The Players

Time by the bakery clock up the road was after half eleven. A group of six men making a circle on the corner of Lorong26 and Guillemard Road. The site there was a large grassy square awaiting some opportune time for development. Beside the deep, partly covered channel along Guillemard the men had formed a loose circle, sitting on the grass like schoolboys with their packs behind. 

On busy Guillemard the traffic kept up, the divided road carrying three lanes each way along that stretch. The outer lane on their side of the footpath was no more than three metres from the men. 

They had washed and changed after their work-shift. Earlier up the other end near the highway a company lorry had off-loaded a score of Indian lads, who had quick-stepped into their building in the race for the bathroom. Half an hour on these were Chinamen, loosely joined in their round. 

Papers and personal effects must have been in the back-packs behind them. Older than the usual Indian crews, these men were well into their thirties, supporting growing families back on the Mainland. Many of the foreign Indian labour force were unmarried; saving up indeed in Singapore in order to be able to afford a bride in many cases.

There were no dorms in the immediate vicinity here; the men had walked down from nearby Geylang Road after supper. A similar Chinese group had been seen on that corner before.  It could hardly have been another gathering. The last couple of times a lesser number of men, but very likely the same contingent, or like-minded Chinamen at the very least. 

Greying and balding in a number of cases; nondescript drab clothing. Unlike the young Indians, no loud colours or brightly patterned tees. After a long work-shift they sat comfortably with no sign of the weariness from their labour.

There were four printed sheets to go round, three or four pages in each sheaf. As the dialogue developed the sheets passed to the designated speaker. The entire reading may have been unrehearsed, but the men had some familiarity with the material, and more particularly with their respective roles.

Youngest in the group wearing glasses was in his early thirties; one or two of the others at least seven or eight years senior. It was the young chap however who held the primary role. First he engaged the chap on his left, then right; finally one of the older fellows the further away, raising his voice to pitch. Once or twice the young man had cued his interlocutor on the beat. 

Now! With a hand striking in the direction. 

Whilst the other returned the young man beat time with nodding and rejoined quickly in response.

The last, older chap in the final exchange had nervously rubbed his bald spot half a dozen times through his delivery. It was brought to his attention by his peer, a man who had not taken a turn, at least in that final part of the recitation. While still very much part of the circle, this man had withdrawn from direct participation, keenly following from a remove.

Why the rub, rub, rub like that, hey? he asked smilingly of the stage-frightened victim, passing his hand over his own thinning crop in gentle mockery.

Sheepish, bashful smiles returned.

After the final exchange a chap in a bright blue polo with his back to the road showed himself the leader of the gathering. This man too had not participated in the reading. When it was over he rose to his knees to give his commentary on the performance, gesturing and motioning to show what was needed. Momentum and correspondence seemed to be part of the concern; answering what had been received from the last voice. 

Just prior to the intervention, another—the one who had ticked off his mate next to him about the rubbing of his scone—led a brief applause for a performance well done. Light and brief clapping with raised hands in his case. 

This man faced the street and had smiled at the curious intruder when he stopped at the railing.

The sheets were loose A4, dense horizontal script rather than vertical. Possibly the different speakers were not marked clearly. Certainly none of the players, even the keen younger man, knew the dialogue off by heart. Something of it only might have been known.

On an earlier occasion on another night one of the men in a smaller group had held a book and seemed to almost harangue the other members. To rouse them it looked like, not passionately or sternly, but the force apparent. 

The thought of falung gong had lessened the interest that night. Closer to the city centre the falung gave out leaflets. Last night almost certainly was something else.

The gentle critic returned a wave and smiled again at the end. Plainly, none of the men had any English. Joining their circle to better catch the tone and rhythm would have been an intrusion. 

Mechanics' Institutes and Workingmen's Associations from an age ago came to mind; the restored buildings in our cities converted to other, more mundane uses now. The halls of those places had been filled precisely by men such as these after their work-shifts, spread across the hard benches, faces brightened by learning and unexpected discovery.