Devotee

Took quite some time to dredge up the greeting for the Malay waitress at the Saturday lunch-spot up near Aljunied this afternoon. Detained her at table a good stretch. Simply couldn't tumble to it. Since receiving it a week ago it kept slipping again and again. There hadn't been a single occasion where it was produced without consulting the little vocab list. And bringing out the booklet for reference hardly counted. What kind of greeting was possible like that?... It shouldn’t have been that difficult. Three syllables... What was it again?...
She waited....
— APA - Kha-bar!
Yes. Four syllables. Ah! It was worth it. The woman hadn't waited in vain. Big wide smiles. Like the poor everywhere, gaps in the teeth (no more than mid thirties). Quite unexpected from the masalleh.
A hard one that for some reason, something in the construction. And quite new. Up until it had been sourced, Salam was the usual greeting offered the Malays. Inappropriately it seemed.
In Malaysia the try-hard sensitive tourists might give it. Highly unlikely this lass had ever been served in this fashion from a fellow like that here. Not in Geylang.
Turned on her heels jauntily. But only driving off a short step or two. Paused. Paused a much briefer time than her interlocutor just prior. Swung half-back.
— Merri Chrismas!
That was good too. Well done. Properly chuffed she was now. The smile as large as the one before.
The Malay-Singaporean security guard downstairs translates it literally as: What news? "Khabar" can be seen on the local newspaper masthead, Mr. Batam pointed out. (Born post-war directly across the road in Malay kampung while it was a real kampung, the man's second wife lives on Batam, where he visits every weekend. Recently turned sixty-five, the second wife is a cool thirty years junior, same age as Mr. Batam's eldest son. The scribe is Mr. Bakso—following from his enthusiasm for the dish of that name taken at a street-stall in Nagoya City, Batam. Highly amusing to Mr. Batam.)
Full-house again at the hot-spot. Perhaps two dozen girls just on the corner either side and down the slope. More spectators, double the number. Shared table not unusual for lunch. Mostly the regular old-timers. One dollar coffee-O's and teas. Gone one. Couple of heavy showers through the morning. The lasses must have flooded out as soon as it cleared. The scene today no more bleak than any other. One or two of the girls perhaps showing it. Mostly they hold up somehow. Hang-time a little more evident today. It can't be helped, in the oldest profession as in any of the new. Two dozen at a pinch this afternoon as the hour wore one. Brolleys swinging more than bags today, jauntiness here and there. There must be thirty or forty of these middle-aged China-girls working just this immediate quarter here. Many of the faces familiar over the seven months. No drugs, no evidence of violence. The factors at work here, the whys and wherefores, well hidden. These are not trafficked women. Older and knowing. A number display mostly discreet, small tattoos. At a guess, average age thirty four.
A cheeky old bugger coming down the incline gets a half-hearted Howdydo? from one of the lasses. A matter of pure form. But it makes the fella circle to her at the last minute. The approach is close and near, as if he was about to whisper something to her. She herself doesn't know what's afoot. Up onto the footpath where she stands he rises. Knows her perhaps. The locals in the immediate neighbourhood are on good terms with the China-girls, the old men certainly. This fellow looks like he has come down from nearby. Lots of the men come from a distance to sit in the circle of the girls on the corner here. Merely to sit and watch them. The scribe does the same. Truly they present a fascinating spectacle.
Must be late sixties/turned seventy this old geezer, this cheeky old devil. The girl wears a low-cut dress, black satin down to a bit above her knees. Carefully measured. She wore a simple gold necklace. A close inspection of it for a bit of fun?
No. The old fella aims higher. Bending his head, he plants an appreciative kiss on the lady's bosom. Possibly not fully landing, it was hard to see. There. Done.
Gallantry of the highest form. The smile resulting was much broader on his dial than hers.
Hang about! Some consideration was due here. Howabout it? Come on.
The fella doesn't have much more than two brass razoos. She knows that. Doesn't try to work him, waste of time. Another bloke would drop her a tenner, just like that, show himself a sport.
Not a mean guy perhaps, but nothing to shake down. Almost certainly.
Small branded shopping bag like they all have he carries. This his wife has picked up somewhere. It was the first that came to hand leaving the house. Held very little. And he wouldn't keep his wallet in there.
What's he fishing for?
Up from the bottom of the bag it comes. A ripe, well-chosen orange. Many of the oranges here are tinged with yellow, shipped from China, California, South Africa and also the land of Oz. Only very careful handling and close inspection will get you edible fruit. Dry and desiccated most of them. Only in the past few days has the quality improved somewhat. A good one presented in the offering.
And you don't think she turned him down? Immediately she begins peeling. Why wouldn't she? Wasn't going to let it go to waste. Wasn't going to juggle it there at her post. Handbag small cutsie size. Wasn't going to save it for later. After lunch a little refreshment. Most of the rind comes off in a single piece. A near-by pal will take some. Some sweetness by the look of it. The old fella didn't wait around.



























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