After lunch Wednesday it was this week the long march with Gab. The cleaning lady had not switched her days and Gabriel was working Thursday. What had the Angel devised this time? Well, first of all a little turn around the temple precinct off Paya Lebar Road, not far from the MRT & the Police Station. Mr. Lim the Haig Road greengrocer had mentioned these temples when delivering his tale of the Sword Brothers at CNY.
True enough, in the midst of industrial lots serviced by busy, dirty traffic sewers, one soon came onto brightly coloured columns and wavey roofing, an unusual large gravel space in the forecourt that bore no markers for parking. In addition, as reported by Mr. Lim too, in the centre of one of the many altars under the roofs of this network of temples stood a large, gilded figure wielding a long, heavy and menacing blade over-head. None other than the Elder Sword Brother of Mr. Lim's olden days fidelity story. There he stood raised above lesser others either side, smooth gold sheen coated over the entire torso, eyes and all. Children who had been told the same tale through the NY festivities must have been awe-struck at first encounter.
Tall cylinders with small numbered compartments corresponded to the columbariums, where the ashes of the departed were kept, the angel Gabriel fluted in a whisper.
Presumably one paid to have this catalogue on the shelf of a fine, ornate altar. One or two people were bent on the prayer stools throwing shells of some kind onto the tiled floor. On first hearing, one assumed a pair of chopsticks had fallen. A heavy, middle-aged chap had lowered himself before the altar and showed a solemn face. A moment later the clatter of the coloured shells.
Again, Gabriel had the knowledge: appeals for lucky numbers for the lottery draw.
After the temples, circling round to the McPherson shoprow, the queue at the lottery outlet snaked across the length of the footpath and around the corner out of sight. It was possible the petitioners at the temple had walked over.
A massive temple complex that looked far in excess of requirements. Perfectly maintained, clean and newly painted, bright and gleaming. Could NY festivities, funerals and circumcisions support such large establishments on this tiny island, with its hot-house housing market?
Again, according to the divine, these temples were commonly thronged with worshippers, devotees & believers, after hours and weekends.
A stretch that Gabriel, but have it your way.
Certainly the Angel did know his terrain. A good friend of the angelic Guide had familial roots in this very quarter. Once upon a time, there had been kampung long-houses throughout, these temples the central focus of the community. A short generation and one half later, everything was swamped after the great, famous Third - First World leap.
KKK, Gabby. Hard to believe, but OK. (After two and one half years, one was adopting some of the refrains of the locals.)
In one of the alcoves of the temple precinct the shelves were crowded with ceramic figurines that almost to a man—there were no female pieces—bowed their heads slightly and lowered eyelids. One was struck by the uniformity. More than a dozen small, colourful, elaborately attired male figures, clearly of some distinction, sitting on a single shelf, all casting their eyes down ten feet before them.
Five or six shelves rose up the walls on two sides, the same along each row. Lids prominent. This was not Greek or Renaissance man, not even in a place of worship. Here was both another time and region. Often on the paths in the Tropics these lowered, abstracted gazes were noticeable; and not only in the case of demure women. The shuttered, or half-shuttered, beguiling Asian eyelid.
Beyond McPherson we happened to chance upon a tubby Tamil foreman working on one of the construction sites, a new underground MRT in progress, one of two or three passed that afternoon. Here the chaps were working at 15 or 20 metres below; at their next project it was to be sixty metres. And could the chap have said twenty kilometres in length?
The tubby Tamil turned out an Acland Street busker from the 90s, immediately picking two Ostralians. The shuffling, winged angel Gabriel could not help feeling a sudden moment of self-consciousness. Goofy bushie hat flapping in the wind, despite the secure strap under the chin, hanging corks or no. Dead give-away.
But I bought it in Singapore! didn’t help.
Sharp working man, nobody's fool, the South Indian. Down in the great Southern land man would have been the shop steward, ensuring the young apprentices were getting a fair go.
Onward. Pensive angel bringing up the rear.
Quiet reigned for a space, light breeze, the sun glowering.
Recently at the Mr Teh Tarik table someone had suggested that the heavier tropical air filtered harmful rays on the equator. On this day the heaviness was more weighty than usual, the PM2.5 levels hitting 60 micrograms per cub. m., the newspaper would report on the day following. Highest reading of the year.
A second feature of the day's program was to be the purpose-built foreign worker dormitories on Bartley East Road. Something over-much Gabriel had heard of late of foreign worker woes, discrimination, dangerous conditions. There needed to be some leavening of the picture.
Truly Gabriel? Built specifically for the workers?...
Hissing in the Divine’s affirmative.
We trooped along the narrow maintenance track of the busy 3-4 lane freeway, Bartelby East, traffic scything uncomfortably close. At regular intervals there was need to step outside the barrier onto the verge, stomping double orange lines, single-file and conversation impossible.
Being so long in the Tropics, the guiding Angel was not familiar with Jeffrey Smart. Here we were in a kind of moving picture of those Smart tableaus. To our right, the burnt grass of the embankment gave way to scrub and bush, where weekends the foreign workers would reportedly disport in drunken stupor.
The newspaper was still full of the riot of early December, the first civil disturbance in Singapore for 30-40 years. Four hundred young men running wild, pelting police & service personnel, torching and upturning vehicles. In Singapore, where not long past dropping chewing-gum on the street landed a citizen behind bars.
Alcohol. Uneducated drunken immigrant workers suddenly off the leash. (One of their compatriots had been dying beneath a bus.)
In the first seven or eight days of the Commission Of Inquiry the emphasis had been on alcohol and the drunkenness in Little India, where the disturbance had occurred; police action, or lack thereof; inadequate weaponry in the arsenal. One young policeman who had charged a group of the rioters with nothing more than a raised baton was commended for outstanding courage, exemplary courage, by the Commissioners. (More senior police had needed to point out the recklessness and danger of such conduct in a situation of that kind.)
On the night of the riot the PM had high-lighted the role of alcohol.
In the last couple of days of the hearings some dissident voices were heard. The living conditions provided for these workers; treatment by the rogue construction operators; racist discrimination and contempt—a range of voices that enlarged the debate.
This now was an opportune moment to inspect the better living quarters provided the men. It was not all crowded shipping containers and flimsy ply-wood forest shacks housing the immigrant contract labour in First World, good global citizen Singapore.
The Angel recognised the counter case; here he would introduce the other side for balance. Fair was fair.
Bartley East was an easy gradient flyover. We might have taken the path beneath, but the upper afforded a better view.
A light industrial precinct at present, water treatment plant ahead, beyond a stand of trees further on Bedok Reservoir. Some liquor shops below; food outlets were awaiting the completion of the MRTs. As the housing market was developed, HDB towers would follow. In the meantime, this six or seven storey building opposite was to be entirely devoted to dormitories for foreign workers.
It was not perfectly clear whether this was a new building, or some kind of conversion. A curtain of blue fabric hung the length of the long central structure. This building alone stretched more than forty metres; smaller others ahead were to be incorporated into the development.
Unscrupulous construction operators might sardine-house the poor old dark-skinned exploited foreign workers with a single bathroom serving fifty men—as reported in recent days of testimony at the COI. Here was the other side to weigh in the balance.
This was dedicated specifically for foreign workers, Gabriel? You're quite certain? Built specifically by one of the big operators?... Not a housing project by another name that might provide temporary quarters while the market was calibrated and adjusted?
The questions blew into the roar of traffic, Gabriel only able to respond in brief, staccato affirmative.
Coming down the incline later the Angel took up the cudgels once more. A feisty, demonstrative Divine; not your regular lay-me-down-sweet-Jesus-in-your-meadowland.
Here was perfectly good housing, no mistake; at least so far as could be seen from the roadway. There were shades of many kinds in the Singapore story. The coolie forebears of the present day rulers had coped with far, far worse. Far worse endured under the yoke of the Colonial regime. This was good, decent housing by any measure.
Yes Gab. To be sure. KKK.
We marched on; two Ostralians.
The absence of a McD or KFC was unusual. Neither the Golden Arches nor the Finger Lickin' Southerner anywhere in view.
Moisture-laden air. Would it ever rain again?
The passing traffic was no doubt struck by the foot-sloggers, easily identified even on the fly as Caucasian.
There were certainly no white hoboes in Singapore. Loads of others of the genus; all excepting whites.
A floppy, less than handsome bush topi, partnered by a rather more impressive, though now frayed and lusterless panama. Back-packs. Marching. Passing motorists were entitled to wonder.
At the Reservoir the water level had never been so low, the Angel repeated, as he surveyed the rusty brown marking the shore-line. Long face beneath the old floppy.
There were elements of our own sun-baked land, the great Ostralian continent. On the rise where we sat a carpet of leaf litter was spread. In the drought parched trees were copiously weeping. Not since the 1860's, the newspaper stated, had the like been seen.
To our right young men with early era drones were watching their birds in flight; the blustery conditions no draw-back.
One of the lads answered the enquiry—on the contrary, the more wind the better for this craft.
The week prior the Malaysian airplane had inexplicably gone down in fair weather. There was water rationing in large areas of Malaysia; the capital affected. Here in Singapore, with its treatment and desalination plants, an air of disregard. Disasters happened elsewhere.
Was it 8 or 9 weeks without a single drop of rain? February, traditionally the wettest month, was like June. With the foreign sweepers, ordinarily a fellow was lucky to see a single brown leaf on the streets of Singapore, a city-state rightly commended for its urban greenery.
What was taking place within the soil itself, in the substructure of the island? We ought to have asked the tubby Tamil; during the excavations perhaps he had seen some changes.
Could a tropical island sitting on the Equator carry endless weight of concrete, steel & glass mounted up to the clouds? New York and Dubai managed. Something like thirty percent current-day Sin'pore had grown since the time of British settlement. Land reclamation continued apace. At the present time off Changi Point acres and acres of land were being created on a daily basis, more or less.
Alarmist Climate Change predictions were decades away: the Republic was putting its faith in technological advance. There was no stopping the growing little red dot. Technological know-how, together with the famous can-do spirit had created the modern miracle in the Tropics. Why shouldn't one continue to go for broke? Rain however was needed.
Here the Angel was downcast amid the autumnal litter, hoarsely whispering largely to himself. Along the waterline the very same brown tone of the leaves was etched. There could be no cheer in the brightly coloured wings of the young lads' planes; only youth could cavort like that in the midst of this lugubrious scene.
In recent times suicides had declined at Bedok Reservoir; or else the reporting curtailed. Certainly the place looked more than a little benighted on that Wednesday afternoon. Not a place to pull the plug quietly.
Wending our way through Chai Chee, Kembungan & Telok Kurau, at some point, mysteriously, for some reason that later neither man could recall, the curious subject of the accented tones of the Deputy PM (since President) arose as a bone of contention.
A sharp, needle-point bone found on the road, as it were.
Amidst the suburban housing, the crossings, overhead walkways; one or two front fences of schools passed. Had schooling, the project of education and indeed civilisation—at bottom civilisation—been the point of departure for this particular argument?
Somehow or other, the dulcet tones of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam rose up before the Oz pair.
Prior to the introduction to this oddly jumbled community on the Equator, long, composite Indian names had only been noted in touring cricket teams. As anyone of a certain vintage will recall, the Sub-continent was not represented down on the great Southern land until quite recently. In the case of the Indian, Pakistani and Sri Lankan cricketers, long unwieldly names were often abbreviated for the convenience of fans. Up until recently too, these minor nations were side-show affairs, compared to Ashes or West Indies series.
However, even before seeing the Deputy PM's picture, the Honourable Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, one could guess more or less the chap's heritage.
Tamils were over half the Indian contingent in Singapore, the Coromandel coast providing easiest pickings for cheap labour. Ceylon, present-day Sri Lanka was another source, both then and now. Mr. Shanmugaratnam's heritage turned out from the Sicily of the Indian sub-continent.
Only in the last few months had Lt. Ind begun to be explored. Previously, the concentration had been on the old Malays & Chinese in Geylang. Then the December riot erupted and all at once the position of the foreign construction workers one had seen carted around in the rear of lorries came to consciousness, the Indian construction crews in particular.
No doubt the Chinese foreign labour from the Mainland had troubles not dissimilar; in the case of the Indian, perhaps the relative position was a rung or two below.
In the middle of all this trouble and strife, this concentration upon the contemporary under-class, who had caused such unexpected turbulence in the usually calm Singaporean waters, arrived Mr Tharman Shanmugaratnam.
Readers unfamiliar with Indian compounds may need some assistance in rolling the syllables.
Shan with a rising vowel; not the flat Osstralian. Rhyming with "barn".
Mug—again not the classic Australese; the MugaRAT—rhyming with "nut".
And finally nam.
Over two years this particular name was glided over in the newspaper. It was a long, long tangle. How to unpack? And what was the point? Was there any point? Wasn’t there only one name in the political firmament in Singapore, known to all the world, more or less?
Obituaries had been sitting in the drawers of the region more than a decade. The support cast was window dressing. Such was the judgment of the most fierce bloggers familiar with the Republic. The political royal house here needed allies and supports to be sure; those were bit players elevated for convenience, drafted into the business of government.
On the streets of Geylang this was the harsh view. (Just the other day one of the local pundits was quoting Singapore as having attained Number 5 rung on the global Crony Capitalist Index.)
A fortnight or more past the Deputy Prime Minister & Finance Minister, Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam, had delivered the New Year's Budget to Parliament. In the run-up to the occasion, in the usual way, the Minister's photograph had been carried in the pages of the newspaper on numerous occasions. Tall figure descending a stair; crossing a foyer with the ticking-bomb briefcase in hand; in the midst of a scrum handling questions from reporters.
Judging by the newspaper coverage and glimpses of other media, apart from the First Family, there appeared to be two key figures carrying the burden of government: the Law Minister, some month or more past giving a polished performance defending the need for the death penalty, in order to maintain safety and order; and this tall, bald, bespectacled, less than entirely prepossessing figure of Deputy PM & Fin. Min, Mr Thar Shanmugaratnam.
Together with the name, the features clearly spoke of Indian descent. Light skin tone in this case. In the photographic record one saw the type of brainy, dorky school-boy, turned slightly diffident adult.
There had not been any fashion consultant engaged. Indeed, the lack of smoothness, the absence of polish was rather attractive.
It was possible Mr. Shanmugaratnam dyed the fringe of hair bordering his ears and around the back of his collar. On the other hand, the man may have been young enough to not yet grey. Brains & capability beat a pretty face any day, when it came to the crunch.
This was all prior to hearing the voice of the Deputy PM & Fin. Min.
Reading the newspapers, scanning the photographs and attending to the kopi shop chat, gave one only part of the story here.
On entry to the Carpmael residence, the television that came with the room had been immediately removed, with the help of the former boxer/now landlord, who had been a little puzzled at the decision.
In deference to the strange habits of the monkish fellow tenant, housemates had learned to turn the volume of the Common-room TV right down to the bottom of the dial while they ate their dinners on the dining-table.
In short, there had been no audio of Mr. Tharman Shanmugaratnam until the day of delivery to the Parliament and the nation of the new Budget for the year of 2014.
In the case of Mr. Shanmuragaratnam, one was flying blind and ignorant without having heard the rhythms & tones that could be drawn up, contrary to all indicators.
God almighty Gabby! It was nothing less than absurd. What? Have you actually heard that Ascot timbre?!...
The Angel would have none of it. An aficionado of celestial music and heavenly choirs, the winged creature in fact was rather a fan.
Gab! I must protest! Please, sir.
From condo entrances gardeners turned their heads. Schoolchildren lugging monstrous sized bags cocked an ear stomping past, keeping their eyes downcast.
The voices rose to a pitch and carried over the lesser traffic of the side streets.
For some particular reason, ten days or so ago in the Cyber in Dunlop Street, Ari behind the counter had cranked up the volume on his PC out front.
Listening to...an aria of some strange kind. Or was that recitative?…
Most strange.
Ordinarily, the Bee Gees might be heard from Ari's station, poppy love songs & C&W. Above all else, the Gibbs. There was none better, according to Ari, than the brothers from Downunder. Words & Maaass—A—Chuuu—settts.
Dunlop Street at the upper end near Jalan Besar, Big Road, late week or even a Saturday it may have been. (No surprise to have the pollies here working weekends and overtime, setting the example.)
Usual activity over the way at the mosque. Fridays raised the numbers of course, even more than weekends. Beneath the skull-caps, dark faces under the verandas either side.
Dunlop carried a couple of Backpackers that leaked a slightly bewildered, often hippy contingent onto this interesting street that recalled the rubber plantations.
The long shifts & robes of Islamic dress was common, a mini Mecca most days of the week among motor-cycle outlets, massage places and various jumbled.
In the booths of the Cyber, the clientele was drawn from the same.
Ari and the boss were Hindu; in the minority in this corner.
Behind the partitions, the hourly rate at the PCs rose 50%. Secluded privacy, albeit tight and cramped, attracted a surcharge. Cheap thrills was the trade by reports. The Indian working girls near-by charged 20-30 dollaro—or their pimps did. Surfing on the screen was provided at a fraction of the cost.
The night-shift was the main business at Ari’s Cyber. Still, afternoons and even mornings drew custom.
An innocent toiler slaving at another kind of inspiration found the locale rather congenial. On this particular afternoon, however, the foreign note arrived like an unexpected meteor.
What’s this, Ari? What in the name of sweet J, man?
Sure was difficult to credit one's ears.
Mid-afternoon. It may indeed have been a Saturday, the speech was delivered the day previous and Ari listening to a recording.
Usual range of faces out the window. At the cafe next door the Thai Trannies were laughing, smoking and amusing themselves. The Arab with the good English and sharp political viewpoint had earlier been in for Hello. Black faces up and down and indoors.
The photographs may indeed lie: the Deputy PM & Fin. Min. may have been darker than appeared from newsprint. However, the dulcet tones filling the cavernous interior of Ari’s Cyber were pure liquid gold.
It took some moments to focus properly on the melody. There was no great alteration from the smoothness of the famous brothers from Downunder that usually played here. So far as sugar and syrup was concerned, little separated these two.
Shock, and at the same time something less than complete discordance. Normally Ari kept the Gibbs boys toned down.
Maaass—A—Chu—setts.
Lordie, lord!
Even before striding out to confront the man, there could be no doubt. Ari merely confirmed the same. (What on the other hand the man was doing listening to the broadcast of the Budget of all things was beyond guessing.)
The voice of an exotic songbird trilling within the dark, dingy confines of the Cyber. (Cave more than café.)
Outdoors the Thais tittered. Shortly before in the usual brogue a chap at the desk was chatting to Ari about football results.
Tamil and Malay vied for precedence in this quarter. Hokkien, the dominant dialect among the Chinese in Sin’pore, a distant third. (English completely out of picture.)
Throughout the Republic, it was much the same. A kind of English reigned as the administrative, official language, encouraged from the top. Famously foisted upon the various groups some thirty years before. In the linguistic byways of the island, one darted through numerous back alleys and lanes in order to achieve communication. It was certainly an adventure.
Here and there over past years one had caught snatches of the old master LKY on television. Clearly high order English proficiency. During the stay on the Equator the most brief snippets of the son and heir in passing. In Dunlop Street the afternoon of the Budget, the extended peroration in those tones and rhythms threw an innocent listener into an ecstasy, for which he was completely unprepared.
True enough, one had heard the immaculate pronouncements of the Ascot lady on the MRT.
Please mind the platform gap.
The Fin. Min. was a match made only in heaven.
One assumed Eton followed by a double major at Cambridge or Oxford. The edible green fields of England. Polo, golf & cricket.
The commentators of the latter game couple generations past were recalled.
An Anglophile’s heart could not but melt in the face of this repast.
Had the Angel heard the man? Had he listened?… Gabriel first among the heavenly helpers.
The Angel had taken the remarks as ridicule of a particular accent; a fine example of the kind.
‘Twas, said he, like ridiculing a man for the way he looked. Or for personal idiosyncrasy.
No Gabriel. No, no, lah!
NB. September 2023 Tharman Shamugaratnam was elected President of Singapore.
