The tee was bought the week before and trialed a couple of days. Traditionally an entire deck of new clothes it was supposed to be for the first day of NY—the same for Hari Raya for the Malays.
Bold bright red denoted prosperity and fortune, the blood of life in essence.
Contrary to expectations, through the Haig blocks this morning the flags were not being flown on all sides. Dotted here and there rather. The lower end of Geylang was not really the place for it.
Tonight a little jaunt was planned for the upper and middle reaches, where the Mainland lads would be out in force at the tables, the Tsinghua flowing, back-slapping and all the rest. Hopefully Ong the carpenter/ex-offender would be found at Tasvee and we could catch-up without prior arrangement like the year before.
If there was something less of the colour at this end, there was certainly plenty of Sunday best, including a pair of knee-length boots and leggings in this admittedly cooler part of the year.
Little red paper carry-bags holding hongbao for children in evidence. Recipients were the young and unmarried, Auntie Helen the Cat-lady in the Carpmael house made clear when she was jokingly petitioned on the Eve. A blush brought to an old spinster's cheeks putting the old bachelor ang moh straight.
In fact the author had been the recipient of the hongbao previously, and this year the same again. A similar jest last year with the Chinese Manager of Mr. Teh Tarik saw the packet produced with a tenner folded inside. Blushingly it was received last year. (It had been declined from the same source the year prior, when the matter was not properly understood.)
This year a similar, more serious offering in a pink envelope had been declined initially. Poor form, explained friends at the table observing. One was supposed to receive such courtesy, and of course respond at some future time in kind.
The benefactor this year was an interesting, troubled new acquaintance, a painter from the Mainland settled here twenty years. Well established the woman seemed, from the catalogue she brought down from her flat above the market. School-teaching and family may have put the squeeze on out-put.
A brief, initial meeting a few months before; with immediate out-pouring and importunate appeals.
The woman wanted the story of her love and life written and disclosed to the world.
All in earnest at the very first acquaintance
Recognition in Singapore and on the Mainland by no means satisfied this lady. More, much more was sought. Hers was a unique story that promised to benefit the author in equal part, if he would accept the invitation…
Singapore was a hothouse alright. Fevers of all kinds.
A pair of plastic wrapped mandarins had followed with the hongbao. Having been presented, some shyness overcame and the lady retreated a little. She made to leave, stopped and stood off from the table for a few moments. It looked like quiet pleading and hopefulness.
If only the trusty pen was a magic wand! (How strange having one’s private hopes and deepest aspirations arriving in a voice from outside. The wild, topmost heights of artistic ambition frankly stated just like that.)
Further observations on the day: If the author was not greatly mistaken, it seemed the Malays that morning down at Lower Geylang may have taken extra care with their attire on this particular Friday. Was there an upping of finery and neatness in order to meet the standard set by their compatriots, their neighbours and friends, on this signal day of theirs? Was it only imagining?
Over lunch the always resplendent Mr. Zainuddin in fact answered in the affirmative.
Yah! Twas so. In both the Qur’an and the Hadiths the believer was encouraged to share in the happiness of others; to commiserate in their grief, no matter colour or creed.
Prior to the question being put it was noticeable Zainuddin was being even more generous than usual to the circling beggars and tissue-sellers. The JB Chinese lad who sometimes made a nuisance of himself pestering the same tables repeatedly, received a Two from Zainuddin.
The recent old Chinese lady with the stick carried like a baton selling her tissues—not the similar bowing and crying other—collected another of the same for a single pack from Zainuddin. (Three tissue packs for a dollar was the usual trade.)
The mandarin on the table—not strictly belonging to Mr. Z.—was presented by the man first to one and then the other of this pair.
Zainuddin was a truly inspired Sufi—it was indicated by the strenuous denials.
Gong xi fa chai! once more.
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