkcrates carried the tools of their trade. Garden maintenance, keeping the forest and jungle from our urban amenity; roadside verges in their case. Another one of their number was greatly surprised couple weeks back being slipped a two returning to the digs after supper. A forested area out near Jurong was due to be cleared shortly for an extension of an industrial complex, the newspaper reported this morning, noting that the habitat was a breeding ground or home to a particular butterfly and would not be easily replicated. (Deft soft pedal for devastation, always cannily delivered here.) The other night the retired engineer Mr Cha couldn’t decide whether the beneficiary of the two working on the grassy fringe below was Chinese, or Malay. Definitely hailing from Malaysia, said Mr Cha. Nearing ninety now, Mr Cha had come down as a babe in arms with his parents from Fujian, on the Mainland. The rhetoric of the new Japanese “lady” was of more concern to Mr C. Could the Americans press the Japanese into conflict in those parts? would that finangling be the best way to fix their trade imbalance? Over two hours without cease – and two & one half steady fall. Era had lost ten family members in NW Sumatra last couple days; 1,200 across the region had perished. Mr Lim the plate-collector, whose Bahasa was good, did not know banjir, the term for flood. In his almost seventy years Lim had never left the island and did not watch television – never watched, it seemed. Likely he was illiterate in any language and on some kind of medication too. (There had been a couple sudden verbal outbursts.) Yet it had come down to the man that swi chai could indeed be highly serious, carrying all before it. Decades ago it must have been when it first filtered down to the young Lim, the oldies remembering.

NB. A week later the count of casualties is 1,600, with more rain forecast.

Chewing Up Time

 

Always great seeing Hul. A string of grapes for her, of course. Twenty metres later, Oh! Oh! She remembers her bakes. The plastic container could be returned later… Ah, ah. But, really, gotta try avoid sweets, even these not sweet. But, yeah, yeah, one for a try. Nice. Just like our people usedta do back in the day. At the head of Hul’s block old Mrs Toh, not sighted now a month. Fractured her wrist in a minor bathroom fall. Unexpected was her bahasah. Rattling a bit with Hul, the latter pouring out her usual compassion. The decision was made to have a look further along at the wake, right below Hul’s place. Odd she had heard nothing. An embroider banner carried with a phone number the year 2003. Always worse if someone so young was involved. But, no. Yesterday on a pass the portrait at the head of the casket showed a woman in her 60s at least, maybe 70s. Hul did want to have a look. Condolences could be offered. At first it seemed only couple maids were seated at a single table. Behind a pillar a white-clad mourner emerged and then a second after her. Hul signalled / explained she was from above. In fact the deceased the same. Hul not unduly surprised. Even sharing the same entry there, there were thirteen storeys. Lady didn’t come down, Hul guessed. Eighty-six no surprise. There was a condolence book with another portrait and details. (Left unsigned.) Block 11 had four lifts and stairs. With the recent Hong Kong disaster some concentration of mind. Hul had lived in Block 11 over fifty years, without being able to place the lady. Chinese kept to themselves, Hul explained. Hul of course greeted everyone, though in the pigeon holes some friction was inevitable. Woman next door to Hul was eventually forgiven for renting out one of her rooms to 4-5 people. In the pic this lady looked a sweet. Unlikely to have ruffled any neighbourhood feathers. But likely quiet, retiring. The mystery solved. The tenting had gone up the day before. Both mourners, probably daughters, were grateful for the neighbourly respect. Smiles of gratitude bright like that suggested daughters rather than in-laws. Plastic wrapped white tees in various sizes sat on another table beside the condolence book. Some kind of red material on the other end. Twine for the wrist, Hul guessed. Mourners could slip one on and then “trash”, Helen said, after leaving. So as not to take away with oneself any bad spirits afterward. Hul’s boy Chico was good. He had popped over the other day after a three hour delay attempting to contact Hul. Earlier they had agreed to save on travel fare and see each other tomorrow, but it looked like Chico needed more immediate. So he bowled over. Two, three days Hul had waited to see him last week, but now Hul couldn’t wait 12 hours. And he wanted to know why Hul was uncontactable three hours. Had she been bathing three hours? Praying for the dead? Cheeky Chico. They were a great pair. Prevented a number of years now from marrying because of housing issues and elder care Chico’s side. Hul had cared first for her mother, then later her father. Great pair.

Publication news: A Spot of Window-shopping - Hindsight Journal

Another flash of mine has recently been published, by a Colorado lit. journal called Hindsight, where they have a climate change focus as one of their specific concerns.

It's a locally well-known shopping paradise in Singapore — another take on the phenomenon in this piece (260 words).

On their YouTube platform at present is a reading of the work by myself (in something less than a polished performance). Digital & print due shortly.

https://share.google/9oJ4eXKYaXHTQnGdk

Cheers

Pavle

NB. The editors have dug deeply through records and produced an odd author bio. “A background in football” amounts to 4 years of teenage participation, many long years ago.

Favourite Indian (published by Literary Yard, April 2016)

From the files

Favourite Indian

Hard to believe, but precisely on the point of seating the famous old Hindi song from the mid-seventies over the speakers. Remarkable coincidence. Did the look-out pass the wink to the lads in back for the switch to be flicked? Could it truly have been complete freak coincidence?

            Mein Shay’Ar TO Na’Hiii…. Mein Shay’Ar TO Na’Hiii….          

            The catchy refrain that gave the song its title carried a fluttering lilt.

            Da DaaR DA DaDiii…. Da DaaR DA DaDiii…. Magic.

          On Youtube there were numerous film clips from the period with smooth moustachioed leading men sending Beauties spinning over palatial ballrooms under the spell of the wolf call. Cut to green fields, sports convertible with passenger door flung open after the lass had taken flight. Cavorting thereafter and a chase that wasn’t through lush, flowering garden splendour belonging presumably to the Tata Empire. (Formerly the estate of one of the British nabobs).

            Light skin tones, bright eyes and slender waists, the vocalist never a patch on the naiad.
            Here on Buffalo Street last week the wrong waiter had been chosen for the enquiry.

          Closer observation would have noticed the sliver bracelet on the hand. Fellow was too young for another thing. Plenty of the younger Sikhs working here dispensed with the turbans.
         The older Tamil enlisted for help knew the thing straight off easy as pie. Who didn’t know Mein Shayar for goodness sake? A short little pantomime ensuing in the passage before the table.

            You dolt! Hand clap to the forehead. What good are you? Out. Out I say…. The whole bag of potatoes right this instant…. High Nazi salute. (The swastika had originated in Hindu India after all.) Marching orders in the direction of the kitchen.
            One fears the reno job cannot be too far off at Komala Vilas, now in the third generation here. The old founder is still venerated enough to maintain his place in the frame hung above the register. A couple of times a year the elderly daughter comes out for a review from Chennai. Even in these few months new furniture has been introduced—metal-framed chairs shrieking across the tiles. As the various heirs have gone their own way, there are now numerous Komala Vilas in Singapore, Buffalo Street opposite Tekka Market holding the line as much as possible.

2

K. V. two long weeks later according to the Chief. (Magnificent smiling gallantry from the time equivalent to the Troubadours.) Gone quart past three on another hot afternoon, busted sandal strap making it hotter. Thiru a couple of days ago reported back after a first visit, commenting on the typical middle-class South Indian form. The kind of place where the money-making imperative was not ruling and absolute; not entirely. The speechless head-loll of the waiters taking orders without any pen or paper was noted. (Better class places in India with those aids invariably got the order wrong, Thiru said.) It was something of a surprise to hear the characterization. Occasionally one found working boys there from the construction industry; a couple of foremen had been struck, and oil-industry men. The gold, rings and watches ought to have indicated the matter more clearly. Eating with the fingers, the manner and behavior across the floor, had masked the reality. In Singapore the construction workers cooked in the dorms or their illegal shelters—heavy 25 kg. sacks of rice and tins of cooking oil lugged in the gutters of Geylang Road nightly. Even S$3.50 meals and S$1.80 masala chai definitely pitched the place into the middle bracket, no two ways about it. One recalled Yanasagaran complaining about the latter and abashed at being treated the former. Still, places like Woodlands around in Upper Dickson and Aravinds behind the temple were something else with their epic wall paintings, cuckoo clocks and place mats. Butter-milk just the shot here against the heat—the Chief had once complimented on the wise choice one other hot afternoon. (Who would have thought green chilli and coriander leaf?) Dark balding fellow opposite with dyed goatee and mullet very much the aspect of one of our Aboriginal ex-football stars dispensed with the physical regime. A definite worker, as confirmed by the Ang Moh Kio Council tee when he went to wash his hands. Some of the older sari-wrapped widows and spoilt kids ought to have made the matter abundantly clear, together with the whitening creams. Almost entirely full-house, four vacant chairs in total. Numerous hopefuls had turned on their heels after an initial survey from the corner.

3

Lunch crowd thinning quickly. First few spoonfuls of the rasam surveying the tables one was about to say a chap always felt warm in that place! Such has been the delightful cool of recent days here on the equator. With only short bursts of rain not much evidence of the Nor ‘westerly monsoon. A couple of days ago a bold and brilliantly illumined moon low in the east and slow-rising. A boy at the Haig bus-stop the other night must have sighted it a day or two before because he was drawing mummy’s attention to a corner of the sky where he was hoping for re-appearance. Rather touching: there were at least two of us on the island taking note. With some opportunity in the respite Shanmugam rounded for a couple of chats. Lad had noticed the absence last few days and well-knew the reason. Sly smiles. Thankfully the white collared Colorado shirt had been donned for lunch. At Al Wadi in the morning there had been close scrutiny from Zaharuddin at the counter. A passing look in the mirror preparing for the second outing provided a shock when the loose collar of the tee showed big-toothed Ni’s marks of passion from the day before. Odd for Zaharuddin, a father of four young children, to see on a professional Westerner and an intellectual of sorts. (In younger years Zaharuddin had studied Arabic seven years in Syria and then one more year in Egypt. We were fixing for a meeting and chat.) Cricket it was again with Shanmugam; other subject matter quickly ran dry. The New Zealand lad Guptill had made a quick-fire half century the day before almost in world record time: a mention on ABConline. Fellow didn’t know how close he was till the last few balls, Mugam knew. Pity. Record gone begging. Wasn’t the lad an all-rounder?… Yes, earlier in his career. Now solely a batsman. Not a Tamil by any chance?… Brought head-lolling assent. What, Tamil? Guptill a Tamil?… Ah. Born in India was he?… No, parents or grandparents; immigrated. In earlier conversations Shanmugam had bemoaned the kind of deracination that occurred with immigration. Often enough at Komalaa Chindian entered who would have no idea of his heritage. With Shanmugam’s assistance one was slowly beginning to discern. Shanmugam twisted his head like a pony in those instances. So Guptill almost a world record. The performance would have made it into Tablaon the Friday had it been realized, whether or not young Guptill acknowledged his ancestry. Another thing too on Guptill was it?… Shanmugam’s heavily chewed English could not be comprehended immediately. When Mug bent close to deliver one was often surprised by the level of vocab; it was only pronunciation that continued to snag. Twice incomprehensible now brought Mugam around the table into the narrow passage in order to show his sandaled foot…. Oh. Oh. Young Guptill missing one or more toes from one of his feet? Really?… Well golly. It had not stopped the young champ’s progress; almost a world record. Claimed by the people from the land of his forebears however young Guptill might conceive of himself. Bright Tamil star. Shanmugam was a proper aficionado. Australia v. West Indies meanwhile at the G? Last time Mugam looked Windies seven down second innings. Not much of interest here, though there was more than one Indian name in that line-up too.

                                                                                                                                         Singapore 2011 - 25

https://literaryyard.com/2016/04/17/favourite-indian/

Beauty At A Premium

 

Into the Modern: Impressionism From The Museum Of Fine Arts, Boston. 

Perfect for the era of the chandelier in the re-modelled White House loo. The age of the Gentle Woman brand. Drill baby drill. The projected new Mediterranean beachside development. 

$15 for Singaporeans & Residents, $25 tourists.

(A new Udon Shin opening on Orchard as we speak; the Impressionists tomorrow.)

Bummer

 

Numerous bum-cheeks were on offer now every side, proliferating. The shorts and dresses were measured and cut just right, though the reveal always did depend on posture, movement, various factors. Daily average might be over a handful, so to speak. Lessening the impulse of the trigger-happy vouyers; clear the backlog of cases in the courts. The escalator / stair / upper window prospect was a far lesser necessity nowadays. Guy could just go along to his neighbourhood mall, take a seat by the fountain with an icecream and happy gandering. Cornucopia. Young Tufail the Kashmiri when he first landed here and was still acclimatising during the first weeks sent a puzzling emoji in one exchange. At first the illustration looked like a boomerang, which produced puzzlement. Ahmm? For his new Aussie mate, something from home?... But apropos of what exactly; it was far from clear. Or perhaps it was signifying homesickness. It was never easy in a new country with new ways; we had spoken about the estrangement. An intention to purchase a ticket back? lad just unable to hack it more? In fact, no. This was not a gripe exactly. Adjustment. Acclimatising. Still finding his bearings. Legs, the young man was forced to come out with it. These were a row of legs pictured, crooked at the knee. The preponderance of them on the streets was taking some getting used to here. Good Muslim boy; no mention of this particular hardship earlier from Tuf. On the weekend during a downpour the cavalier had risen from our table to escort an Indo gal across the street to the market. First time girl under my umbrella, the lad gloated shyly. Their preponderance. Traffic, malls, heat, the punishing work regime. Nakedly exposed legs topped all as the supreme challenge; test of a lad's mettle. (Young twenties bachelor at the time. Fixed up later by his father, Tuf, with a girl from Srinagar.) The cheeks emoji must still be in the works; on last checking it had not appeared among all the others.

Mal

 

 

Three pop-up booths in a large mall here on the waterfront were each set alight one late evening earlier this year, one after the other. Some research in fact finds VivoCity at Harbour-front the largest shopping mall in the Republic, on a territory that is well-known for their many forms. Composed of a number of levels, Vivo includes the usual clustering of fashion, dining, health & wellness, electrical & electronics. A renowned Japanese architect had taken his hint from the water, highlighting curved, flowing forms that mimic sea waves & create a dynamic, open atmosphere. (AI Overview from the promo.) A children’s playground was included, water features & garden. As at other malls, in addition to the familiar brands behind glass in the stores, numerous pop-ups lined the passageways. The young arsonist still in his teens was “feeling upset while walking around VivoCity on the night of March 19,” the newspaper reported, presumably citing a presentation in court. First a Polo Ralph Lauren booth on the first floor was attacked, the flick of a cigarette lighter on the black cloth covering enough to set ablaze. After the polo line, an Oh! Sunny booth on the second floor received the same treatment, the same means effective for the same result. (Stylish beachwear to manage the punishing tropical sun.) Finally, a little later the impulse again took the young lad at the main atrium back on the first floor, at a Refash outlet. All same again. On each occasion the lad had remained on the scene watching the flames. The Public Defender representing suggested the youngster did not offend out of ill will. No one was injured, though the damage bill was significant and financial restitution difficult in the circumstances. Depression, coping mechanism, impaired judgement, OCD were all mentioned in the representations; and, unexpectedly, during the course, both the prosecution and judge seemed rather sanguine at what had transpired. Condemnation seemed strangely absent; listing of the commercial victims was flatly put and likewise the $10k damage. While the pressures upon the young lad’s mind seemed to be appreciated even in advance of prompting from Defence. Wildly anti-social behaviour in this Republic usually drew immediate rebuke. Here, as if a wave of understanding and appreciation had forced itself on all the adults concerned; as if the young lad’s disturbed mind in the those halls could only be given its due; granted, acknowledged and accepted. Something in the circumstances in those corridors at Vivo had curbed automatic, reflexive responses. Not a hint of censure or reproach; not the merest suggestion. All in attendance gone sombre and quiet. Long faces through the chamber. Nodding; cleaning of eye-glasses. Heads bowed and others vacantly staring, pondering. Churches, temples and mosques could not be shared by all in Singapore; the malls certainly. Court in session in a kind of ponderous trance. Easy to imagine.

 

 

 

           Singapore 2011 - 25