Carnivale

The Saturday throng multiplying all the captivating colours and aromas at Geylang Serai this morning. Tight passageways and halls barely containing the whirl of ceaseless movement. Even the old women in their robes and scarves know the most delicate dance steps that enable them to dodge toe-trodding. A Chinese chap pushing an unloaded trolley across the main entryway by the lifts carried a song in his heart. Out loud it was given, for himself first of all and then incidentally to all around. As so often at the market here, the sense of having intruded on the most fabulous, miraculously choreographed movie-set. A fellow at a back stall that traded in refrigerated seafood used the white-tiled partition, perfect height for a shorty, for some serious shut-eye. Noon ticked over, perhaps he had been on his feet since four in order to reach the market on time. Overnight how much sleep did he get? not benefited with aircon this chap, one can be sure. At the rear by the fridges stood his wife packing; their boy in a high-chair at the bench doodling. No customers in their back corner beside the delivery bays. That there was no faking one knew from the start the sleepy-head gave when one of his knees buckled, causing chin to knock on tile. A jolt almost audible, rattled his teeth for sure. Still, the weariness was more powerful. Shut-down directly again, lid closing like a clam. The trolley-pushing carouser had stuck on the catchy refrain, — Da da da, Da da di, repeated, easy to discern even for a foreigner. The smile was undirected, arisen entirely from the uplift of song. In Montenegro they have a nice saying for the purity of song. Ko pjeva zlo ne misli; Who sings has no mind for evil. The karaoke-loving Malays would agree entirely. One occasional wheelchair busker aside, any kind of amplified music rare at the market.