Season in Hell

Trickles under the tee well before eleven. Exhaust and hot air from the buses at the stop not helping.

The big-bellied Chennai waiter at Har Yassin was in full agreement, raising the subject himself.

Back home in the South of the Sub-Continent they had three-monthly seasons, the man explained leaning on the table.

Hot—sun in the form of his raised palm, fingers and thumb out-stretched and pointed. (Easily mistaken as sign for rain.)

Cold—shiver of hunched shoulders.

And Rain— a descending, tinkling veil dropping from on high. (Man was surprised the Malay hujan was within competence.)

Unaccounted for was the missing quarter. It seemed simplest to allow undefined transition between the other seasons for the remainder.

There was something rather different in Singapore. All year round here the fixed, bulb-like incendiary palm.

Fingers high and arrowing—once more the Chennai waiter gave the display.

There was no, What to do? accompanying. No agreeable head-loll. The onerousness here on this island could not be accepted with good grace. It was over-powering.

Mid-April. Locally the peak heat was taken at what was formerly the durian season. In more recent time durians arrived twice yearly—mid-year crop and then November-December.    

Like many corpulent men, the Chennai waiter walked with a hint of barrel-carting marking the progress: Steady as she goes, slowly in rhythm with the shifting load within. You wouldn’t want a spill.

The bulk was difficult to turn.

When the Chennai waiter was called from behind first came a craning round of the head. If full-turn was necessary the Chennai waiter made a complete stop, stilling the weight within, before pivoting his hips.

– Ya, whatsit?

Chap not grossly obese; not by the local standard. Hundred kilograms at one point seven two-three.

Like many corpulent men, in motion the Chennai waiter turned his arms inward showing soft, open palms behind. Rocking slowly along.

Twelve hours hanging on his feet under the unforgiving eye of the sun. Add the self-made eagle-eyed compatriot owner counting coin for the teas like the worst caricatured misers. Far from home, two year contracts—extended five times—occasional paid sex and in the midst of his native food more or less. (What with transport and refrigeration, nothing like as tasty as back home. Bland bryani & fries.)

Pitching into his fifties and mainly a good Muslim, no smoking or alcohol in the Chennai waiter's favor.

A level dozen large mounted fans indoors in the main eating area provided some relief there. More in the kitchens for the prata-maker and on the other side the rojak fries. Even cheap, easily replaced Indian labor could not endure otherwise.

Terming it arse-dragging would be unjust. Much of the circumlocution in Singapore is necessarily economical. Shirts & ties/heels & blouses hurried between offices and malls.