Arrest

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Four Indians. Possibly Bangladeshis. Had their faces been uncovered it might have been possible to tell. (Fine, thin moustaches often a give-away in the case of the former.) One yellow hard-hat between them. Three pairs of boots removed, one retained. Two had their arms covering their faces, the crooks of their elbows keeping out the light. The booted one on the end didn't need eye-cover. Flat on his back he lay, one hand on his chest, the other beside him. The yellow helmet was lying on his side, using for pillow an empty two litre plastic bottle. After-lunch shut-eye, some actual sleep more than likely, despite the particle-board beneath them, the sound of the traffic, the passersby and the rain. Early risers these lads. Often they can be heard under the hotel window passing around 5. The dawn bird-call can be mixed with their voices around that time. Hari Raya is only a couple of weeks away now. The Indian lads have been shimmying the stands here, walking their ladders while perched up high, erecting the tents for the food-stalls. The traditional durian season of June is usually the hottest of the year. Last night and now soon after lunch, heavy downpours. Usually heading out to the library the Indian lads can be seen this time of day under the giant African mahogany on Guillemard corner, that marks the place of the former Police Station of Geylang Serai when the famous gangsters ruled the neighbourhood. Down on the grass the lads sprawl there under the generous canopy. In the back of vans and lorries, either travelling or parked, the fellows can commonly be seen horizontal getting some shut-eye; certainly not pretending. After a twelvemonth one ought to be used to the sight.