For
the best part of two years there had been no word of Tekka Market. Nothing.
Then a couple of months ago Zainuddin mentioned the place, rather incredulous
an adventurer had not made the acquaintance so long exploring in Singapore.
Zainuddin grew up in the area and the market has been operating on that site
for many years, in another guise in Zainuddin’s youth by the look of the place
this afternoon.
To this day good Mr. Z. ventures out to Tekka from his far distant digs at Woodlands for particular Indian products, most notably his cure-all umbla fruit, available in its raw, natural form at Tekka. Umbla lowers blood sugar, cholesterol, provides one of the much needed vitamins in concentrations unavailable in any other food, aids digestion, softens the stool, improves complexion, puts hairs on your chest. Tamils swear by umbla. (As regular readers would recall, the author had made his own independent discovery of this marvel up in the north in Georgetown, Penang, in liquid form there as a cool, partly sweetened drink to counteract the fruit’s tartness. True oficionado’s like Mr. Z. of course take the small marbles of fruit whole and unpeeled. Not so large a challenge as the durian, though a task all the same for umbla, in the raw form certainly)
Not much to report in the end regrettably. Fresh food downstairs, clothing up. Altogether a rather drab and dreary affair without much to recommend the place. There had been the thought of a t-shirt, a particular and specific kind: plain deep red, simple and unadorned, without puerile witticisms or graphics. Specifically in fact the Bonds size 18 that should have been bought back at Sam Bear in Russell Street, Melbourne prior to setting sail for these parts. Within that dim, dark interior of the Bear’s store the very item had been handled and apprised more than once. A good many times. No. Finally neine. Another tee? How many does a man need after all? How many were there in the wardrobe? A half dozen had been worn a couple of times. Textiles would be cheaper in Singapore, anywhere in Asia. A small suitcase. You had always wanted to travel light, the old Zen thing. No, said a disciplined non-consumer. Who could possibly have anticipated the problem of the Singaporean tee in the steamy, sweaty Tropics, I ask you? The pathology of place writ large on chests all across the island, wherever one turns one’s eye. Dear God almighty. There will come a day Insha’allah when the author will act upon his instinct for the social/art project envisaged for this community. The drawing board concepts are all ready to go; merely production, logistics, distribution waiting. The assault upon the Singapore tee, earnestly, with main force, no prisoners, no beg pardons. One little hint for the privileged readers of this blog only: the first item to be launched will show a pic of Fort Canning Park in luscious, edible green both horizontal and vertical, some deep blue sky photo-shopped if nothing else, perhaps a karung guni carting his or her sack of lumpy aluminum, and glinting middle-right the silver of the escalator plonked on the ridge of the hill for easier access for the nature lover. Patents and intellectual property rights pending. The Bonds meanwhile on-line with free shipping declined at $24. Resisted for the present.)
When Rani too here yesterday at the library café produced Tekka, the time had clearly arrived. No further delay. A fine light purple caftan-like top had drawn a compliment. Where did she get it?... They had men's there too? RightO. Away without further ado.... Little more than fifteen minutes keeping to the shadows, running the reds where possible. Lassalle Arts Institute on the left. The road-works dividing roaring as usual, helmeted Indian and Bangla lads bearing up in the heat, little hand-towels here and there below collars. A good deal more Indian faces on the footpaths as one progressed. Tekka stood at the head of Serangoon Road: Little India. Always a pleasure to visit. One’s India adventure when the prospect of the real thing seemed far too daunting. Tamed India, but without the gated communities and the tourist herding—the Taj, Varanasi, the temples and old forts. Simple and wonderful. India transplanted. Perhaps more authentic than many a corner at the source. Spacing out the visits always produced large, often startling impressions. The backpacker Hippy crowd had discovered Little India here. Lonely Planet and the others no doubt. Something to leaven the suits, ties and sailing shoes in the business district traveler around Raffles, the Gardens and the rest.
Truly little to report. The market itself a very minor affair. A few dozen—more than a few—twenty dozen perhaps—Indian stalls selling the traditional attire one has seen in the Bollywood epics. Bright deep colours—saffron, cumin, bold lavender, sausage reds; caftan cuts, billowing sleeves, split dresses, high collars. Ninety-five percent female wear.
— Something for your girl-friend sir?
Somehow the eagle-eye had summed up an old bachelor in a trice.
As on the walk-way on Serangoon Road on which Tekka was located, numerous tailors at their Singers rocking away, all bar one single case male, as on Serangoon. Late afternoon the stall-holders were flagging (not all pert and ready like the chap a moment before). Many failed to call out an enquiry, much less rise from their chairs to greet a prospective buyer. Near five P.M. even a panama walking tall held little allure. More than a couple of traders sat slumped in grotesque postures in their chairs. Were one not a twenty-six month (almost) veteran here these sights would certainly have alarmed. There was a brief glimpse of a tall, turbaned woman before a mirror assessing her image in the glass, a kind of boudoir aspect deep within a little secret chamber hung with all kinds of fabric on every side. A moment before naked arms may have been visible in that recess, a long swan neck. More than elsewhere, more than some other similar trading hubs devoted to the same line, the manikins and dummies here thronged the narrow passage causing one to start on a couple of occasions. A busy, bustling shopping crowd was a kind of bodily sensation passing along the aisles. One prepared for jostles that never arrived. There may in fact have not been a single other shopper on the entire first floor of Tekka; two or three at the entry perhaps. At a particular large, possibly double-fronted stall where a pair of figures, solemn and august in aspect somehow, had been stood, a first-time visitor was made to not only start momentarily, but actually unpurse lips in preparation for something that was forthcoming. Certainly the stride was broken at that place. This was a gesture of Rome or Alexandria one had stumbled upon, as if behind a magic glass. Something from a far distant past. Literally an arresting moment. The figures were separated by a few metres, yet they did not seem a natural pairing. A kind of double shock, one following close on the heels of the other. In all else these were standard blank manikins, wooden and with only the momentary glimmer of imbued life. What set them markedly apart, what brought one to almost a complete halt coming upon first one, then the other there adjacent, was the abruptly raised arm stretched full-length above, straight and high. It was left in both cases possibly. Almost certainly the first seen raised the left, the near arm one came to from that side of the aisle, erect and sharp. An instant before it seemed the motion had been made. Had the arm been extended horizontally a first-time visitor would almost certainly have taken it in hand. Hello there Madam. Howdeedo? Here it was pointing at the stars had this been night-time somewhere other than Singapore. Down the ages Emperors and Pharaohs had been announced on entry to great halls precisely in such fashion. All hail! All rise! Bow. A triumphal march across the raised dais to the resplendent throne. For most perfect effect no trumpet was employed to bolster that gesture - a soft tinkling bell one strained after perhaps. Fairly evenly divided it seemed Muslim and Hindu Tekka this afternoon, remarkable for the brief fanfare for a passing prince.
To this day good Mr. Z. ventures out to Tekka from his far distant digs at Woodlands for particular Indian products, most notably his cure-all umbla fruit, available in its raw, natural form at Tekka. Umbla lowers blood sugar, cholesterol, provides one of the much needed vitamins in concentrations unavailable in any other food, aids digestion, softens the stool, improves complexion, puts hairs on your chest. Tamils swear by umbla. (As regular readers would recall, the author had made his own independent discovery of this marvel up in the north in Georgetown, Penang, in liquid form there as a cool, partly sweetened drink to counteract the fruit’s tartness. True oficionado’s like Mr. Z. of course take the small marbles of fruit whole and unpeeled. Not so large a challenge as the durian, though a task all the same for umbla, in the raw form certainly)
Not much to report in the end regrettably. Fresh food downstairs, clothing up. Altogether a rather drab and dreary affair without much to recommend the place. There had been the thought of a t-shirt, a particular and specific kind: plain deep red, simple and unadorned, without puerile witticisms or graphics. Specifically in fact the Bonds size 18 that should have been bought back at Sam Bear in Russell Street, Melbourne prior to setting sail for these parts. Within that dim, dark interior of the Bear’s store the very item had been handled and apprised more than once. A good many times. No. Finally neine. Another tee? How many does a man need after all? How many were there in the wardrobe? A half dozen had been worn a couple of times. Textiles would be cheaper in Singapore, anywhere in Asia. A small suitcase. You had always wanted to travel light, the old Zen thing. No, said a disciplined non-consumer. Who could possibly have anticipated the problem of the Singaporean tee in the steamy, sweaty Tropics, I ask you? The pathology of place writ large on chests all across the island, wherever one turns one’s eye. Dear God almighty. There will come a day Insha’allah when the author will act upon his instinct for the social/art project envisaged for this community. The drawing board concepts are all ready to go; merely production, logistics, distribution waiting. The assault upon the Singapore tee, earnestly, with main force, no prisoners, no beg pardons. One little hint for the privileged readers of this blog only: the first item to be launched will show a pic of Fort Canning Park in luscious, edible green both horizontal and vertical, some deep blue sky photo-shopped if nothing else, perhaps a karung guni carting his or her sack of lumpy aluminum, and glinting middle-right the silver of the escalator plonked on the ridge of the hill for easier access for the nature lover. Patents and intellectual property rights pending. The Bonds meanwhile on-line with free shipping declined at $24. Resisted for the present.)
When Rani too here yesterday at the library café produced Tekka, the time had clearly arrived. No further delay. A fine light purple caftan-like top had drawn a compliment. Where did she get it?... They had men's there too? RightO. Away without further ado.... Little more than fifteen minutes keeping to the shadows, running the reds where possible. Lassalle Arts Institute on the left. The road-works dividing roaring as usual, helmeted Indian and Bangla lads bearing up in the heat, little hand-towels here and there below collars. A good deal more Indian faces on the footpaths as one progressed. Tekka stood at the head of Serangoon Road: Little India. Always a pleasure to visit. One’s India adventure when the prospect of the real thing seemed far too daunting. Tamed India, but without the gated communities and the tourist herding—the Taj, Varanasi, the temples and old forts. Simple and wonderful. India transplanted. Perhaps more authentic than many a corner at the source. Spacing out the visits always produced large, often startling impressions. The backpacker Hippy crowd had discovered Little India here. Lonely Planet and the others no doubt. Something to leaven the suits, ties and sailing shoes in the business district traveler around Raffles, the Gardens and the rest.
Truly little to report. The market itself a very minor affair. A few dozen—more than a few—twenty dozen perhaps—Indian stalls selling the traditional attire one has seen in the Bollywood epics. Bright deep colours—saffron, cumin, bold lavender, sausage reds; caftan cuts, billowing sleeves, split dresses, high collars. Ninety-five percent female wear.
— Something for your girl-friend sir?
Somehow the eagle-eye had summed up an old bachelor in a trice.
As on the walk-way on Serangoon Road on which Tekka was located, numerous tailors at their Singers rocking away, all bar one single case male, as on Serangoon. Late afternoon the stall-holders were flagging (not all pert and ready like the chap a moment before). Many failed to call out an enquiry, much less rise from their chairs to greet a prospective buyer. Near five P.M. even a panama walking tall held little allure. More than a couple of traders sat slumped in grotesque postures in their chairs. Were one not a twenty-six month (almost) veteran here these sights would certainly have alarmed. There was a brief glimpse of a tall, turbaned woman before a mirror assessing her image in the glass, a kind of boudoir aspect deep within a little secret chamber hung with all kinds of fabric on every side. A moment before naked arms may have been visible in that recess, a long swan neck. More than elsewhere, more than some other similar trading hubs devoted to the same line, the manikins and dummies here thronged the narrow passage causing one to start on a couple of occasions. A busy, bustling shopping crowd was a kind of bodily sensation passing along the aisles. One prepared for jostles that never arrived. There may in fact have not been a single other shopper on the entire first floor of Tekka; two or three at the entry perhaps. At a particular large, possibly double-fronted stall where a pair of figures, solemn and august in aspect somehow, had been stood, a first-time visitor was made to not only start momentarily, but actually unpurse lips in preparation for something that was forthcoming. Certainly the stride was broken at that place. This was a gesture of Rome or Alexandria one had stumbled upon, as if behind a magic glass. Something from a far distant past. Literally an arresting moment. The figures were separated by a few metres, yet they did not seem a natural pairing. A kind of double shock, one following close on the heels of the other. In all else these were standard blank manikins, wooden and with only the momentary glimmer of imbued life. What set them markedly apart, what brought one to almost a complete halt coming upon first one, then the other there adjacent, was the abruptly raised arm stretched full-length above, straight and high. It was left in both cases possibly. Almost certainly the first seen raised the left, the near arm one came to from that side of the aisle, erect and sharp. An instant before it seemed the motion had been made. Had the arm been extended horizontally a first-time visitor would almost certainly have taken it in hand. Hello there Madam. Howdeedo? Here it was pointing at the stars had this been night-time somewhere other than Singapore. Down the ages Emperors and Pharaohs had been announced on entry to great halls precisely in such fashion. All hail! All rise! Bow. A triumphal march across the raised dais to the resplendent throne. For most perfect effect no trumpet was employed to bolster that gesture - a soft tinkling bell one strained after perhaps. Fairly evenly divided it seemed Muslim and Hindu Tekka this afternoon, remarkable for the brief fanfare for a passing prince.
.
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