Curry Puff

.


In this case it has taken a month or so of passing acquaintance, sightings and half noddings, before the first words and greetings were exchanged. A long lead-time. During the earliest phase the reticence gave signals contrary to the expression, the posture, the crooked caps — one rakish faded maroon beret worn at a jaunty angle among them. From the outset this man's good-nature seemed unquestionable, every glimpse of him confirming; yet nothing was forthcoming for quite a stretch and for some reason nothing could be ventured. In the end did the first word and nod come from Mr. Awee?... The matter has been lost in the weeks since.
— Curry Pup, Curry Pup, reliably sung out outside the SevenEleven on Changi Road in that uninsistent tone that added to the favourable impression of the man, beside the bus-stop one side and the carpets on the corner. Whoever began first with the greeting, it was Mr. Awee starting with the leg-pulling, offering Good Morning and Night in the contrary cases. It took a while to twig to his game the cheeky old devil. Of course he never let on, waiting patiently for the penny to drop. An old-style prankster of this particular kind had not been encountered since childhood.
The produce comes from a large, purpose-built tin box that sits on the rear of Mr. Awee's motor-cycle. Curry Puffs are one of the standards on the streets, almost invariably sold by Malays. In recent times, the last three or four months, otak has also appeared regularly, also sold by the Malays. Otak is some kind of fish paste in small pieces wrapped in banana leaf and grilled briefly on small charcoal fires that are commonly housed in an old length of guttering on a raised stand. Curry puffs and otak are Malay specialities; ice-cream between sweetened bread slices Chinese.
Other goodies Mr. Awee has in his line too, catering for the sweet-tooths. Curry puffs are the primary. Every so often, not incessantly, Mr. Awee gives the call for those coming up from the far end of Changi Road and stopping at the other side of the bus-stop. Most of the customers are regulars; it could not be any other way in this little corner of Geylang Serai.
Sometimes deliveries and the crowd make for a tight turning circle for Mr. Awee's bike. Here the young Malay lad from the carpet shop with the long pony-tail falling from his baseball cap, carrying some home-made tattoos and the weariness of the long working day, jumps to his feet. With his help the manoeuvre is soon negotiated; Mr. Awee merely has to stand back. All is well. The lad no doubt gets a Puff every so often; the boss there and his wife behind the counter likewise. The measures of consideration and understanding are all nicely fitting here beside the fluorescent lights of the convenience store. It is the shop that does all the trade there, Mr. Awee getting some benefit and the carpets exposure.
Early seventies, medium dark, slightly built but not an absolute featherweight. A few strands of wispy beard that would disappear entirely in a photograph of Mr. Awee. The boy that he was evident in the posture and the angle at which he keeps his head; most particularly the look Mr. Awee raises as if still at the world of large-scale adults, looking for something unexpected from them. The boy that was the making of Mr. Awee had only received free-flowing goodness. Most definitely the kampong and not the HDB housing in the history. Those who have come after have not been granted the same benefit. If they have had the luck of Mr. Awee and those like him in the family circle and neighbourhood, something may have been retained.
Does Mr. Awee's wife prepare the curry puffs at home? One would think so. No, in fact not the case. Mr. Awee immediately wants to present a sample, three large donut-sized buns in cellophane. Pressed not once. Not twice. Pressed three times by Mr. Awee. One has heard from old story-tellers of the likes of Mr. Awee reveal their usual practice in response to hospitality. First up, always declined. Second, kind thanks given, but, No, truly, I just rose from the table. Offered a third time, likely the host sincerely and wholeheartedly wished the offering to be accepted.
Even with the factory product Mr. Awee is a self-funded retiree. Hopefully a help-mate waits back home for all else that is required. When this strict, harsh and severe social system here works, for the right people, the outcomes can be positive — gross and vile disparities and all that is engendered by the consumerist imperative to the side for a moment.

An Assignation

.

The Malay waitress at the hot-spot corner Lorong past Aljunied was asleep upstairs when the brawl took place two or three weeks ago that ended in a young lad dying from his wounds. There was not much to say about the event, certainly by this almost-witness. Some matters of course speak for themselves.
         There were two Malay lads, two Chinese involved. As usual the police made prompt arrests. That was the whole extent of the report from the Malay waitress.
         Stationary and concentrated, she stands in place lowering her chin slightly at the interrogation, an odd cast of shyness over the features, something like childhood guilt before an accusation. In previous encounters when the woman had been called over for something particular the response had been the same.
         This nice Malay woman is the kind that very much keeps her nose clean, doesn't poke it where it's not her business. Under no circumstances would she look and gawk at something that doesn't concern her. The same no-regard she pays day by day to the working mainland Chinese girls on the opposite corner, less than ten metres away. Ten or fifteen girls hang on that corner there at any one time, and many more passing through. Like birds flitting overhead for this woman. After a twelve hour shift of course, twelve or thirteen days in the fortnight, the woman would hardly have felt inclined to rush downstairs on the night of the brawl to see what was happening.
         Both the Malay woman and her younger mainland Chinese colleague, a girl from Xi' an, sleep on the second floor above the Eatery. Being a 24 hour establishment, there would often be a bit of noise. After long shifts nothing to worry either gal. The night of the brawl created a disturbance. Not enough however to raise the girls from their beds.
         Twelve hour shifts, one day off every alternate week, for a wage of between $120 – 150pw, depending on the business cycle, food and keep included. There would be no arguments and no shifty dodgyness from the operator one fully expects. Certainly the Malay waitress expects none. That there are good weeks and bad she knows. An adjusted wage no more than reasonable. On the other side of the Lorong many of the girls would earn that money on a good afternoon; the younger, shapelier and prettier ones a good bit more. Never once have this Malay waitress's eyes followed the action on the other side of the street, spitting distance away. To see this young woman at her workplace one might think she works on any non-descript, dreary street corner. Dull every-day, Ho-hum, never a change. Which is precisely how the skin trade must seem from her vantage.
         The Malay waitress is short and squat, perhaps mid thirties, no more. Settled early into middle-age. The girls opposite are the same age as herself. Adding to her look of premature years is a large gap between her two front teeth. Between visits it is always uncertain whether the woman is missing teeth, or the gap is natural. More than ten visits the same forgetfulness. Such is the lively and warm reception the Malay waitress bestows. Boyish hair-cut easily maintained; the issue of dyeing not arisen as yet. A Singaporean Malay early school-leaver; basic English. (The Xi'an girl's non-existent.) Fun is to be had with the Xi'an colleague and with a number of other work mates too. Pleasant, innocent fun of the kind from a generation or two ago—hiding the plate of food that had sat on the table a moment ago; tapping the shoulder going past on the opposite side. The resulting smiles and guffaws in excessive childhood scale. Seeing a regular customer first and creeping up on him unawares brings the Malay waitress delight and pleasure. A little animal triumph of pouncing.
         It was a shock for a killing to have taken place at one of the favourite eateries. Daytime hours there at the corner of the Lorong near Aljunied little beer is sold. In those hours it is all sweetened tea and soft drink. Daytime everything always under control, never mind all the girls and milling men, the pimps and look-outs. At the tables there are granddads more than anything; ancients with a bit of spunk retained.
         Again on the first visit since the brawl that ended in the unfortunate death, one old Pop clearly in his eighties, going down the slope slowly with the chosen girl. Dressed down this lass, without too many trinkets, a kind of solicitous and dutiful grand-daughter. Crop the old man's photograph and one has the revered portrait from the Memorial pages. There are countless Massage shops the length and breadth of the road. Not what this Pop has in mind.
         The traffic sporadic, of the usual kind. Neat and clean men without exception, older mostly, spruced up a bit that morning after waking with the thought. Amongst the Geylang raggedness it immediately noticeable.
         The most interesting assignation of the lunch hour—stretching to two and a half hours with the theatre-show so captivating, the good cheap food and the conversation—the most interesting assignation took place on what might have been an unscheduled break in the working day. Highly unlikely the chap concerned had a free Friday otherwise. Almost certainly he was Mainland, like all the girls on this corner. The arrangement here is carefully calibrated and managed. The working girls have followed where their compatriots in the construction industry have led. Indeed the Labour Hire companies involved might be one and the same in either case. There is little doubt, at some level an arm of government must be assumed in consultation here, if not directly over-seeing. This is after all Singapore.
         One either catches these flashing interactions or one does not. Often even with a sharp look-out the decisive single and solitary moment can be lost. In many cases the sign is as rapid as literally the blink of an eye. Two consecutive blinks.
         Here was the gal on the corner chatting quietly with her pal in the shade, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her feet. The girls would naturally get weary hanging all day, in the heels particularly. That would more than likely be more tiring than the brief episodes up in the rooms. The pair here taking a break from the unending circling of the men on the corner, withdrawing themselves for a couple of minutes.
         The little short-arse when he comes by she does not notice. Out of no-where he has appeared, soft-toeing down the incline. Likely he had not even been engaged or encountered around the corner. First she knew of him. Almost past her he is when she gets a tap on the forearm that she has crossed on her midriff as she holds her bag half on her hip. The unexpected strike causes her to start momentarily.
         What was that? almost escaping.
         The quickest of glances at the girl beside her before she started up after him?
         There was no breaking of stride from the fellow. Down he trotted. Paced rather. If they were workmen’s boots he had on there was nothing in the tread. This chap was marching, not sauntering.
         Some of the fellows when they go down the slope after the girl put on the air of a walk in the park. Fine day. Up with the larks.... Casting a glance or two at the sky. Train a closely focused camera on the Joe as he goes, an ignorant audience would never in a month of Sundays pick the man as on his way to getting his rocks off with a flying fuck. Not in a million years.
         This chap is more In-a-hurry-for-the-bus type. Or the boss has just called and he wants to get his arse over there pronto, no messing around. A hard-arse that boss-man.
         Knew where he was going this chap. Not a single look behind. No doubt whatever she was following, dogging his footsteps. Yet it seemed from the glance back there against the wall she had never laid eyes on this fellow in her life.
         It took her twenty, almost twenty-five metres down the slope to head him. Past she went as if on a busy footpath. This needed to be done in case the chap didn't know it was the first turning, immediately after the lane. Most of the girls entered that driveway, but not all. Likely there were numerous rooms up on the second and third levels of the block behind. Not as many rooms as girls, so there had to be some kind of system or signal up there for vacancies.
         Almost certainly there was no word as the girl overtook. There was no word exchanged from the moment of first contact. If there was to be any word at all that would wait for the room. There would not be much opportunity for talk. The girls are quick about it. For the old granddads it might be a bit different. They would need some conversation, almost certainly.
         Within ten minutes she was back. Same black dress, low-cut but not especially revealing (not like some of the others, one big chesty one in particular). Long black hair. Keeping it simple. The European high-style of half a century ago. Heels not especially high or hammering. A half hour later a second hook, after which she couldn't be sighted again. The hook is the appropriate term on this beat. With the narrow five foot walkway from the time of Sir Stamford Raffles himself, the squeeze along the path was perfectly suited for slipping a hand under the arm and claiming one's quarry. The older men especially seem to half expect the seizure. In the case of many that's why they're there in the first place. Even those who return rejection display infinite politeness. Never once has there been a shaking free or word of rebuke. It’s always nice to be asked.
         Likely it was twenty a time here. Asking oneself would not establish the truth. Almost certainly an ang moh would be quoted a different price. The young and often very pretty girls standing against the pillars under the walkway a short distance off signal twenty-five for the working men passing. For the Westerner fifty—all the fingers flashing.
         These women here have drinks and meals regularly bought for them by the old men at the tables where the Malay waitress serves. Not always are the men customers. Almost certainly some of the purchases come out of fellowship and compassion. It is a similar case in the lottery ticket round. The hawkers of these that work the Eatery tables are usually Mainland women too, ones who have not fallen into the game. The women prevail with a nice smoothness, very similar to that of many of their compatriots doing the tricks. Through daylight hours the whole scene on this corner sits fairly easy, ugliness, hardness and desperation not much in evidence. Little drama. Small preliminaries. Nothing untoward. The old game that remains what it has always been.

 .

The Thieves' Market

Seven or eight months ago the first mention of the market. An intriguing painter encountered in an Art supply shop was said to haunt the place. The painter had been working abstracts the last few years, two or three of which had been sat on boxes in the shop. In their thick, vibrant oil ribbons that spun and curled across the canvas, the paintings were quite mesmerizing, the kind of production that recalled Pollock, the sixties and the drug culture.

         In the flesh the man himself was anything but the expected, a kind of artisan-type with dirty nails, flickering eyes and not much English. The owner of the shop was an artist himself, a traditional portraitist, who modestly had his own work up on a high cupboard. The other's work he sold sometimes from the shop, thereby re-cooping debts in materials. For obvious reasons this arrangement with this particular painter the owner kept a little private. Only the once was the abstract painter encountered at the shop. At the market the man had been more or less forgotten. It would be a miracle picking him out in such a place. Chinese eyes might have difficulty.
         Finally the market was stumbled upon one blessedly cool afternoon whilst seeking a way through to Little India. Seven or eight months prior the first attempt had been made with a local guide for company. The girl was wrong for such a venture; secondhand goods interested her not at all. Fashion fakes were acceptable, but soiled secondhand was another matter. Graciously she did her duty. It was a piece of luck in the end. 
         As soon as the first men were sighted down on their haunches behind their various wares there was no guessing required. The tower that had been given as a reference point months before stood close-by. Back then one or two people had been asked for the secondhand or flea market—its more common name hadn't been known at the time. It was said to be no more; construction works had taken over the site. Perfectly credible in Singapore. There was a great deal of construction in that quarter as in many others. In fact the Thieves' Market stood in the midst of a large underground train station construction site. There was certainly no signage. The discoloured streamers at entry had not been noticed on the first visit.
         A hundred and fifty metres off one of the main thoroughfares in the city, there it was beside a canal on two or three narrow lengths of old, cracked concrete.

         Most of the items sat on spread squares of cloth. In many cases goods sat in heaps that were added to from large bags behind like a pinch of salt into a stew. Often the sellers made do without chairs or stools. One woman certainly into her seventies, possibly eighties, deeply leathered and dark, but almost certainly Chinese, sat without any umbrella or hat on a pair of what must have been her own thongs, one on top of the other for cushioning.

         On the first visit almost immediately a slight dizziness took hold. One didn't know where to look. The articles for sale on the one hand — secondhand shoes and clothes, watches and jewelry, electronic components, what appeared to be old key-ring amulets or charms of some kind, old coins with squares cut from their centres such as one knows from museum exhibits and archaeological finds; and on the other side the sellers. There was a great disjunction between those buying and selling. The former were not far removed in class, though definitely distinct, if not elevated. This group likely had their roots in the very same hard-scrabble; since they had climbed a peg or two. Their colour was more pale. Old, hard to change habits and continuance within families might have been strong determinants. 
         The visual gamut was overwhelming. Most of the sellers were into their sixties and many well beyond. Together with the figures and faces there were the gestures, the broken-off words, the postures and far-off casts of countenance that reminded of birds on tree branches.

         Understandably, the portraitist at the Art shop painted those who could afford to pay. Quite likely the abstractionist had the over-powering scenes of the Thieves' Market within the phantasmagoria of his spiraling lines and colours. How else to picture such a scene?
         On the first visit one old man sat on his haunches before his goods three quarters covered by an umbrella he held in one hand. Did he hold up his shade all afternoon? Perhaps the feet of a prospective customer might be seen from under the rim. One was reminded of bashful, simple people a couple of generations past hiding themselves from intimidating tall-walkers. Most of the Chinese had darkened so deeply it was difficult to tell them apart from the Malays. The inter-mingling of the races was more evident than elsewhere in Singapore. One or two Arabs sat in their robes. Patience and hardship, endurance and abiding. Hope was not essential here; even a good sale day could make little difference.
         Shade was constructed in all manner of ways. Standard umbrellas and some old outdoor kind were common. Cords for plastic sheeting anchored one side by clumps of concrete or broken brickwork, expertly tied off. Surely in the heat of mid-year better provision was made. But then the dark, leathered people suggested otherwise.

         On the second or third visit one old woman—her age made one wince—sat behind two small umbrellas. One might possibly have been free-standing; but then both were the common size.

         A man in his thirties had retained a couple of thin plywood squares for cushioning, one under his bottom and the other against the green plastic cyclone fence which had some denting from earlier occupants. Wads of newspaper protruded from the small of his back. A large fellow probably found more comfort that way than on a stool.
         Mostly the sellers sat quietly, hardly stirring. Their eyes rarely fell on those passing, not even always on those stopped before them. The necessity of this was understandable. Some chat was likely possible with regulars. The abstract painter no doubt had friends here. After many years of visiting he still found the place inexhaustible.

         Sometimes the sellers adjusted the arrangement of their wares. There might have been a sale, or some more tempting presentation sought. Sometimes the re-arrangement of small pieces had the look of a jig-saw puzzle play, a children's game or magician's art; a kind of sleight of hand. An item was tried on one row, then below and across tried. Shuffle again, switching rapidly, another row and order. On every visit spray cans came out for blackening vinyl, rubber or dubious leather. Something for licking up shoes, even the soles. The man wielding the shine-stick had never in his life worn a pair of shoes, not at his son's wedding or father's funeral.
         An exceedingly thin Chinese woman under an exceedingly wide brimmed hat gave the common name for the market. Though she was not particularly old, perhaps not yet seventy despite the indicators, the level of English was unexpected. That the figure spoke at all and wanted to communicate was remarkable.

         At the main junction of the paths she had her regular stall, two fold-out tables which were transported daily from some short distance presumably. On two or three sides of the market stood tall, older housing towers. The sellers who lived nearby had a distinct advantage. The woman's colour and creasing had one switching one's eyes as if from physical grotesquerie.

         The beach umbrella beside her had not been used from earliest days. A tub which had been filled with concrete provided anchoring for the post. The assembly stood on a make-shift trolley which she rolled to track the sun. Beside her stood her sister, a couple of years older or younger—wisps of white hair suggested the former—afflicted in precisely the same way; the same gruesome thinness too. This other smiled broadly. In childhood in another locale the pair would cut terrifying figures, more terrifying still in speech. Bird-like pinched features and a swiveling head produced short high-pitched squawks.
         — They call it the Thieves' Market, the first woman confessed the worst straight-out.
         An attempt at softening was immediately rebuffed. It was a thieves' market alright; no two ways about it. That was the woman's place in the world. Her manner spoke as much as her words: an old trapped bird whose wings had been clipped.

         It was still not clear what this woman sold at her prime, corner position. There might have been a little collapsible telescope on her table. Somewhere at the Thieves' there was such a telescope. Faded camouflage-green binoculars from the time of the Japanese invasion were tested one afternoon by a wag who seemed to be calling a horse race up on the top of one of the housing towers. It had all the hallmarks, until the fellow gave the game away with the curvy, rollicking shapes he started.
         The area around the market was ear-marked for development. A large produce market that sold from boxes and bags closer to the main road would shortly also need to make way. No great fear. The resourceful thieves would doubtless find a way against all the opposing forces.
         A brief scene from the third or fourth visit dramatized the nature of the commerce. Three minutes duration. Utterly impossible to have captured on film; the entirety simply intractable.

         Here was impromptu drama from the street and back alley. In this case it may have been the glassware before the old Malay that drew attention. Usually walking along the aisles one looked for the figure of the seller first of all, and only then, if time allowed, did the observation pass to the goods. Here there was time to take in both figures, seller and prospective buyer, before the action suddenly hurtled onward without warning.
         Perfume and cologne one guessed, in various shapes and sizes. The seeing eye was sending the images for decoding, while the dark Malay man hovered on his chair. 
         The bottles stood tall, slender and shapely. Black plastic screw tops, clip-tops and flip. As at a jeweler’s, a black cloth was setting off the glassware. 
         A dozen and half bottles, positioned close like chess pieces. The colour of the liquid, as well as the containers, gave the indication of content. 
         A roughly torn piece of cardboard confirmed:
                  PERFUME 
                  $1 BOTTLE
         Still, with a mat sellah stopped before him, it was worth the Malay trying for better.
         — Two dollar bottle. 
         The man conformed to average: at least seventy, exceptionally thin, emaciated in fact. There was very little excess baggage on any of the older sellers, even in the age of cheap rice. Creased and deeply tanned. Shorts, tee and flip-flops.
         The words were intelligible enough, but the impression was more an old lion swinging its head to growl.
         It was only a partial attention that was given to the newcomer. The chief attention of the Malay was directed at the man crouched before the bottles. In both cases, without direct gaze in either direction. 
         The Malay man didn't seem to be temporarily minding the goods for the Missus. 
         A small stool was all but invisible. It elevated the man somewhat. An old sailor or wharfie; not a rice-paddy man. The village, back-breaking as it may have been, did not produce the kind of snarl that was coming.
         The other was an unpromising customer, young Indian male kneeling before the magic carpet with a kind of genie bottle in hand.

         On his stool the seller sat as if withdrawn from his surroundings; restrained and confined. Most of the sellers had settled far better to their circumstances. The sharp, angular lines this Malay made with his arms, switching eyes and swiveling chin ought to have given sufficient signal of the inner tension. Before him the glinting glassware. Impossible to capture all the elements in the visual field. 
         The young Indian unscrewed the cap of his bottle and gave a little spray onto the back of his hand. As one did in Parfumeries the world over.
         The Malay was almost as dark as the man from the Sub-continent. Thrice his age, thinner and more taut, more full of beans.
         This young Fuck Smart-arse Filthy Stinking Dog.... The old man was building up a head of steam without moving a muscle practically.
         — Take — You — Three: Thirty cents!
         The visuals were far more powerful than the scrambled, bitten-off words.
         The young man might have been known to vendor, an old antagonist who had tried it on before. 
         It would have been entirely understandable if the Indian had not comprehended a word. The sudden shock of the outburst alone was overwhelming.
         A quick-fire repetition came from the other side on the matter of the thirty cents. This time with a thrusting of the right forearm. Pulled back and thrust again.

         On the second lunge a tight fist made. In the action the veins along the inside of the forearm of the Malay twisted and bulged as if a puppet's wire had been pulled.

         Certainly the man's chain had been pulled. If the Malay had been scowling from the beginning it was not apparent. The sudden ferocity was completely unexpected. 
         Jaw and mouth clamped hard. Seventy or seventy five, but certainly nobody's fool.
         After an initial and understandable pause, the Indian recovered himself with a short laugh. Extraordinary.

         Showing his white teeth, the young man called the older not merely uncle, but "my uncle".

         Casting behind him, smiling bright-eyed, the Indian appealed for understanding. What had he done that was amiss?
         In such a short space of time much had transpired.
         The Indian lad—if he was indeed Indian—had chosen the deep, amber colour in one of the tallest, thinnest bottles. Other colours showed faint plum, kerosene, clear and urine tones, in no particular order or arrangement.

         None of the bottles held more than two or three fingers at the most (to use an old back-alley measure that the Malay seller would almost certainly have known). An inch or inch and a half.     

         More than three quarters of every fancy bottle was empty. The more fancy the bottle the more use it seemed. The glassware itself of course, the fine delicacy and curvature had to be worth something. 
         Diluted? How was one supposed to tell other than by testing? 
         The small quantity involved here made for difficulty. Granted one might have taken a whiff without making off with the product.

         Could the antagonists both have been playing equally unfair, each on his own side?
         One and one half minutes filled with lightning, thunder and the final deluge that swept all before it.

The Analects

You can't come to these parts and omit the Master and Sage.
These are taken from a nice sequence in Book 15, Stephen R. McIntyre translator. (Available on-line.)
A young woman, Brenda, encountered at Singapore National Library, has recently quit her job and, prompted by one of the Buddhist temples, is currently devoting herself to a translation of the Analects. Often those on-line are inadequate, she believes. Singaporeans are in a bit of strife, Brenda thinks, neglecting their parents, money obsessed, having no time.


Chapter 11.
The necessity of forethought and precaution.
The Master said, "If a man take no thought about what is distant, he will find sorrow near at hand."

Chapter 12.
The rarity of a true love of virtue.
The Master said, "It is all over! I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves beauty."

Chapter 14.
The way to ward off resentments.
The Master said, "He who requires much from himself and little from others, will keep himself from being the object of resentment."

Chapter 15.
Nothing can be made of people who take things easily, not giving themselves the trouble to think.
The Master said, "When a man is not in the habit of saying -- 'What shall I think of this? What shall I think of this?' I can indeed do nothing with him!"

Chapter 18.
Our own incompetency, and not our reputation, the proper business of concern to us.
The Master said, "The superior man is distressed by his want of ability. He is not distressed by men's not knowing him."

Chapter 19.
The superior man wishes to be had in remembrance.
The Master said, "The superior man dislikes the thought of his name not being mentioned after his death."

Fashions of the Field

This was a magnificent beard, of a kind rarely seen back home. Some of the immigrants of the last fifteen or twenty years from East Africa had begun to introduce something similar in the outlying suburbs. Here in Singapore the style and form is of course much more common. Its echoes reach back to the ancient Biblical world, to some of Rembrandt's portraits, to other ways and habits. It was impossible to stop looking. The man could not but be aware of the continuing observation, of which however he gave not the slightest sign. There was no sense of someone bearing up under a stranger's gaze. Sometimes women around Geylang Serai can hold their poise precisely in this same way completely untroubled.
Apart from the beard, in all ways else the man was unprepossessing, a middle-aged, short and squat Indian. Conservative non-descript clothing: dull and bland purple shirt, trousers riding high on his belly, clasped by a shiny, silver belt-buckle. A moustache had been omitted. Almost any kind of moustache would have been a form of foppishness for this fellow. Side-burns came half-way down the ears. The upper part of his chin below his mouth was carefully shaven like the rest of his cheek; curve of the jaw likewise. The bushy, brush-like growth came exclusively from the lower half of his chin, and then the underneath side. Reminiscent of dense petri-dish growths in laboratories, the salt and pepper needles sprouted five or six inches in a columnar, tower-like form, making a solid, definite structure. For this man ties would be out. That Western get-up would be consciously and decisively eschewed.
It would not be true to say that such a man gained all his dignity from his beard. Many of the entirely clean-shaven Hindu Tamils and less strict Muslims attained every bit the same stout presence without armory of this sort. Sitting at Har Yassin mornings over teh tarik and prata, a ceaseless parade can be observed alighting from the buses and trying to cross the busy street to the markets. Firm, hardy, deep-rooted people, relics from far distant time; often inevitably remote even from their own children. Many of the ancients need to wait a long time to cross here, finally managing with a raised arm against on-coming traffic. This man's weight counted against him. A long while he offered himself up for observation.
The Chennai waiter of course wasn't interested in beards, this or any other. Plenty of those where he came from. Girls were plentiful where he came from too, but that was different. Girls were an inexhaustible source of wonder. This one at the front outdoor table was an Indon, from Batam probably. That was where the old geysers fished when they sought a newer model. Originally the girls had come from the other islands—Sumatra, Java, Flores and Timor Leste. On Batam were the new industrial estates and factories. Across the water almost swimming distance, Singapura—city of lions in former times; buckets of gold more recently.
The old fella across from her might have been her grandpa. Fished himself a good one. The Chennai waiter lolled his brain if not his head. Fair catch. You wouldn't throw that one back into the water.
Not yet fifty himself. Stacked it on lately. Admitted as much even to a customer who perhaps had no right to make the remark. You wouldn't try it back home, even after years of acquaintance. Nothing wrong with the bald truth here. You get it back in spades of course.
In this instance the porky fellow puffs his cheeks and pushes out his belly. This what you mean? Well, I'm not going to try to deny it. Blows himself out some more.
Placed as he is with food all around, hanging time and not a smoker, what's he supposed to do? Buttons on his blue polyester work-shirt strain at their burden. Holding in the breath, he can mock himself better than anyone else. A thin little moustache for himself, trimmed on the upper line, currently with the exaggerated moonface indented either end.
That was a few weeks ago. This morning before him the Indon. During the sit it can only be sliding eyes every so often, little more than dutifully monitoring a customer. The eyes stick a bit; not too much.
Poor lass. Blameless and stuck with an old fellow like that. Seventy if a day. Recently turned perhaps, but a hard landing now and no return. As commonly the case in Singapore in men of this generation, there was no scrimping on the dye. (Note from the author—something the Chennai chap can't know: Singapore, where the Chennai chap works in two year stints before a few months back home, Singapore stands clearly top of the pile for male hair-dyeing. Reports suggest in other Asian centres it is much the same. More seasoned travellers can have the final word. For false eye-lashing at least there could be no where to compare, surely. Whitening creams the same.) Retained a bit on top for cover too. No need resort to the brush-over flap in this case. All black the preference: long-sleeved shirt, trousers and shoes the woman has possibly polished earlier in the morning. A couple of big sparklers on one hand. Not the woman. No need for her to be the strumpet. The Indon women in Singapore, certainly around Geylang Serai, don't carry the gold of rings, bracelets and chains like the Malays. Might be different back home among the nouveau riche.
Difficult to prise out the wallet from the back pocket. A bit stashed away more than likely. Getting to that would be even harder. Long-term project.
Through the course the lass had given generous smiles. The fine dentistry of her race and age. Put-on smiles can be picked from miles and miles. The Chennai chap would have no difficulty from five paces. She's not putting on. The fellow has not lost his charm. They get on.
Chennai chappie misses the careful, furtive one or two smiles the pretty gives off to the side. Gotta be extra careful. Wants to give another, but the timing's all out of kilter....
Lucky if she's forty. But that might be the company she keeps. Maroon and black striped dress. Hair retaining all its coal-black. This was natural colour too—the Indonesians kept their lustre into old age, much more than the Indian, Malay or Chinese. Something in the diet. You see them thirty and forty years younger, Chennai the same as Singapura and lots other places. They were doing all right this pair.
Off and away. The long dress tightened at the waist allows the impression of hips and bottom to imprint themselves on Mr. Chennai, stamped on his brain. Across that band the maroon and black lines waver and wink more than they realistically should. Feet scrupulously clean and scrubbed. In the wet with the puddles easy to have that discolouration and cracking take over. Heels, in-step, the long tibia bone, all like polished china poking like a gun from a sleeve Mr. Chennai suddenly thinks in a leap that surprised even him. An ache in each footfall. The winking even when she isn't moving a muscle, stock still. Must be her breathing. Waves on the sea-shore. Beside the old fella's bum risen up to his waist.
Not difficult to penetrate to the foot fetish in these parts.
All the while the observer unaware he himself has been watched.
Blindly collecting the plates and glasses. Without the aid of eyes—they stand on stalks trained elsewhere.
Can't be allowed to get away with it.
Surprised at the call. He knows the usual order has been taken, food and drink consumed. Dishes have been cleared long ago, table wiped. The dishes of the other table he brings over when he comes to bend an ear. (Ordinarily, when the old owner-ogre is absent, as he is today, no hurry or fuss. The dishes get collected eventually. Quicker to get the rag yourself for the table.)
Even unblown, Mr. Chennai's mooning looming down at you. The puffery means the straight line he wants on the upper lip doesn't stand a chance.
— Too old for her, no good. Better you or me.
You're telling him brother! For crying out loud. Clamped mouth and wrinkled chin for nodding. Almost a cast of teary sadness covering. Damn bad state of affairs. Any given day she care to name he'd give her what was hers by rights, a proper fill. Heck of a lot more than she was settling for, believe-you-me.