Neem

The last Sunday before Hari Raya—Eid, Idul Fitri—Thursday coming. At the Geylang Serai Market in the morning a number of men armed like old-style archers with long, thin coconut leaves bundled and slung over shoulders. All through the market one came upon them, a kind of scattered platoon making their way to a rallying point.

Busy Muslim housewives island-wide. One of the traditional foods for the great feast was ketupat—hard k—a rice preparation held within a folded sachet of coconut leaves about three inches square. Dates, spicy beef rendang, vegetable curries and a good deal of ketupat expected on the festive tables.

Carpet and mat traders a feature of the stalls every year; pillows, bedding and curtains likewise doing good trade. Last few days it has been confirmed Sumatran Era's large stall before the NTUC supermarket at Joo Chiat Complex was stocked only with plastic flowers. Real flowers had been found at a couple of tables here and there; more usually high colour plastic that mimicked the wild abundance of the Tropical flora. Brightening and refreshing the house for the high point of the Muslim calendar. Those who can afford donned new clothes and shoes. The lucky Indo maids placed with appreciative employers received a month's bonus for Hari Raya, which many spent on colourful full-length mermaid costumes brought in at the waist, saucy ones the pantie-line showing. The third Ramadan now in Singapore

Many housewives bought food from "outside" rather than prepare everything themselves. Who had time or patience for cooking nowadays? Numerous food-stalls throughout the quarter. Within hours of dawn Thursday the tents and annexes will have been taken down by Indian crews—Hindus mainly. From memory Mr. Teh Tarik and Labu Labi closed for an entire week. The foreign workers who were fortunate enough would return at least for a few days to the towns and kampungs of the Peninsular, Sumatra, Java and Borneo, even India. Some like Gani at Mr. Teh Tarik would travel overnight after their work-shifts in order to be with their families for the dawn of Hari Raya.

A new pop-up stall early Sunday out front of Labu Labi was manned by another of those folkloric figures from the annals that one encountered regularly in these parts. Men and women of faith and conviction who can make a casual passerby stop dead in their tracks. The figure of the man in his long robe, thick springy beard and cap was one thing, but when one passed to his make-shift stall, the intrigue was doubled. 

A couple of the red plastic Labu Labi chairs had been commandeered and turned toward the inner pathway; one of the tables making an added shelf at the end. Small vials of perfume and scent, some kind of plastic wrapped marker pens and a couple of other oddments arranged for display. 

What drew all the attention however was a small cardboard container something like a cigar-box holding lengths of sticks, thin tree branches of some sort all of a size. 

The man was in his late-fifties perhaps. It could be difficult judging ages outside one's own racial/cultural group, especially with costume added.

Five year olds imitating their elders might have produced such a road-side stall. One could not help wondering. 

New almond or walnut sproutings collected here possibly, more or less straight, with knobs showing where pruning had shaped the line. The thin outer bark had not been removed. Possibly each stick had been washed or rubbed clean with a cloth. The like had never been seen before.

A loose piece of cardboard that had been stood over the hoard carried block lettering:

BANGLADESH—such-and-such     SRI LANKA—such-and-such

INDIA—NEEM                                ENGLISH – Olive

Conversation with the journeyman prevented better note-taking. As soon as he commenced speaking the picture of the newspaper Taliban fighter softened with child-like warmth and radiance. The man positively full of ardour. 

Surprisingly too he spoke excellent English. A missionary, he declared himself, attached to the Angulia Mosque. At the Angulia on Serangoon Road he could be found, an open invitation. 

The wooden sticks had come from Arabia. This chap would not knowingly speak an untruth, not for any money, one could be sure.

How many years had one wondered in the organic and health stores down in Melbourne about the native exotica from which all the best soaps in India derived. Roughly equated with our Mediterranean olive, it seemed. 

For a few days the two had been assumed to be one and the same. Or if not entirely the same from the same, the family or genus. 

The missionary was not a botanist, granted. The famous, one could assume locally holy neem. The living tree these sticks in the box approximated could only be tentatively guessed.

The Prophet had highlighted the need for oral hygiene. The best recourse was the antiseptic fibre of the neem. First of all one stripped the bark from the end of the stick and mashed the point a little, producing a kind of brush. Rubbing this over the teeth no doubt protected enamel and removed plaque too. 

 

 

                                                                                                           Geylang Serai, Singapore 2013