Time slipped so fast, a fifty-five week allotment of it here in the tropics. End of financial year. Half year. Four or five weeks time a return expected to the land of Oz. It is going to be a very strange home-coming.
A surprise to find Abdul Majid back at the Mr. T. T. counter this morning. Or rather to be found by him, his inimitable voice calling out from behind. Absent a month up in Malacca, where he may have a pair of wives. The joke always brings a wide smile to Abdul’s face. (The case remains uncertain. Possibly Abdul lacks the wherewithal for even a single wife.) The relentless twelve hour shifts, thirteen day fortnights had quite worn Abdul out. Returned now.
The old pavement scribbler here, the hobo-like chap always carting a bag or two, sporting the old embroidered polo that a daughter might have run up on her sewing machine to give dad a better visibility crossing the streets, unexpectedly approached the table this morning while the diary entry was being made. In passing the fish-eye has taken in the stranger many times over the course of the stay. Once there came an abrupt greeting and a smile. Never before this morning anything like a direct approach.
The man wanted to make his own confirmation on the date. Stopped by the table, he craned his head around to take in the scrawl. Highly unexpected. It was a visitation like that of a bird suddenly alighted from the clouds. Strange but true; confident and direct. The familiarity over such a long course naturally allowed the liberty. Why not? The chap had seen innumerable fellows taking a seat at table; free and easy relations; long conversations. A venture on his part not such a leap perhaps. It is the newcomer who is always required to make the adjustment on his side, and fair enough.
— Today thirteen, it sounded like.
In fact he knew precisely where we had arrived. The English should have been a shock. As affable as if we had been exchanging daily pleasantries all the while.
Tomorrow was "one" too, he knew.
A couple of times he reiterated the statements for confirmation. The chap had recognised a fellow scribe. After eyeing the scrawl of the date in the notebook he had turned to the newspaper, fortuitously opened on the Opinion page ( — a Yale man outlining the complexities of the continuing Syrian troubles). On the Opinion page the date is always centred and prominent.
A surprise to find Abdul Majid back at the Mr. T. T. counter this morning. Or rather to be found by him, his inimitable voice calling out from behind. Absent a month up in Malacca, where he may have a pair of wives. The joke always brings a wide smile to Abdul’s face. (The case remains uncertain. Possibly Abdul lacks the wherewithal for even a single wife.) The relentless twelve hour shifts, thirteen day fortnights had quite worn Abdul out. Returned now.
The old pavement scribbler here, the hobo-like chap always carting a bag or two, sporting the old embroidered polo that a daughter might have run up on her sewing machine to give dad a better visibility crossing the streets, unexpectedly approached the table this morning while the diary entry was being made. In passing the fish-eye has taken in the stranger many times over the course of the stay. Once there came an abrupt greeting and a smile. Never before this morning anything like a direct approach.
The man wanted to make his own confirmation on the date. Stopped by the table, he craned his head around to take in the scrawl. Highly unexpected. It was a visitation like that of a bird suddenly alighted from the clouds. Strange but true; confident and direct. The familiarity over such a long course naturally allowed the liberty. Why not? The chap had seen innumerable fellows taking a seat at table; free and easy relations; long conversations. A venture on his part not such a leap perhaps. It is the newcomer who is always required to make the adjustment on his side, and fair enough.
— Today thirteen, it sounded like.
In fact he knew precisely where we had arrived. The English should have been a shock. As affable as if we had been exchanging daily pleasantries all the while.
Tomorrow was "one" too, he knew.
A couple of times he reiterated the statements for confirmation. The chap had recognised a fellow scribe. After eyeing the scrawl of the date in the notebook he had turned to the newspaper, fortuitously opened on the Opinion page ( — a Yale man outlining the complexities of the continuing Syrian troubles). On the Opinion page the date is always centred and prominent.
Yes, thirtieth. And tomorrow "one".
The possibility of the thirty-first must have been the concern.
The next few days an eye-out needing to be kept on the pavement up at Joo Chiat Road corner, either this side, or Geylang Serai opposite. It was on the Geylang Serai side, on the former Malay Kampung corner, where the chap had last been seen down on the pavement, chalk-stick in hand, smiling and very much engaged in his task. Someone said it was his own name he was scrawling. Someone else that age was releasing memories and reflections. Our local Eternity man at lower Geylang.
The other morning the chap had knocked back an old, perfectly good pair of jeans that Ahmad had brought out especially for him. Like everyone else, Ahmad makes his choice of deserving beggar. (In fact this Eternity man never begs other than cigarettes, and that only from his own community.) The jeans he could still wear himself, explained Ahmad, a trifle miffed at the rejection. To make matters worse, the Eternity man declined with rather an imperfect grace, waving a hand and abruptly turning on his heels. One quick look at the offering, still within the bag, told him enough. Not for him.
Feels the cruel slippage himself no doubt.
(In Sydney after the war a well-known street-scribe had left his Eternity markings on the pavements in a characteristic cursive script, eventually attaining a little local fame for his reminder. Here in Singapore a young artist has recently divided public opinion with her witty street stickers employing a gentle irony in rather amusing S'inglish.)
The possibility of the thirty-first must have been the concern.
The next few days an eye-out needing to be kept on the pavement up at Joo Chiat Road corner, either this side, or Geylang Serai opposite. It was on the Geylang Serai side, on the former Malay Kampung corner, where the chap had last been seen down on the pavement, chalk-stick in hand, smiling and very much engaged in his task. Someone said it was his own name he was scrawling. Someone else that age was releasing memories and reflections. Our local Eternity man at lower Geylang.
The other morning the chap had knocked back an old, perfectly good pair of jeans that Ahmad had brought out especially for him. Like everyone else, Ahmad makes his choice of deserving beggar. (In fact this Eternity man never begs other than cigarettes, and that only from his own community.) The jeans he could still wear himself, explained Ahmad, a trifle miffed at the rejection. To make matters worse, the Eternity man declined with rather an imperfect grace, waving a hand and abruptly turning on his heels. One quick look at the offering, still within the bag, told him enough. Not for him.
Feels the cruel slippage himself no doubt.
(In Sydney after the war a well-known street-scribe had left his Eternity markings on the pavements in a characteristic cursive script, eventually attaining a little local fame for his reminder. Here in Singapore a young artist has recently divided public opinion with her witty street stickers employing a gentle irony in rather amusing S'inglish.)
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