Home Away From Home

Same quiet low-level dusk magic out at the Mr Teh Tarik tables here at lower Geylang as three months ago, winging imperceptibly from the sides. The thin sliver of horizontal moon could not have been more than a day or two old, in one passage of light and dark the blades showing piercingly sharp. At the tables the steady low rhythm of families almost entirely soundless—cowed by the lamp behind one might think, though no-one seemed to give it any regard. An old man whistling soft and low to himself in passing startled slightly in that reigning stillness. The kids' shoes with the hidden wheel on the heel is cheap enough for the HDB dwellers to buy their children. Coming up to their parents at the tables the kids perform their easy ballet—fitting with the prevailing passage between day and night. There is no need for looking at the moon itself: everyone is most certainly under the sway. At the hot-end of the counter where the fruits are fried the Manager as usual takes his turn serving up the banana, jack-fruit and cempedak, sweating it out the same as the cheap foreign labour. Small wonder the fellow concerned has won hearts and minds on every side. The extended families provide the indispensable ballast in this community, the elderly Grandmas and Pa's crucial components of the order. Even in the wet season the heat's enforcement of shorts, sandals and tees obviates much of the attention to fashion and bestows a great leveling democratic spirit. After eighteen months too the absence of alcohol can be easily under-estimated—no-where on any side any waywardness apparent, any of the loose jollity rising and falling. Mid-teen daughters cart trays loaded with plates to the tables. Juniors patiently awaiting what they will be served (the deep pondering over food choice non-existent almost here, certainly where the young are concerned). Strange to report, at this end of Singapore one almost never sees the youngster compulsively fingering keypad. Lower Geylang is a very small portion of the social scene in this handkerchief-sized country. Struggle, vacancy, bewilderment, confusion no-where rearing its head. Mr. Najib the Chinese Muslim convert remains indefatigable at his peddling of his tissue packs and pens. Not through marriage has Mr. Najib converted; unfortunate bachelorhood is the lot here. For some unknown reason Mr. Najib experienced one unexplained episode of back-sliding: two times has he crossed from his Buddhist patrimony to Islam, the only one of his family. All the rich ceremony of family unity and respect is unavailable to Mr. Najib. Possibly he receives some pleasure second-hand from the witnessing. A chap no more than mid-forties stands before us receiving the courtly greeting from one youngster after another. More than a little surprising, somehow in this three-month the stiff-necked beggar with the blotchy bad skin has managed to find himself a wife. Judging by his own glinting gold band, set with numerous precious stones, the lady's must be a real pearler. Mr. Najib cannot have failed to hear. Something to give a little heart possibly. By comparison Mr. Najib stands tall and upright, wearing the complexion of a baby. The other he could put to school too so far as English proficiency is concerned. The touched lad who helps out at Labu Labi, even given to taking orders and serving tables, stumbles past. The greater proportion of diners would have travelled by bus—the great benefit of a small geographic unit with excellent public transport. (Car registration costs near $10k per annum here now.) As usual the wide branches of the pavement trees gather the first of the night to themselves, growing engorged slowly until night proper covers all. A home-coming of sorts.