A Rose By Any Other Name

Old uncle pulling up a pew at Har Yassin more of a Granddad in fact; more than a passing resemblance to Little Boy Lost too. White knitted songkok, walking stick and colostomy bag protruding from beneath his colourfully printed shirt. Reached his mid eighties, the slight build holding him in good stead. The size of the hands fails to surprise now: a life-time’s work and strain can distend tendons and sinews like that even in hands that might have started out cherubic. Light skin colour, though strong Malay features; moist purple lips as if from cooler climates. A preoccupation of some kind has the mouth open and lips moving, a tooth in the bottom row emerging occasionally. Handsome neat fellow in his time, still observant, looking all round and even turning in his chair at movement behind. Unclear how he might get himself home under his own steam; perhaps a child or grandchild coming from the market across the way.
         Not much hesitation accepting the offer of a drink, kopi and glass specified. A twenty minute pit-stop all that was needed, off tap-tapping along up Changi Road, leaving only an inch in the bottom of his cup. For farewell and thanks in one the hand was offered across the table, expression and nodding more than sufficing.
         The Croat woman Ruza, Rose, in the hospital ward with Bab produced a great surprise during the course of the final week. Even in her greatly diminished state, withdrawn and quiet, Bab had managed to charm her last new friend. Disturbing the ward at night with her calls failed to irritate Ruza. Childless and without family herself, the younger old lady had no visitors of her own and so inserted herself into Bab’s gatherings. From her calling all night Ruza had assumed Bab’s son’s name was Mako. Mako, Mako, Mako all night. At some point we learned Bab had in fact inherited the endearment from her own mother Ruza, Rose. Through some kind of superstition, some kind of fretfulness common to the region, Grandma Ruza had never called her son George by his given name, not once in his hearing. Another of Bab’s inheritances, from her mother in this case.
         After three or four days in the ward together the old Croat Ruza made an observation that over fifty years had escaped the notice of those nearest to dear Babi. A complete stranger able to startle with a sudden revelation like that. In all her life Croat Ruza had never seen a woman, small framed at that, with hands of such enormous size. Giant strapping men back in the hills at home might not have had the like. There was small opportunity remaining then to look with the stranger Ruza’s fresh, appreciative eyes.