Mr. Hussein

Short nine o’clock a different street of office-workers stuck in traffic, shoppers rounding back from the market, the lads at Mr. Teh Tarik eyes out on stalks looking for their change of shift. Labu Labi shuttered with a couple of patrons slouched in the chairs waiting on opening. Mr. Hussein's greeting as always going by, the complaint taking a moment to hear and comprehend.
         —  ….never try my cake.
         A gentle standard half-joking admonition in signature twisted tune. For a number of months Mr. Hussein had had a fixed place in mind for one particular reason.
         Kue Mr. Hussein sells around the corner on Joo Chiat Road in the shade of the walk-way outside the interior decoration shop. Where did he say the boss and bake-house was situated? Either Ang Mo Kio or Kovan out further east. Mr. Hussein himself lives at Lavender, in the former Indian quarter that remains his home ground. Whether Ang Mo Kio or Kovan, late morning after his sales Mr. H. transports the kue trays out to his place at Lavender—for washing likely—before re-tracing his steps over to the bakery.
         Slight and rake-thin, early-mid seventies, glassy-eyed with the two incisors missing. Were they knocked out because of Mr. Hussein’s foul mouth?
         The Money-changer Omar had no truck with Mr. Hussein. Each morning Omar passed Mr. Hussein and his trays on his way from his shop further down Joo Chiat Road. 
         Mr. Hussein uneducated, possibly without a single day of schooling; Omar professional, neat and polished. Collars and trousers both, the only difference Mr. Hussein's plastic footwear. Mr. Hussein’s ad hoc stall erected under the walkway in front of the shops, trays mounted on a stool, is of course illegal: Omar a stickler for order and proper process.
         Tin trays covered by cloth, iridescent bright product beneath signaling rich calories. Dye one assumes Apparently not the case. The luminosity of the lime comes from egg and green beans; the orange-red from another legume and tapioca gave the glaze. 
         Not sweet, asserts Mr. Hussein. No. 
         In this the man is backed up by Zainuddin. The inferior Chinese kue contains lashings of sugar; the Malay much healthier, the pair testify.
        Joint Tamil ancestry with Malay infusion and co-religionists. Place Zainuddin beside the kue-seller one immediately recognizes the fine, sharp features and colouration.
         Each evening Mr. Hussein joins a group of Indo-Malays in a circle of plastic chairs back off the first row at the Haig Road stalls. Drinks are taken from the bearded Kashmiri at the head of the line who makes the best teh tarik and halia; a couple of other Indians further along provide traditional dishes and one a fish curry that Mr. Hussein has mentioned more than once. Exceedingly spare and trim Mr. Hussein. Selling one can always see Mr. Hussein at Lower Geylang; never eating or drinking.
         The make-shift circle at Haig Road affords good viewing: at the Eatery tables the assembled people present an interesting frieze. Mostly regular faces; tourists from Indonesia and Malaysia take Geylang Serai as the first port of call in Singapore, Arabs and others visit from the Muslim world. One evening a large group of Uighurs from Western China suddenly appeared unannounced on the pavement at Haig Road.
         Passersby from the buses need to cross in front of the men for the housing towers behind, a kind of honour given the gathering disporting themselves comfortably as if on divans. Legally the men can smoke away from the food; beers might be a possibility, though the glassiness in Mr. Hussein’s eyes appears to be some kind of ocular condition. Certainly Mr. Hussein can spy a friend from a distance, salute never failing mornings at Joo Chiat corner and the Haig Road concourse evenings….Ah, yes, Mr. Hussein and his kue.
         A few weeks ago Mr. Hussein was found on the bus back from Lavender. Chatting throughout. Some guesswork employed, fragments of bahasa and Tamil, chatting and chatting. (Like two Aunties, the old Bab said for chatterboxes.) By noon and sometimes before Mr. Hussein has completed his sales; freeman thereafter. Only the tray return. The locals know and value Mr. Hussein’s product. (Zainuddin thinks the baker exploits Mr. Hussein.) 
         The afternoon of the bus-ride Mr. Hussein had finished early. That afternoon Mr. Hussein told again where the bake-house was situated, his daily routine, his digs at his particular Block at Lavender—it may have been No. 7.
         It may be that Mr. Hussein is granted a place in the Haig Road circle out of sufferance. In the conversations he never seems to have voice, always appears on the fringe looking out. A loner.
         The detail was provided by Zainuddin who has known Mr. Hussein from childhood. In his mid-sixties himself, Zainuddin respects the elder; more than that, the misfortune and woe witnessed over the years, which is beyond summary and unable to be meaningfully recapitulated, wins Zainuddin’s compassion. Sad fate right from the beginning and inescapable. Ever since Zainuddin can recall, Mr. Hussein has been selling his kue, initially house-to-house up through the Indian quarter where the pair were raised and later street corners.
      This kind of incident coming has been heard up in the hills of Montenegro, through the mountain villages where everyone knew what was cooking at the hearths; where everyone knew your grandmother and great-grandfather. (Again Bab.)
      For Mr. Hussein the surprise came at a funeral when one of the mourners turned to him, pointed at the shrouded body of the deceased and declared, — That man was your father.
      Precisely thus. The very same a world away on the other side of the equator.