The Rooster

More than five months now a little curious mystery early mornings here outside the hotel window. An odd puzzle that has taken the whole of the time to solve. The impulse to investigate earlier had not been very strong. It had been quite enough merely to enjoy what was offered, without enquiring further.

On that side of the hotel the windows look out onto the neighbouring six storey car-park. Over time the corner of the car-park caught in the window by the bed-head had backdropped much vacant gazing. Beyond stood an open, grassy field fenced off no doubt for future development. Early morning someone fed doves in the middle of the field, or else the birds had chosen the place in lieu of anything better. From the room the birds were never audible; seeing them there always brought a surprise. 

Only the upper half of the car-park was visible from the pillow, the corner aligning almost perfectly with the inner side of the sash: concrete in beige, a couple of narrow lines of colour on stanchions and ledges, and in the top corner a rusting iron grate that drained the sky. A kind of looming relic mausoleum of a civilisation remote in time.

Adjacent to the car-park stood a large supermarket which traded until eleven. Deliveries usually between four and four thirty dead of night. The thundering truck first. Raising of the tailgate. A carting trolley was needed. The jockey's target for his load stood beside the car-park entry at the end of a long, unevenly cobbled path.

The second sleep stint varied in length. Some mornings on awakening light edged the curtains; others two-way radio directions for the house maids in the corridor. The warbler's time had been established as a few minutes after seven—cloudy mornings and the fog of sleep made the time difficult to judge.

The regular early morning tune always seemed to pass from left to right, going up the slight rise around the back of the car-park. A bright new morning, greeted by an Indian labourer marching off to start of shift. The young Indian lads had been caught numerous times carrying little tunes along the roadway. Happy-go-lucky it used to be called back home, more than forty years ago. Here the simple joy of song was still common. Swinging legs and head held high, the young Indian is always completely oblivious of passersby. Fields under cultivation, trees, a wide sky, the rich humus of the earth—in the songs they sing the Indian labourers here are far from the bitumen where they walk and all its hurtling traffic. (One hastens to add, there were no head-phones or ear pieces involved here. These foot-sloggers were lightened by the music they themselves make. Filled full of song, it was always apparent when one came upon them how enormous a distance the young men might cover in this fashion.)

There was never any need to look out the window to know the same was the case for this early morning rooster. The song was clearly all his own. Twelve hour shifts six or even seven days a week had failed to crush this soul. With his earnings the Indian was feeding and clothing his parents, wife and children back home and in a few short years the new house would rise up. 

The pleasure of the swelling lyric, its hopefulness and joy, rose and rose again, brimmed and flowed.

Of course there was never such a highly developed explanation formed for this young early morning rooster-chorister outside the window. The song itself carried sufficient information. Putting a face to the tune was unimportant. Even being woken could only be momentarily resented. A feathered rooster would have been welcome; it had been so long. This substitute provided fair exchange.

As it turned out, Indian was not far wrong. The Burmese cadences are not dissimilar to those of their neighbours. The rich, swelling rhythm rose high and clear into the early morning. Even with the windows always closed tight every night the song's uplift easily filled the canyon between the two buildings.

On the morning when the discovery was made the bed-side clock showed a few minutes past seven.

End of a ten-twelve hour work-shift. Seven days a week, one or two days free monthly, the usual in Singapore for the cheap foreign labour.

Once the shift was done the young bridegroom at Reception here could repair to the staff quarters where his new wife waited.

The young couple had been married in April. It must have been a small affair here among a little group of friends. The work contract and financial considerations could not allow a return to celebrate the event with family in Myanmar. The groom was from a kampung a few hours out of Yangon. He had been in Singapore three years and picked up enough English to be able to man the hotel desk overnight, shuffle the paperwork and handle the telephone. Something around $500 per month for the two and a half thousand hours.

Mabel from the day-shift had told of the concern of the groom's mother at the photograph that had been sent back home. Poor woman was shocked to see her new daughter-in-law appear in disturbing Western dress. Where was the longyi, topped by the jacket and Suu Kyi hair for crown?...

Poor old dear!

Nightly the new bride came out of the staff quarters balancing dishes, plates and cutlery. Through the open door of the quarters the rice-cooker visible on a ledge. They made-do without proper kitchen, a half dozen of the staff together, living and sleeping. Improvised curtains perhaps for privacy.

A finger needed to be freed from the clutch of dishes for the elevator button. Jolting slow old hydraulic lift. Hold steady! 

Around 8pm down behind the desk in their swivel chairs, the glowing, blowing young groom gets high-piled fork after high-piled fork delivered across to him by his tubby young wife. Open wide! There you are dear. Glowing and widening together the pair over the five months. To see the like one needed to travel.

(Image Stephen Black)