Curry Puff

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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.