Geylang Evening

These medieval scenes of Indian and mainland labourers at the end of their work-shift in the back of the lorries. Transports of the condemned enroute to execution sites the image suggests. Men in their late thirties stiff and slow-moving back on the ground. At Tasvee eighty cent plain prata with tomato and chilly curry — five or six tablespoons in a small dish — inadequate for these workers. The Chinese will queue over the road at The Eastern for the more filling fare at around $3.50. On every side streaming across with bags slung over their shoulders. Watching them the hand twitches and half rises from the table as if they could be greeted, the returning soldiers saluted. Across at the corner Lorong, one arm hooked through the railing of a parked lorry, a marvelous long-haired vision in glowing, flowing white ballroom dress almost, illuminated by the headlights. Another lorry pulled up in front with a mix of Banglas, Indians and laughing mainlanders. These men always knew what they were in for. They have adjusted, found a way together. Like a bit player in a movie decked in his vaguely ridiculous uniform, the Malay parking inspector pacing as if in procession alongside the motorbikes. Every night cars and bikes park in front of Tasvee—the parking inspector never appeared previously. Within the shadows of the Lorong, beyond the lights at the back lane of the Eastern, another gal leaning on a pillar, the shine of sleek legs caught momentarily in swinging headlights. The lorries often stop there. After dropping their cargo the work contractors are able to afford some cheap relief at the end of the day. A roadwork gang for take-out, the truck having done a circuit of the block while a couple of the lads picked up. When the lorry rounds for them the wheels continue to roll as they climb aboard. Dense traffic. Though long gone, the figure of the inspector has them spooked tonight. Another lorry again the same. Making the crossing with his tools, the laden street-sweeper footing it over expertly between the lanes in his yellow vest and wellingtons: stiff brush-broom, plastic rake, pan on a handle and large yellow garbage bag. The only way it can be done is with the rake under the arm-pit. Still waiting the girl in the shadows; the other gone. White Aussie guy from the tones over the traffic exasperated by his young companion. The girl untrusting, reluctant to follow his lead to cross—she had hesitated and pulled back. Four busy lanes nothing like where she comes from in the Philippines. Tasty mutton soup last night at Mr. T. T. reminding of Slavo's revulsion — in his childhood it was the only meat they could afford. Three bowls on the table behind coming up grass-green with the diced vegetables. Pre-war scenes of smiling gals dinked on the rear of bicycles having to stiffen their legs against the motion; a laughing mother behind a son it had to be earlier. Others showered and changed crossing, turns taken fetching styrofoams three high in either hand. Endless panorama always more heartening than otherwise. On the return one last surprise waiting on Guillemard corner at the lights where a bicycle shop had traded earlier: the newly erected wooden stands this evening carry a long line of metre and a half green plastic Chrissie trees offered to the passing cars. Inside the shop all manner of colourful bunting and decorations, Santa hats and streamers. The season of cheer arrived every bit as early as back home. Has it all been set into swing a week after the footy finals along Swanston and Bourke Streets?