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.