The Indian Security man stopped the author in his
tracks here yesterday with an unexpected challenge. Nothing could have come as
more of a surprise. Back home probing of this kind, well it had never happened,
not even in intimate friendship. Being Singapore, guards stand the entrance to
the three floors of the Reference sections at the Singapore National Library on
Victoria / North Bridge corner. Possibly they man every entry and exit point on
all sixteen floors. (Some interesting locales within the library building as
yet remain unexplored: The Pod; something by the name of the Possibility Room;
and then too the one to give a real frisson, the Imagination Room. Invention
and irony zero here, please note. These are actual bona fide names, written on
directories and large signboards. Creativity enough to make the walls melt at
the SNL, the floors buckle....) Security guards cheaper than tagging each and
every volume. At the same time one can never overdo the policing presence in a
well-ordered, smoothly functioning polis, let's face it.
A warm, sociable sort the Indian man. With a little encouragement the somewhat dour look quickly lightening. The man is a near contemporary; nothing in that lacklustre visage to be daunted by. Far cry.
Some background. As a general rule, the Indians here have been in the country a shorter time than the Hokkien and Cantonese Chinese, or the Malays of course. The history is of transported convicts and coolie labour for the British plantations. According to official statistics, the Indians represent less than ten per cent of the population. For disadvantage and social problems the numbers run in the other direction.
As has been the case in a number of instances, the panama provided the opportunity for some witticism. (An impulse purchase that has provided some secondary benefit beyond the much needed protection against the tropical sun.)
— It follows you, the Indian fired off first-up after a couple of previous encounters.
It wasn't difficult to develop the play from there. Without the hat he passed the test: confident positive identification. Left at the library table, his task was to secure the exits. (Even with the caning in Sing. there are thieves apparently. The newspaper features such events: a maid’s grab for the household jewelry; a bag snatching; etc.)
The relationship at the Arts & Social Sciences Security Desk developed nice and smoothly. A week ago the man had mentioned his favourite author. Get ready! What might you possibly guess, all you well-read English speaking Westerners? A hint: the author concerned is not exactly contemporary. Let's say he fetches back a couple of hundred years. A clue that can be liberally offered, without danger to the tease. Off you go then. Another clue too: not a household name. Not for the last century and a half, and not now. Neither Wordsworth, nor Scott, nor Tennyson or Austen. Another clue piled on: male; from the generation before these. Excuse the mounting delirium. Yet one more, the last and unhelpful clue — Beware. Earlier still the man, the Indian Security Guard, mentioned an author to whom he has returned over the years: Deepak Chopra. It had been a faux pas to remark on the fact Chopra was an Indian. (A case of thinking out loud that has brought embarrassment before.)
For the answer go to the final paragraphs.
What stopped this author in his tracks was the challenge one afternoon during a longer chat. A direct and forthright question. It came after explaining the reason for the surprise at the favourite author. On the other side surprise was likewise elicited. What, no one in Australia knows this name? Can that truly be?
Immediately upon that without further ado the Security Guard's stabbing question like a knife produced in a dark alley.
— What is literature to you?... Or: What is the importance of literature to you?...
Squaring shoulders in his library uniform. Lifting his chin.
Please understand: no exaggeration whatsoever in the account before you. Everything straight as a die.
The security guard stood straight, almost a soldiery pose. (Nat. Service compulsory here for those without pull, same as everywhere else. A candidate in this current Presidential campaign—Saturday the big spectacle—or the General election earlier in the year—striking a sticky patch having to explain his son's avoidance some years ago. George Bush senior/junior all over again. A quickly buried story, as in that earlier case.) Soldierly and firm. The man served the full term and perhaps stayed on extra. Hardly a casual interrogation. There was no joke involved. The man pulled his head back awaiting the reply.
Literature's meaning?.... A question without notice from an unlikely source. Bang.
A number of Indians encountered here have been Christians. Somehow this coloured the present encounter. The earnestness of the man associated with an implied Christianity.
The answer that was returned reflected this. It became integral to the response.
—….Well, ahmmm…. Without religion one finds other resources, looks elsewhere….
Something like that blushingly given back to the former Indian sepoy.
A doubtful long bow drawn, the man possibly thought. A pause, a little impasse resulting. But that might be exaggerating the matter. Circumstances prevented anything further. The biz card with the dozen and a half favourite authors on the rear presented by way of exchange, to meet the man halfway.
Does the name Oliver Goldsmith ring any bells?
Eighteenth century was guessed right. But a poet as well as a novelist. The particular favourite work which he named was set for the man's O levels—only a short thirty years ago, something like that. Returned to since over the years, not merely a fond memory. Almost certainly.
A warm, sociable sort the Indian man. With a little encouragement the somewhat dour look quickly lightening. The man is a near contemporary; nothing in that lacklustre visage to be daunted by. Far cry.
Some background. As a general rule, the Indians here have been in the country a shorter time than the Hokkien and Cantonese Chinese, or the Malays of course. The history is of transported convicts and coolie labour for the British plantations. According to official statistics, the Indians represent less than ten per cent of the population. For disadvantage and social problems the numbers run in the other direction.
As has been the case in a number of instances, the panama provided the opportunity for some witticism. (An impulse purchase that has provided some secondary benefit beyond the much needed protection against the tropical sun.)
— It follows you, the Indian fired off first-up after a couple of previous encounters.
It wasn't difficult to develop the play from there. Without the hat he passed the test: confident positive identification. Left at the library table, his task was to secure the exits. (Even with the caning in Sing. there are thieves apparently. The newspaper features such events: a maid’s grab for the household jewelry; a bag snatching; etc.)
The relationship at the Arts & Social Sciences Security Desk developed nice and smoothly. A week ago the man had mentioned his favourite author. Get ready! What might you possibly guess, all you well-read English speaking Westerners? A hint: the author concerned is not exactly contemporary. Let's say he fetches back a couple of hundred years. A clue that can be liberally offered, without danger to the tease. Off you go then. Another clue too: not a household name. Not for the last century and a half, and not now. Neither Wordsworth, nor Scott, nor Tennyson or Austen. Another clue piled on: male; from the generation before these. Excuse the mounting delirium. Yet one more, the last and unhelpful clue — Beware. Earlier still the man, the Indian Security Guard, mentioned an author to whom he has returned over the years: Deepak Chopra. It had been a faux pas to remark on the fact Chopra was an Indian. (A case of thinking out loud that has brought embarrassment before.)
For the answer go to the final paragraphs.
What stopped this author in his tracks was the challenge one afternoon during a longer chat. A direct and forthright question. It came after explaining the reason for the surprise at the favourite author. On the other side surprise was likewise elicited. What, no one in Australia knows this name? Can that truly be?
Immediately upon that without further ado the Security Guard's stabbing question like a knife produced in a dark alley.
— What is literature to you?... Or: What is the importance of literature to you?...
Squaring shoulders in his library uniform. Lifting his chin.
Please understand: no exaggeration whatsoever in the account before you. Everything straight as a die.
The security guard stood straight, almost a soldiery pose. (Nat. Service compulsory here for those without pull, same as everywhere else. A candidate in this current Presidential campaign—Saturday the big spectacle—or the General election earlier in the year—striking a sticky patch having to explain his son's avoidance some years ago. George Bush senior/junior all over again. A quickly buried story, as in that earlier case.) Soldierly and firm. The man served the full term and perhaps stayed on extra. Hardly a casual interrogation. There was no joke involved. The man pulled his head back awaiting the reply.
Literature's meaning?.... A question without notice from an unlikely source. Bang.
A number of Indians encountered here have been Christians. Somehow this coloured the present encounter. The earnestness of the man associated with an implied Christianity.
The answer that was returned reflected this. It became integral to the response.
—….Well, ahmmm…. Without religion one finds other resources, looks elsewhere….
Something like that blushingly given back to the former Indian sepoy.
A doubtful long bow drawn, the man possibly thought. A pause, a little impasse resulting. But that might be exaggerating the matter. Circumstances prevented anything further. The biz card with the dozen and a half favourite authors on the rear presented by way of exchange, to meet the man halfway.
Does the name Oliver Goldsmith ring any bells?
Eighteenth century was guessed right. But a poet as well as a novelist. The particular favourite work which he named was set for the man's O levels—only a short thirty years ago, something like that. Returned to since over the years, not merely a fond memory. Almost certainly.
.
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