The two old Malay aunties stopping to say G'day. In fact, as revealed some months ago, the elder is the aunt of the younger here. (There might even be a dozen years between them, something that is quite unapparent on any cursory observation.) Elder stopping first draws the Youngster back. Hello, Hello. Off to the Haig Road stalls where a friend awaits, it seems, Youngster with a smattering of English conspiratorially leaning close. For some reason Labu Labi is no longer the place of choice for this inseparable pair and their little gathering of women of their generation. (For a few weeks after the MOM raid that trapped the illegal Malaysian workers, the Younger had cleared plates and cups from the L.L. tables.) Usually, the exchanges are greetings of the hour and enquiries after taking of food and drink. — Yah, Tidah / suda or lapar—Yes/No; done or hungry. Following the pleasantries now, Youngster rebounds once more after taking a few steps; there is one further part sometimes added to our ceremonial. As if pulling a gun, Younger presents her thick, heavily creased and chapped palm that carries a pair of rings on the fingers—discovered as we clap high-five. (Many even of these elderly sport eye-popping sparklers suggesting gangster molls, or the consorts of emperors ages past prepared for the after-life. This pair is far more modest.) Youngster’s retreat brings Great-aunt forward, following suit with her own raised hand, lesser English meaning a broader smile. Nodding and beaming. Colourful full-length print baju kurung, scarves, light make-up in their cases. A passing glance at the pair on the street would not provide the slightest hint of the hidden girlishness and élan.
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