A protection racket operating for the lucrative taxi stand at Geylang Serai Market on Changi Road?
One of the locals suggested it was highly likely, even in contemporary Singapore.
With Korban following, Hari Raya Hajji, the lads had certainly turned a rapid dollar that morning, the queue never falling below twenty and shoppers passing along the aisle having to squeeze through the gap.
Strapping chaps the pair of them in their mid-fifties, lifting the shopping bags into boots and opening doors. One was an Indo-something and the other Malay, lively and possessed of the chat both.
A good number of lavender twos among the coin went straight into the pockets without a look. No difficulty judging the denominations by touch alone.
Upstairs the old Chinese flute-player was echoing through the hall. As much as the piercing rhythm, his stance attracted attention. Propped on one side by some kind of make-shift crutch, an old backwoods staff fashioned from bent and knotty wood, the man spread his feet and leant forward onto his support. Early sixties at the upper range, the rounded shoulders suggesting a hump purely from music-making. (Worse than a scribbler.)
The blow was hard and forceful; man gave it all he's got. A few days ago at the head of the Bugis tourist strip, out beside the bus-stop, the fellow had to wipe his brow after the exertion. In a quarter hour he must have had twenty dollars dropped into the bag hanging from his shoulder. Mainlander likely. Most of the appreciative audience at Bugis were Chinese. Here at Geylang Serai of course, they were Malay.
With the commemoration—marking Ibrahim's demonstration of faith—the large crowd was clearly the draw. Any day of the week, however, the flute-player would do better out Bugis and any other Chinese centres. Even the porters here clearly surpassed the musician, at least on that particular morning.
For some reason lower Geylang drew the man. A week ago he could be found around the Haig Road stalls. The flute-player was performer more than beggar, seeking an audience as much as alms. There was only ever the one, single tune. Given the kind of heart with which the piece was delivered that did not matter. From a distance one would swear there was amplification. The exertion was not apparent in the man’s figure; indeed, bent as he was on his staff, the volume and power was all contradictory.
Wak Tanjong Madrassa was not hosting the ritual slaughter this year. The new Australian regulations, together with the steep price hike, has resulted in far fewer sheep this year. (Around SG$465 per head by the time they landed.) Initially for viewing Zainuddin suggested the drug rehabilitation Half-way house in upper Geylang, where the recovering addicts would be helping. Later in the morning Din thought again and decided that a viewing was not appropriate; the slaughter was not meant to be a public spectacle.
Last night over dinner Zainuddin added some concern at conditions at the various locales designated for slaughter. In the Qur'an the greatest care was outlined for the beast coming under the knife. For example, Din said, the animals awaiting their turn should not be placed within hearing distance of those being slaughtered, much less within the line of vision.
If only Din were the chief mufti of Singapore!
....YOU'RE A
FREAK
JUST LIKE
ME
later during lunch on a lad going up the stairs to the vocational school run by Jamiyah above Labu Labi. Tattoos, piercings, teenage boy-girl affections, almost non-existent in the Malay community congregating in this area.
The tee reminded of Emily's Nobody poem, similarly sighted some while ago now on a tee. Doubtful it could have been here; not even a tourist.
[I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Emily Dickinson]
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