Saturday night the moon standing
high near the zenith around seventy degrees, bright and unclouded. A Moonie
feels more at home in a community that maintains a secondary lunar
calendar alongside the regular math/astronomical. All three of the major
communities here on the equator honour the big Cheese in some particular
fashion of their own, on this last Saturday night the Chinese marking the end
of the first fifteen day cycle of the New Year of the Horse.
Returning to the room after dinner the trusty old lamp had lit the dark back corner off Onan Road around from Little Saigon. Emerging in the walk gear a half hour later the disc stood atop the stand of trees on the opposite pavement rather like in the nativity scenes in the living-rooms over the island a couple of months ago—round rather than star shape here. The usual Long March out to Middle Road at the National Library corner Saturday, leaving a trifle late, shortly after half-nine. Along the fifty-five minute outbound the moon was pretty much forgotten, and likewise returning on the slightly varied track. Crossing Kalang Bridge there was some short-change silver on the expanse of water toward the first bend where some fisher-folk lined the bank. Through the back Lorongs of Geylang the usual shadowy sights of workers on the paving half-illuminated by their palm-screens, working girls and the back kitchen clatter. All familiar and unexceptional. Soothing the dependable rhythms in the hour before sleep in some strange way. All familiar and nothing to remark until the Cher-Li Temple up in the middle of the cluster in No. 6 was reached.
After such an extended acquaintance the Lion Dance troupe on its own was of little interest. It was down-time for the group in any case in the driveway of the temple, the show all over and a pack-up perhaps. Ciggies burning among the musicians. March right past, need to get on. It had been a late start. Usually this particular temple was shrouded in darkness. A night or two ago there was one of the ceremonials in the one further up at the end of the row. It made a passerby wince now more often than not. On that night again a young, diminutive figure, male it looked from the angle, sat on the throne facing the ghastly altar of devils, demons, their hounds and whatnot. Fidgeting understandable before that lot. It would not have surprised in the slightest to find these touched youth strapped in somehow, restrained, perhaps by waist-bands. Three or four adults in the uniform of the temple were bent in close to the boy fussing. If these kids don't turn to drugs shortly after this treatment the author will be a monkey's uncle, he states it bluntly now for all to hear!
Cher-Li had never burnt a light previously, like two or three others in-between it and the temple at the end that did a roaring trade in saving and curing. Sometimes one found a chap at the front table of one of the unsuccessful or redundant temples in that row reading a newspaper and smoking. Once or twice an instinct to knock and try to gain admittance, talk to the former coolie, share a fag even, game of checkers. Not to be. On this night at the end of the first fortnight's New Year of the Horsey all the lights at Cher-Li were blazing, a dozen or more revelers it looked like. Some children; mostly middle-aged devotees. One foreign Mainland worker at least had not been embarrassed to join his Chinese cousins doubtless uninvited. This man stood near the right pillar on the entry gate and would receive a light elbow-knocking at the end of proceedings in an effort to share the joy of the banana that had been gifted the lucky inner circle within the gate. Pretty good, what do you reckon pal? Agreed. Nice grin. A bold venture will be rewarded more often than not in such interplay. One must rise to the challenge, cross the bridge. Not very hard with right thinking
What prompted a stop and indeed a retracing of a few steps at the gate on the first pass at Cher-Li was the figure in the white silk evidently the centre of attention. Everyone else dressed in civvies. Mid-sixties and perhaps beyond, balding dyed black hair what was left of it. Turned round later there was an unexpected long white chin-beard nearing the middle of his chest. Why was he flaying his arms about? Was he a Deaf, communicating in Sign? There was a stir around the figure. Some beefy chaps stood by letting him be. Was there special indulgence granted to a wandering drunk on New Year?
Back you go son for a little peek. It can't hurt. In the side Lorongs a sweaty fellow in shorts and old tee wouldn't create consternation or alarm. Not among this crowd, fitting deportment always assumed to be sure. What have we here dear people?
No sooner had an entry been made than the Silk lowered himself down onto the paving and there began waving his arms anew. It did appear rather as if he was making one or two of the female attendants hop and look lively. Loose, kind of limp gay wrist. A finger went boyishly up to the centre of his cheek. Drrrh, Homer Simpson like was it? (The author guessing here.) Under the chin later was another pose. The man could not settle, some kind of bee in the bonnet. A cushion perhaps required and pissed off waiting. In a proper chair there would have been toe-tapping.
Not before time, here was the lady carting a tray heavily laden with mandarins. Mandarins. It had been raining mandarins the last fortnight even in the largely Muslim quarter down the lower end of Geylang. Mandarins and more mandarins as if from some suddenly eruptive volcano that had lay dormant for centuries. Wasn't the time for giving of mandarins passed? That was a fortnight ago, right?
The white silk screened pretty much what the chap was about now, broad back on the Bugger. An arrangement of mandarins it seemed. A kind of chess play best known to the man himself. Not many were giving him much regard. Only the near attendants, his particular handmaidens, bent somewhat, former temple vestal virgins long since deflowered; nice Auntie types now. To and fro they went, back-stage a number of times. Smoking musicians behind, chatter, nothing in particular. The Silk Savant was he? happily playing. The musicians hung around for some reason. They often worked far into the night. Ten thirty was nothing. This may have been the last gig of the season.
Something the Silk was unhappy about again. Wearing out the patience of the two Aunties. One or two others might have deserted him. Waving, flicking fingers. Go hither, go. Don't come back without.... You tell these gals hammers they return with safety pins. Grrh! Something of the sort.
Fellow was playing the fool or else driven batty by this lot. Difficult to tell.
One or two more boxes of mandarins delivered. This was more like. Away he went again, fiddling the fruit only he knew how, back screening what he was actually about. Happy as Larry. A big game of solo chess did he have the rules; perhaps a pictorial representation of a crucial battle from one of the dynastic squabbles, rival wives, the usual trouble. Crayons might come out presently. Busy but soon unhappy again with something or other. It may have been the inferior help; better he had been used to. Woman retreated again with such a look upon her face. The Montenegrins say, As if scalded by boiling water. Serve her right.
Here she was back with just the thing. Why hadn't she delivered the article before, made the man lose his temper. Large pomelos that must have been fully one and one half kilogram. Subsequent information would uncover fully two. Now we were cooking with gas dear lady. Six or seven the Auntie had brought; one too many. Take that away. The pomelos were plonked down quickly, job almost done. Not a lot to ponder now. Getting up needed an arm either side, two of the chaps in place. Ah! Done and dusted. Good, good, good. The man did a few circles around the paving looking outward. No need rethink his creation. It was good. A garland of green leaves hanging down past his navel was donned at some point. Handling the mandarins the chap had spoilt his fine bright tunic. A dragon out and about—ten to one at home he would get a goodly pasting from the Missus, should he be so lucky to have attained the prize.
On the inner side there the Silk—Savant was he?—meandered away toward the head of the temple, the entry doors. There was a polished wood throne in place, more like a high seat; nothing like the ornate throne up at the temple at the end of the row. On the other side in the driveway cigarettes were being discarded, one or two swiped carefully for future re-lighting. Some little circle made by the Silk, the Savant, to his seat. A Dragon coming to life the other side. No, two Dragons, a pair. Chap holding a long pole, polished wood in the same tone as the chair, must have come out from back somewhere. This fellow had Bit-player written all over him. Here once the Silk Savant was seated the great staff passed to him. A scepter of sorts, on the cheap side. In the old Robin Hood movies Little John and the others gave battle with such weapons when they came to bridges and an on-coming other needed to step aside.
Enter the Dragon pair. Music. Crash, clash, drum-hammer more than roll. Pipes and horns were of course missing in the Lion Dance. Prancing dragons within the tight space. Only at this point was the handiwork of the Silk Savant noticed. The dragon pair was approaching it stealthily. Three dozen mandarins perhaps had been arranged in something like a question mark. Was it a gaping mouth of some kind of beast in profile? A dragon indeed; the famous Merlion? Mandarins in lines and swirls and a simple row of the pomelos down at chin level perhaps. It was only at the very end of the ceremony that the character up on a black board high over the entry door to the temple was noticed. A kind of figure in profile, perhaps capped and open-mouthed. Cher or Li? Just then that particular ideogram could not be recalled from the modest lexical store.
The dragon pair pranced in close alignment. They needed to in that tight space. No-one was trampled in the end. Good job. A short dance in fact, as the pair soon dropped on the fruit that the Silk Savant had arranged and covered the whole with their long bodies. Music, music all the while. Beside the pillar stood the mounted great gong. Through the centuries this piece had called to battle, appeased gods and devils, announced a new entry into the Imperial household (some pretty darling that had caught the Emperor's eye in passing through his domain.) Kilometres and kilometres distant over countless rice paddies the sound had carried. Beside the great Gong, the chief skin drum pelted with a pair of almost conventional drum-sticks, in this case without shaping at the head. Three or four cymbals behind. The fact one pair was wielded by a young teenage girl failed to lessen the volume.
Actionless otherwise, at least so far as visible action was concerned. The dragon pair was presumably feeding on the fruit. Whatever they were doing was not visible. Ornate dragon pelts, white in chief with gold tassels and red inserts ringed with black lines. Now and then dragon legs emerged as the animals twisted and turned. An older big-boned supervisor stepped forward more than once to pull the carapace back when it had slipped a little.
Strange that so many could stand patiently observing nothing much. There did not seem to be a single palm-screen. No ringing of phone or conversation. Well the music rather knocked that on the head. Local Facebook took an unaccustomed dint the evening that marked the end of NY festivities on the island of Singapore. Nothing to look at, yet people standing uncomplaining. Children not bawling or attempting to drag their parents away. Cigarettes were the only distraction, and not in every hand either. Music on top of music. Tireless performers hammering and thrashing. The activity of the dragons very much the lesser part. Drum, gong, cymbals. There had been no rain for over a month, well over; therefore no thunder. The recall was brought home. The moon had slipped from memory. Moon? When was that?... Within the entryway of the Cher-Li Temple not a single neck had craned for the whole of the half hour of this strange ceremony.
Flitting rats scuttling out of the corner of the eye. In fact, no. Peels it was being tossed from under the belly of the dragons. Peels and sometimes half-gnawed mandarins. The beasts were having a merry time. On his throne the Silk Savant appeared satisfied. Once or twice one of the Auntie attendants came to whisper in his ear. One leg he had raised up on his seat, not brought under him in the usual way, but knee pointed skyward. Casual as you like. There was no slow pulling of the chin-beard. Someone had relieved the chap of his big stick. It would have been tiring holding the piece.
What were the dragons about? There were a good number of mandarins, granted. But for a pair of hungry dragons? Would have expected them to polish off the repast in half the time. No, they kept on, peels flying. A scurrying rat might have been knocked unconscious going about his business out front of Cher-Li that night that marked the end of the first fortnight of the New Year of the Horse. No pomelo peels noticeable. A child had a whole mandarin fly directly onto his sandal without the reflexive free kick at goal in response. (The well behaved children of the island have been remarked on numerous occasions; perhaps unsurprising in the land of the cane and noose.)
Cymbal, drum, gong. The young boy at the latter stood too low for the mounted piece. Never a worry. DA DA RA RA RA BUM BUM BUM TA TA. After thirty-two months and now the third CNY a newcomer could have taken a place among the musicians on the instant no trouble whatever, whether cymbal, drum or gong. One thought again of rolling rice paddies. Music to the ears of those folk bent over the fields, knee-deep in water, toes squishy in the soil. Young daughter would bring father lunch from home on a basket atop her head, taken under a tree with a cuppa. New-borns arrived into the world of ancient China with the Lion Dance tattooed into their DNA. Away from home, labouring for a foreign master, driven like dogs, small wonder the opium pipe was a much welcome recourse. Early days in Singapore the dirt poor folk from the Mainland could not have afforded brass, silk and finery. Toiling in the tin mines, on the rubber plantations, carting the cargoes to the warehouses along the Singapore river, the tune of the Lion dance would have played internally with the echoes of Home sweet home.
More peels flung out the sides. This was some feast. It might have provided a nice spectacle had the dragons been lying on their backs.
Cymbals, drums, gong. Latter most of all. Any longer the pillar would have collapsed under the assault. The concrete underfoot had been shaking for ages. No joke, one was getting peckish standing around like that with the rising aroma of sweet mandarins.
Music. The young Shorty smiling and smiling. No trouble he could have carried on to next morning. Good one lad. Smiles exchanged a number of times by the pillar.
Finally, finally, when the pillar had more or less a companion of stone adjacent, an end was come. Yes, movement at the station, the dragon was rising, the pair of dragons. Fair job after that repast. If there had been any lessening of tempo at some point, certainly now the tune was running at a furious pace. How the boy blushed thrashing his brass. Up on tippy toes he had risen, almost as high as the prancing dragon pair. Smiling all the while, blowing and smiling. One of the elders eventually noticed the strain and came over to switch the lad onto the drum. Belting away once more for all he was worth, two hands now. Great fun.
The dragons could barely raise a gallop. A brief circuit and they were done. Only once they had gotten back to their truck did the sight fall to the pavement, the concrete ground of the forecourt vacated by the beasts. Oh! Not all the mandarins had been consumed. In fact here we had naked fruit in quarters and halves arranged in another shape now, a larger head of some kind, not dissimilar to the earlier Silk Savant's effort. Larger maw it seemed and topped with a plumed helmet of some sort. No wonder the Fire breathers had squatted so long.
On his faux throne the Silk Savant gave approval. Three, four and more definite nods. Didn't mind his own creation being scrubbed and newly configured. Another round from the musicians. Boy!
An Outsider who had never seen a pomelo before, much less peeled, did wonder where they had got to. Was the fruit there among all the mandarin indistinguishable? Could giant melons of that size reduce to little pods no different to a mandarin? Confession: At the time, on the night, this particular fruit had not been given a name by the author. Unless greatly mistaken, the bulbous forms had been seen on the fruit stands. Research required.
Who better to ask than Mr. Lim, the reliable Haig Road Fruiterer? An inspired choice as we shall learn directly.
The good man found in attendance at his stall Monday morning. Three or four days he had been unexpectedly closed, the stall shuttered without warning. Four or five days at New Year proper; now once more not a fortnight hence.
Mr. Lim explained Youngster had been complaining these many years that Elder had been on a cruise. Elder had been to the Gold Coast. Elder this and Elder that. Zero for Youngster. Nothing to tell classmates, nothing to boast about on return from holidays. When was it his turn? &etc.
OK OK OK. A Star Cruise. Near $500 each. Grandma couldn't walk far. (Emphysema, fagging away unfiltered every morning.) Gran loved a bet by the way. Prior to the two casinos here the floating casinos were the concession. Gran had heard about them, started up a dirge in support of Youngster; &etc. Missus had a bad back. She couldn't walk far either. Four day cruise. Rather off subject, but there you have it. Part and parcel of Mr. Lim’s valuable info shortly.
Now, Pomelo or no Mr. L?
Affirmative. Simple question. Smaller on the lower shelf 8 - 900gm; upper larger almost two kilograms. Coconuts didn't weigh that. Jackfruit were monsters, but these pomelos were not far off. The tropics a marvel, magic, no wonder the Brits, Dutch and Portuguese went Ga-ga here.
Lucky chance, Mr. Lim knew all about these Chin festivals too. Of course. How could he not? Middle forties and following his old Da's trade—a costermonger properly—young Mr. Lim had one foot in the past.
First important correction: the Silk Savant was no Idiot or Emperor's Court Fool. No. You younger Chinese pay attention now while this ang moh puts you to school. Sit up straight in the back row.
There were once two brothers. Sword brothers.... In fact one finds the same in the Christian tradition. Well known Sword Brothers; something like Blood. Sworn to each other, better than almost any born brothers could ever hope for. (Especially once sisters-in-law stepped onto the stage.)
— Olden days the Daoists believed in idols...
Gotcha Mr. Lim. Understood. Those Olden days not entirely departed.
....These idols give help and comfort in Olden days....
OK OK OK Mr. L....
Up a lane beside the Cop-shop at Paya Lebar past the MRT you would find a large Daoist temple that showed two figures at the chief altar. One tall one in white; short in black. The Sword Brothers you were hearing about. Tall understandably enough elder. One day the pair had made an arrangement to meet on a bridge. Under a bridge, correction....
What better marker than a bridge olden days. You wouldn't wait up in the weather would you? Down in the shade. OK OK OK.
Younger Brother in black arriving first, waiting. Waiting and waiting. Days pass. Sun, then no sun. Rain. Rain and rain. Brother waiting. Rain makes the river rise. Younger Sword Brother not likely to leave his post. River rising, a torrent. Long and the short of it, swallows the man. Younger Bro drowns. Fini. Bring down the curtain.
Not a surprise Olden day Chinese peasants could neither swim nor even float. Recreation came after Olden days.
Somehow or other when Older Sword Brother finally turns up, there before him Younger Brother's bloated corpse. Not taken away by the raging torrent. Taken and returned again perhaps on the force of the tide from the sea not far distant. Maybe.
One had heard similar in the olden day tales of Montenegro, when they worshiped a bit idols of their own. Older Sword Brother hangs himself without further ado.
Fidelity and faithfulness like that gets rewarded in any cosmology you care to mention: Icelandic, Amazonian, arboreal tribes near the source of the White Nile. Same goes for the Daoists. In this case the pair of Sword Brothers, like two pillars holding up the roof of a temple, get the gig at the entry-gates to Hell. You wouldn’t think that an especially sought-after post. Never mind that. Uniform, good grub, pension for eternity, and no flame in the vicinity of your own butt. Sneaking outta the kitchen past that pair a Shade would wanna be extra lucky. Older Sword Brother beside Younger till the end of time, with Smoko breaks and occasional feasts. Worth directing prayers in their vicinity for sure while you were still footing about on the terrestrial sphere. Particularly every New Year. Perfectly understood.
Spirit of Elder Sword Brother become Hell Guard here at Cher-Li entered the Silk other, the chap mistakenly assumed a Fool. Not the case; possessed rather by the spirit of the hero. Having that fellow on your side cleared the way for good times in store. Vital for the year ahead.
The mandarins? One had long wondered what they signified. Fortune came as no surprise. Fortune. How to kick on without a bit on one's side? Glossy bright, gold almost…. The matter of pomelos had never entered the head of an outsider. There had never been any down on the great Southern land during any of the transplanted festivities there. In fact the pomelo was the clincher.
Returning to the room after dinner the trusty old lamp had lit the dark back corner off Onan Road around from Little Saigon. Emerging in the walk gear a half hour later the disc stood atop the stand of trees on the opposite pavement rather like in the nativity scenes in the living-rooms over the island a couple of months ago—round rather than star shape here. The usual Long March out to Middle Road at the National Library corner Saturday, leaving a trifle late, shortly after half-nine. Along the fifty-five minute outbound the moon was pretty much forgotten, and likewise returning on the slightly varied track. Crossing Kalang Bridge there was some short-change silver on the expanse of water toward the first bend where some fisher-folk lined the bank. Through the back Lorongs of Geylang the usual shadowy sights of workers on the paving half-illuminated by their palm-screens, working girls and the back kitchen clatter. All familiar and unexceptional. Soothing the dependable rhythms in the hour before sleep in some strange way. All familiar and nothing to remark until the Cher-Li Temple up in the middle of the cluster in No. 6 was reached.
After such an extended acquaintance the Lion Dance troupe on its own was of little interest. It was down-time for the group in any case in the driveway of the temple, the show all over and a pack-up perhaps. Ciggies burning among the musicians. March right past, need to get on. It had been a late start. Usually this particular temple was shrouded in darkness. A night or two ago there was one of the ceremonials in the one further up at the end of the row. It made a passerby wince now more often than not. On that night again a young, diminutive figure, male it looked from the angle, sat on the throne facing the ghastly altar of devils, demons, their hounds and whatnot. Fidgeting understandable before that lot. It would not have surprised in the slightest to find these touched youth strapped in somehow, restrained, perhaps by waist-bands. Three or four adults in the uniform of the temple were bent in close to the boy fussing. If these kids don't turn to drugs shortly after this treatment the author will be a monkey's uncle, he states it bluntly now for all to hear!
Cher-Li had never burnt a light previously, like two or three others in-between it and the temple at the end that did a roaring trade in saving and curing. Sometimes one found a chap at the front table of one of the unsuccessful or redundant temples in that row reading a newspaper and smoking. Once or twice an instinct to knock and try to gain admittance, talk to the former coolie, share a fag even, game of checkers. Not to be. On this night at the end of the first fortnight's New Year of the Horsey all the lights at Cher-Li were blazing, a dozen or more revelers it looked like. Some children; mostly middle-aged devotees. One foreign Mainland worker at least had not been embarrassed to join his Chinese cousins doubtless uninvited. This man stood near the right pillar on the entry gate and would receive a light elbow-knocking at the end of proceedings in an effort to share the joy of the banana that had been gifted the lucky inner circle within the gate. Pretty good, what do you reckon pal? Agreed. Nice grin. A bold venture will be rewarded more often than not in such interplay. One must rise to the challenge, cross the bridge. Not very hard with right thinking
What prompted a stop and indeed a retracing of a few steps at the gate on the first pass at Cher-Li was the figure in the white silk evidently the centre of attention. Everyone else dressed in civvies. Mid-sixties and perhaps beyond, balding dyed black hair what was left of it. Turned round later there was an unexpected long white chin-beard nearing the middle of his chest. Why was he flaying his arms about? Was he a Deaf, communicating in Sign? There was a stir around the figure. Some beefy chaps stood by letting him be. Was there special indulgence granted to a wandering drunk on New Year?
Back you go son for a little peek. It can't hurt. In the side Lorongs a sweaty fellow in shorts and old tee wouldn't create consternation or alarm. Not among this crowd, fitting deportment always assumed to be sure. What have we here dear people?
No sooner had an entry been made than the Silk lowered himself down onto the paving and there began waving his arms anew. It did appear rather as if he was making one or two of the female attendants hop and look lively. Loose, kind of limp gay wrist. A finger went boyishly up to the centre of his cheek. Drrrh, Homer Simpson like was it? (The author guessing here.) Under the chin later was another pose. The man could not settle, some kind of bee in the bonnet. A cushion perhaps required and pissed off waiting. In a proper chair there would have been toe-tapping.
Not before time, here was the lady carting a tray heavily laden with mandarins. Mandarins. It had been raining mandarins the last fortnight even in the largely Muslim quarter down the lower end of Geylang. Mandarins and more mandarins as if from some suddenly eruptive volcano that had lay dormant for centuries. Wasn't the time for giving of mandarins passed? That was a fortnight ago, right?
The white silk screened pretty much what the chap was about now, broad back on the Bugger. An arrangement of mandarins it seemed. A kind of chess play best known to the man himself. Not many were giving him much regard. Only the near attendants, his particular handmaidens, bent somewhat, former temple vestal virgins long since deflowered; nice Auntie types now. To and fro they went, back-stage a number of times. Smoking musicians behind, chatter, nothing in particular. The Silk Savant was he? happily playing. The musicians hung around for some reason. They often worked far into the night. Ten thirty was nothing. This may have been the last gig of the season.
Something the Silk was unhappy about again. Wearing out the patience of the two Aunties. One or two others might have deserted him. Waving, flicking fingers. Go hither, go. Don't come back without.... You tell these gals hammers they return with safety pins. Grrh! Something of the sort.
Fellow was playing the fool or else driven batty by this lot. Difficult to tell.
One or two more boxes of mandarins delivered. This was more like. Away he went again, fiddling the fruit only he knew how, back screening what he was actually about. Happy as Larry. A big game of solo chess did he have the rules; perhaps a pictorial representation of a crucial battle from one of the dynastic squabbles, rival wives, the usual trouble. Crayons might come out presently. Busy but soon unhappy again with something or other. It may have been the inferior help; better he had been used to. Woman retreated again with such a look upon her face. The Montenegrins say, As if scalded by boiling water. Serve her right.
Here she was back with just the thing. Why hadn't she delivered the article before, made the man lose his temper. Large pomelos that must have been fully one and one half kilogram. Subsequent information would uncover fully two. Now we were cooking with gas dear lady. Six or seven the Auntie had brought; one too many. Take that away. The pomelos were plonked down quickly, job almost done. Not a lot to ponder now. Getting up needed an arm either side, two of the chaps in place. Ah! Done and dusted. Good, good, good. The man did a few circles around the paving looking outward. No need rethink his creation. It was good. A garland of green leaves hanging down past his navel was donned at some point. Handling the mandarins the chap had spoilt his fine bright tunic. A dragon out and about—ten to one at home he would get a goodly pasting from the Missus, should he be so lucky to have attained the prize.
On the inner side there the Silk—Savant was he?—meandered away toward the head of the temple, the entry doors. There was a polished wood throne in place, more like a high seat; nothing like the ornate throne up at the temple at the end of the row. On the other side in the driveway cigarettes were being discarded, one or two swiped carefully for future re-lighting. Some little circle made by the Silk, the Savant, to his seat. A Dragon coming to life the other side. No, two Dragons, a pair. Chap holding a long pole, polished wood in the same tone as the chair, must have come out from back somewhere. This fellow had Bit-player written all over him. Here once the Silk Savant was seated the great staff passed to him. A scepter of sorts, on the cheap side. In the old Robin Hood movies Little John and the others gave battle with such weapons when they came to bridges and an on-coming other needed to step aside.
Enter the Dragon pair. Music. Crash, clash, drum-hammer more than roll. Pipes and horns were of course missing in the Lion Dance. Prancing dragons within the tight space. Only at this point was the handiwork of the Silk Savant noticed. The dragon pair was approaching it stealthily. Three dozen mandarins perhaps had been arranged in something like a question mark. Was it a gaping mouth of some kind of beast in profile? A dragon indeed; the famous Merlion? Mandarins in lines and swirls and a simple row of the pomelos down at chin level perhaps. It was only at the very end of the ceremony that the character up on a black board high over the entry door to the temple was noticed. A kind of figure in profile, perhaps capped and open-mouthed. Cher or Li? Just then that particular ideogram could not be recalled from the modest lexical store.
The dragon pair pranced in close alignment. They needed to in that tight space. No-one was trampled in the end. Good job. A short dance in fact, as the pair soon dropped on the fruit that the Silk Savant had arranged and covered the whole with their long bodies. Music, music all the while. Beside the pillar stood the mounted great gong. Through the centuries this piece had called to battle, appeased gods and devils, announced a new entry into the Imperial household (some pretty darling that had caught the Emperor's eye in passing through his domain.) Kilometres and kilometres distant over countless rice paddies the sound had carried. Beside the great Gong, the chief skin drum pelted with a pair of almost conventional drum-sticks, in this case without shaping at the head. Three or four cymbals behind. The fact one pair was wielded by a young teenage girl failed to lessen the volume.
Actionless otherwise, at least so far as visible action was concerned. The dragon pair was presumably feeding on the fruit. Whatever they were doing was not visible. Ornate dragon pelts, white in chief with gold tassels and red inserts ringed with black lines. Now and then dragon legs emerged as the animals twisted and turned. An older big-boned supervisor stepped forward more than once to pull the carapace back when it had slipped a little.
Strange that so many could stand patiently observing nothing much. There did not seem to be a single palm-screen. No ringing of phone or conversation. Well the music rather knocked that on the head. Local Facebook took an unaccustomed dint the evening that marked the end of NY festivities on the island of Singapore. Nothing to look at, yet people standing uncomplaining. Children not bawling or attempting to drag their parents away. Cigarettes were the only distraction, and not in every hand either. Music on top of music. Tireless performers hammering and thrashing. The activity of the dragons very much the lesser part. Drum, gong, cymbals. There had been no rain for over a month, well over; therefore no thunder. The recall was brought home. The moon had slipped from memory. Moon? When was that?... Within the entryway of the Cher-Li Temple not a single neck had craned for the whole of the half hour of this strange ceremony.
Flitting rats scuttling out of the corner of the eye. In fact, no. Peels it was being tossed from under the belly of the dragons. Peels and sometimes half-gnawed mandarins. The beasts were having a merry time. On his throne the Silk Savant appeared satisfied. Once or twice one of the Auntie attendants came to whisper in his ear. One leg he had raised up on his seat, not brought under him in the usual way, but knee pointed skyward. Casual as you like. There was no slow pulling of the chin-beard. Someone had relieved the chap of his big stick. It would have been tiring holding the piece.
What were the dragons about? There were a good number of mandarins, granted. But for a pair of hungry dragons? Would have expected them to polish off the repast in half the time. No, they kept on, peels flying. A scurrying rat might have been knocked unconscious going about his business out front of Cher-Li that night that marked the end of the first fortnight of the New Year of the Horse. No pomelo peels noticeable. A child had a whole mandarin fly directly onto his sandal without the reflexive free kick at goal in response. (The well behaved children of the island have been remarked on numerous occasions; perhaps unsurprising in the land of the cane and noose.)
Cymbal, drum, gong. The young boy at the latter stood too low for the mounted piece. Never a worry. DA DA RA RA RA BUM BUM BUM TA TA. After thirty-two months and now the third CNY a newcomer could have taken a place among the musicians on the instant no trouble whatever, whether cymbal, drum or gong. One thought again of rolling rice paddies. Music to the ears of those folk bent over the fields, knee-deep in water, toes squishy in the soil. Young daughter would bring father lunch from home on a basket atop her head, taken under a tree with a cuppa. New-borns arrived into the world of ancient China with the Lion Dance tattooed into their DNA. Away from home, labouring for a foreign master, driven like dogs, small wonder the opium pipe was a much welcome recourse. Early days in Singapore the dirt poor folk from the Mainland could not have afforded brass, silk and finery. Toiling in the tin mines, on the rubber plantations, carting the cargoes to the warehouses along the Singapore river, the tune of the Lion dance would have played internally with the echoes of Home sweet home.
More peels flung out the sides. This was some feast. It might have provided a nice spectacle had the dragons been lying on their backs.
Cymbals, drums, gong. Latter most of all. Any longer the pillar would have collapsed under the assault. The concrete underfoot had been shaking for ages. No joke, one was getting peckish standing around like that with the rising aroma of sweet mandarins.
Music. The young Shorty smiling and smiling. No trouble he could have carried on to next morning. Good one lad. Smiles exchanged a number of times by the pillar.
Finally, finally, when the pillar had more or less a companion of stone adjacent, an end was come. Yes, movement at the station, the dragon was rising, the pair of dragons. Fair job after that repast. If there had been any lessening of tempo at some point, certainly now the tune was running at a furious pace. How the boy blushed thrashing his brass. Up on tippy toes he had risen, almost as high as the prancing dragon pair. Smiling all the while, blowing and smiling. One of the elders eventually noticed the strain and came over to switch the lad onto the drum. Belting away once more for all he was worth, two hands now. Great fun.
The dragons could barely raise a gallop. A brief circuit and they were done. Only once they had gotten back to their truck did the sight fall to the pavement, the concrete ground of the forecourt vacated by the beasts. Oh! Not all the mandarins had been consumed. In fact here we had naked fruit in quarters and halves arranged in another shape now, a larger head of some kind, not dissimilar to the earlier Silk Savant's effort. Larger maw it seemed and topped with a plumed helmet of some sort. No wonder the Fire breathers had squatted so long.
On his faux throne the Silk Savant gave approval. Three, four and more definite nods. Didn't mind his own creation being scrubbed and newly configured. Another round from the musicians. Boy!
An Outsider who had never seen a pomelo before, much less peeled, did wonder where they had got to. Was the fruit there among all the mandarin indistinguishable? Could giant melons of that size reduce to little pods no different to a mandarin? Confession: At the time, on the night, this particular fruit had not been given a name by the author. Unless greatly mistaken, the bulbous forms had been seen on the fruit stands. Research required.
Who better to ask than Mr. Lim, the reliable Haig Road Fruiterer? An inspired choice as we shall learn directly.
The good man found in attendance at his stall Monday morning. Three or four days he had been unexpectedly closed, the stall shuttered without warning. Four or five days at New Year proper; now once more not a fortnight hence.
Mr. Lim explained Youngster had been complaining these many years that Elder had been on a cruise. Elder had been to the Gold Coast. Elder this and Elder that. Zero for Youngster. Nothing to tell classmates, nothing to boast about on return from holidays. When was it his turn? &etc.
OK OK OK. A Star Cruise. Near $500 each. Grandma couldn't walk far. (Emphysema, fagging away unfiltered every morning.) Gran loved a bet by the way. Prior to the two casinos here the floating casinos were the concession. Gran had heard about them, started up a dirge in support of Youngster; &etc. Missus had a bad back. She couldn't walk far either. Four day cruise. Rather off subject, but there you have it. Part and parcel of Mr. Lim’s valuable info shortly.
Now, Pomelo or no Mr. L?
Affirmative. Simple question. Smaller on the lower shelf 8 - 900gm; upper larger almost two kilograms. Coconuts didn't weigh that. Jackfruit were monsters, but these pomelos were not far off. The tropics a marvel, magic, no wonder the Brits, Dutch and Portuguese went Ga-ga here.
Lucky chance, Mr. Lim knew all about these Chin festivals too. Of course. How could he not? Middle forties and following his old Da's trade—a costermonger properly—young Mr. Lim had one foot in the past.
First important correction: the Silk Savant was no Idiot or Emperor's Court Fool. No. You younger Chinese pay attention now while this ang moh puts you to school. Sit up straight in the back row.
There were once two brothers. Sword brothers.... In fact one finds the same in the Christian tradition. Well known Sword Brothers; something like Blood. Sworn to each other, better than almost any born brothers could ever hope for. (Especially once sisters-in-law stepped onto the stage.)
— Olden days the Daoists believed in idols...
Gotcha Mr. Lim. Understood. Those Olden days not entirely departed.
....These idols give help and comfort in Olden days....
OK OK OK Mr. L....
Up a lane beside the Cop-shop at Paya Lebar past the MRT you would find a large Daoist temple that showed two figures at the chief altar. One tall one in white; short in black. The Sword Brothers you were hearing about. Tall understandably enough elder. One day the pair had made an arrangement to meet on a bridge. Under a bridge, correction....
What better marker than a bridge olden days. You wouldn't wait up in the weather would you? Down in the shade. OK OK OK.
Younger Brother in black arriving first, waiting. Waiting and waiting. Days pass. Sun, then no sun. Rain. Rain and rain. Brother waiting. Rain makes the river rise. Younger Sword Brother not likely to leave his post. River rising, a torrent. Long and the short of it, swallows the man. Younger Bro drowns. Fini. Bring down the curtain.
Not a surprise Olden day Chinese peasants could neither swim nor even float. Recreation came after Olden days.
Somehow or other when Older Sword Brother finally turns up, there before him Younger Brother's bloated corpse. Not taken away by the raging torrent. Taken and returned again perhaps on the force of the tide from the sea not far distant. Maybe.
One had heard similar in the olden day tales of Montenegro, when they worshiped a bit idols of their own. Older Sword Brother hangs himself without further ado.
Fidelity and faithfulness like that gets rewarded in any cosmology you care to mention: Icelandic, Amazonian, arboreal tribes near the source of the White Nile. Same goes for the Daoists. In this case the pair of Sword Brothers, like two pillars holding up the roof of a temple, get the gig at the entry-gates to Hell. You wouldn’t think that an especially sought-after post. Never mind that. Uniform, good grub, pension for eternity, and no flame in the vicinity of your own butt. Sneaking outta the kitchen past that pair a Shade would wanna be extra lucky. Older Sword Brother beside Younger till the end of time, with Smoko breaks and occasional feasts. Worth directing prayers in their vicinity for sure while you were still footing about on the terrestrial sphere. Particularly every New Year. Perfectly understood.
Spirit of Elder Sword Brother become Hell Guard here at Cher-Li entered the Silk other, the chap mistakenly assumed a Fool. Not the case; possessed rather by the spirit of the hero. Having that fellow on your side cleared the way for good times in store. Vital for the year ahead.
The mandarins? One had long wondered what they signified. Fortune came as no surprise. Fortune. How to kick on without a bit on one's side? Glossy bright, gold almost…. The matter of pomelos had never entered the head of an outsider. There had never been any down on the great Southern land during any of the transplanted festivities there. In fact the pomelo was the clincher.
— Know the Mandarin—the language; not
the fruit here—for Pomelo?...
….Well Mr. Lim, have to confess, that has slipped unaccountably…. No, can’t bring it back.
…. Slight lag as usually the case in like circumstance. The Oracle about to divulge…. Puffs on the cigarette, like his mum.
— You, sounded Mr. Lim the good Fruiterer as if in a voice from underground…. You.
Something half-way between the Homer Simpson Yankee Yo! and the more common Second Person Singular: You. You…. Yo! You….
OK OK OK. Gotcha. But. What of it my man? You—Yo! What do we have?
Mr. Lim the Fruiterer was getting to that under his own steam....
— Know what it means?...
Long story short:…. (The man is OK. Doesn’t have the kids sitting at his feet every night under the aircon soaking up the pearls from Olden days.) ….GOT IT…. The possessive: To have. You. YO!...
....Thinking time allowed....
Fortune in the abstract is about as useful as tits on a bull, if it aint in your possession. Know what I mean? Got it? Fortune on the one hand; then the possessive on the other. Mandarin; pomelo. Bingo. Yours. Ownership. A gold mine basically.
Happy Horsey NY once more to all. Phew. Fair ride on the merry-go-round.
….Well Mr. Lim, have to confess, that has slipped unaccountably…. No, can’t bring it back.
…. Slight lag as usually the case in like circumstance. The Oracle about to divulge…. Puffs on the cigarette, like his mum.
— You, sounded Mr. Lim the good Fruiterer as if in a voice from underground…. You.
Something half-way between the Homer Simpson Yankee Yo! and the more common Second Person Singular: You. You…. Yo! You….
OK OK OK. Gotcha. But. What of it my man? You—Yo! What do we have?
Mr. Lim the Fruiterer was getting to that under his own steam....
— Know what it means?...
Long story short:…. (The man is OK. Doesn’t have the kids sitting at his feet every night under the aircon soaking up the pearls from Olden days.) ….GOT IT…. The possessive: To have. You. YO!...
....Thinking time allowed....
Fortune in the abstract is about as useful as tits on a bull, if it aint in your possession. Know what I mean? Got it? Fortune on the one hand; then the possessive on the other. Mandarin; pomelo. Bingo. Yours. Ownership. A gold mine basically.
Happy Horsey NY once more to all. Phew. Fair ride on the merry-go-round.
