Holy Man

Flogged fruitlessly in the heat about the streets and outdoor eateries earlier more than likely. Latter part of the arvo had him beat, fagged out, catching the breeze in the wind-tunnel at the base of NLS, like many others do that time of day. Cool shade, green road-side fringe enhancing the effect with waving arms of colour and hiding him pretty much on a recessed bench.
         Something fired out from his seated position when he had been all but passed. From the side, low on the seat, traffic and wind shredding.
         It was some kind of lazy, half-hearted effort from his seated position, just shooting from the hip without taking proper aim. Random almost. Like an afterthought.
         There were reasons for the look on the dial this man was viewing. Afterglow of a pleasant lunch in fine company, smiles and flattery. Leaves a mark willy-nilly. Caught entirely unprepared too.
         Smooth and warbling, unexpected and abrupt; the first greeting in these cases is always too quick to get properly. In many older cultures one can always expect an encounter from a fellow man no matter the circumstances. In India it must be so. Our sort is out of practice.
         The wardrobe adopted by these gallants in their trade compounds the problem. That biz gear is not the garb one expects for friendly, warm, impromptu greetings given just for the heck of it. Not strolling and in passing on city streets certainly. That's the first thing in the surprise that is sprung.
         — You lucky man, seems to be the standard initial gambit. Something to that effect.
         The way it’s delivered it’s clear this is nothing like the familiar, This is Your Lucky Day! routine. No. The look you get for one thing betrays admiration, tinged with a bit of wonderment indeed. This particular chap delivering rather effectively.
         A stranger has been struck by your aura. Your particular, transparent inner spirit that ultimately denotes Good Luck—a fortune in fate. This has been revealed to this man even among the throng on a busy, crowded city street after an exhausting heat. Hailing that precious gift and compulsively giving due acknowledgement: that in a nutshell the burden here.
         To be left floundering in these particular circumstances can be easily understood. There have been warm encounters of all sorts with strangers on the street here, in the eateries, the shopping malls even and on the buses. Even in lifts. (See The Buddha posting of earlier in the month.) The lunch with the girl and the afterglow additional factors in the present case. Even in a foreign city it’s possible to be caught completely off-guard.
         Somehow the head-wrap didn’t register. Incidentals like that evaporate in swelling mysteries of this kind. The chap's eyes gleamed and he made some kind of gesture. Following the remark on the fortune that he beheld, he lifted his forefinger to the spot between his eyes. (There may have been some bushyness there before it was covered.) It was not the Indian pottu or bindi higher on the forehead. This was some kind of chakra point perhaps, the seat of fate or fortune, balance, the indicator for one marked out. The man of insight saw more than other men, careless, unknowing men.
This Brahmin summarized from the self-satisfaction, the buoyant step, panama, open face beneath. Rich pickings. Bon chance. A ripe old touch.
         Risen from his seat, he was medium sized, younger than the one a week before. Blue stripes in the shirt, starch too—the thing would have stood on its own, walked on its own in that wind-tunnel beneath the buildings. Slacks moulding. Blue, navy in this case. (Softer the tone upstairs.) The pulse of warmth emanating didn't enable the polish of the shoes to be confirmed; can be taken as a given. Shiny belt buckle likewise: the full panoply.
         For all the foregoing reasons, however, the fact that the very same ploy had already been tried by an older Sikh, in the very same outfitting at the Starbucks outdoor tables, counting seven, or perhaps ten days earlier, no more, counted for precisely nothing now. The re-run here was being received as a discreet, unique experience, entirely of its own kind. Strange but true.
         This Sikh didn't sign as one of the tribe somehow. There had been no prospect from a distance. The fellow had popped up like a jack-in-a-box. The sexual adventure promising with the luncheon companion over-rode any other messaging in the brain. Nada otherwise. Pulp.
         Up and out of his seat, he delivered himself of two choice morsels, first one, then a second.
Number one: Next month there was happiness arriving. It was in the pipe-line, so to speak. Coming in the desired direction.
         The fortunate about to receive added happiness. Sounds corny now; didn’t at the time. For more than a week the preparation for Ramadan at Joo Chiat had created some kind of expectation for August. The ravenous feasts at Mr Teh Tarik’s fifty tables; sitting amongst that pleasure and relish. Somehow, for no logical reason whatever, the Sikh's prognostication now seemed to chime with inner workings and rhythms. What he said of the coming month accorded. All the work around Joo Chiat. Near two weeks it had been going on.
         The follow-up, Number two, was not bad either. Tailored for such a head under such a panama perhaps.
         The first part a bit garbled, lost in the traffic wash. The key point was at the tail-end:
         — But you think too much.
         In different circumstances, this might have won the fellow a proper hearing. Charts, pictures, herbs, potions—at least he might have been allowed to deliver what he possessed. Especially in the way in which the whole event unfolded, on this particular afternoon and it's airy mood.
         Unfortunately for the feller, he was outta lady luck. Badly. The other, older fucker at the Starbucks tables, while the quarry was still a Starbucks virgin (using the shady tables under the alcove, without once any kind of purchase. How were those kids collecting to know? They didn't give a rat's. And so badly paid and overrun); the turd-head not a week ago had used the very self-same line. Kinda frowned in the delivery of the matter too. Offering sympathy, fellow-feeling almost. Hard it is for him who thinks too much. Alas!
         On the old man's patch, this younger shit-for-brains thought he could nonetheless pull it off in the passing crowd. Chances on his side. So many passing through the city. What was the likelihood?... Had some gold on his fingers like his dad or uncle. Doesn't do any harm. Smooths encounters.
         Who don't like to be flattered as a thinker? Head in the clouds type. Elevated.
         Brought these oily fraudsters moola. The old guy had hooked a young fella shortly after his first Starbucks misfire. Brought him over from near Maccas to a table a little further on under the alcove. (He too liked to do his private business on Starbucks prime shady turf.)
         That turd-poop had actually called himself a holy man no less. Savant was he too he might have said. Inside his wallet he carried pics of what was purportedly himself in a Gandhi saffron wrap, before he had loaded too many fries and oilies. That didn't cut mustard, pass muster in Singapore. Appropriate attire for a fortune dealing chap. The heat wasn't so bad really. They didn't give you the time of day here on the city streets unless you were a proper, respectable gentleman. Savants, holy men, seers, like any other business strategists.
         The poor young buck, tired out and no doubt flagging, perhaps a little downcast in this hard-arse town, had got his hopes up for a little while. Thought to seize something from a mediocre day. Crestfallen when he saw sharpness and adamantine. Pulled away abruptly, wounded. Not a one he could aid.