Brothers in a Foreign Land

A routine little tale, though not for the eyes on the other side that will be reading.          

Three Bangladeshi young men on a bus. When they alighted they were asked their nationality. Indian or Bangla had been guessed. Sitting on the bench-seat immediately inside the entry door of one of the old hulking mammoths that still ply the trade in the more out of the way routes like Geylang. 

Foreign young lads of that age group could not ordinarily be sighted in the middle of the day on public transport. In the back of a lorry or on the construction sites, the road-works and tunnels; not among the leisure classes. 

In fact there were numerous foreign workers out and about on the streets and the buses that day. Labour Day in Singapore—counter-intuitively celebrated on this territory with a designated national holiday. 

Some of the construction sites had closed down—in order to give the managers, supervisors and technicians some well-earned rest, cynics jibed. 

Ordinarily the lads ought to have offered an older chap a seat, especially a white in a fine panama. They could be forgiven. 

Three thin, supple-bodied young men like peas in a pod: size, colouration and features. Barely worth a look. 

One had admired these lads for a good while now, their fine bearing, manner and politeness. The strong solidarity in their ranks most of all.

Barely worth a look. They got none for a few minutes. 

It took four or five minutes, three or four kilometres, before the cricket bat in the chap's hands at one end was noticed. 

An old willow, heavily taped and spun lightly in the usual way by a batter awaiting his turn at the crease. Uncommon sight on a bus in Australia; less still in Singapore. 

The lads would get down at Kallang MRT, where opposite the station in a wide field dark skinned players could be seen now and then on a Sunday improvising a game in the long grass. Elsewhere in Singapore there were proper fields and ovals for regulated contests; one or two schools had been noticed with nets. There were often dark skins predominating at these places too.

Passing along from the slow-turning bat one saw the pair of lads beside the door formed a closer duo, chatting, turned half-round to one another. There was some smiling. 

Nothing of any particular note first off. On the other end the chap with the bat was a little left out. Hence the twirling too perhaps.

After the cricket bat it took another two, three or four minutes; two or three kilometres, before the hands of the pair were noticed. The lad in the middle of the seat had in fact swivelled round and was leaning close toward his companion, with his left open hand covered by the other's reaching round. Both hands were loose, active and sliding slowly one against the other. Unusual caressing and fondling of hands. The sight recalled a baker at his dough, or some other kind of artisan nimble and adept. 

Lovers rarely patted and caressed hands in this particular fashion. The bottom hand of the Middle lay on the End's right thigh, his groin more or less. 

Card-shuffling was another visual reference. One had not seen quite the like of this before.

The middle lad had pointy, bird-like features; his companion more rounded. The first seeming a little more earnest in his attentions; the other casting downward, in listening pose, though in fact there seemed to be few words exchanged. 

The speech may have been particularly muted and delivered with a minimum of lip movement. 

For an observer it seemed the hands did all the talking. The impression of mime was strong; there was expressiveness in the gestures, more than any words could hope to convey. 

On the other end the bat continued its slow spin between the young man's legs while he watched with bowed head. As their stop approached, three or four compatriots came down from the upper level and milling at the exit door raised the man from his depths. 

The pair on the end was not finished. At some point the Middle had clasped his friend's bicep with his other hand in a close squeeze, just below the sleeve of the tee where there was room for his whole hand. Below the pair of hands continued gliding slowly in the loose clasp. 

After almost three years in these parts the sight was not so remarkable. The Chinese foreign workers lacked that kind of affectionate regard; their comradeship was demonstrated in other, less dramatic and captivating ways. The Indon girls on their free days walking arm-in-arm around Paya Lebar, approximate the warmth and closeness. One goes to Little India on a Sunday afternoon if one wants to see this particular brotherliness and love, as some of the locals here indeed do in a little reported form of internal tourism, wondrous for many.

 

 

 

NB. Two or three generations ago a Serb or Montenegrin would hail a compatriot in the outside world: Brate u tudjini—Brother in a foreign land.