Scraps

Well-known old face from Geylang Serai hailing here out on the main drag from a crowded table. Even sans the topi, the eye-catching panama, the identification was certain.

               —  Hello John.

         Not just any John he meant. This fellow knew precisely.

         Dark, late-sixties, impressive dyed moustache; likely a shiny dome beneath the screwed down topi of his own, a navy kind of beret.

         Rings, thick-set, a certain lordliness attained years ago in the kampung where he was born.

         A similarly confident pal, though physically a much lesser embodiment, intro-ing himself as ustad.

         Unclear whether a joke was involved—far from a holy or learned man this companion, if  anything has been learned three years in the steamy tropics.

         The suspicion was confirmed a few minutes later when the chap called out the third time. (Second was to offer a seat at their table.)

         This on his left was Rani, or Rina, the fellow informed: squat, heavily made-up, jowls. Batam lass more than likely. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Short bow from the maiden.

         Numerous early release lottery leaflets on the streets. One chap leaned close in passing a hawker and raised a dirty look.

         A mistake deciding on the mee sotong at the last moment beside the proper sotong stall in the back alley behind the hotel. Noodles and little else.

         Mooning out at the street over the last teh of the day, thin crowd again on the Sunday, first day of the fasting month. There were feasts at the homes no doubt; the Chinese far more prominent than usual in this corner of JB.

         Turning to one side there came a shock. 

         — Dear lord above! A first this sight in these three years. Some seconds were needed to comprehend.

         Nothing quite like it seen before. The particulars of the procedure striking.

         Slightly built Chin woman perhaps early sixties, light blue tee, short cropped hair, cut-offs. Tha Han running rather thin in her. Quite easily she could have slipped onto the Footscray or Sunshine streets back home without any trouble; the St.Kilda or Fitzroy streets of a generation past. In hand one large orange plastic bag filled with goods. An empty beside it was being slowly, meticulously filled at the table. 

         Restorn Stor Tawakal on the corner diagonally opposite City Square, the old railway station now a museum it appeared from the signage at the head of the short lane.

         Two laden plates had been left on the Stor Tawakal table out front on the terrace. Angling first one and then the other, the woman scraped with her fingers carefully, collecting the whole of the wet, loose remnants. Curling her fingers into the inner grooves of the plate to get out the crumbs and the sauce too.

         Some pieces that fell onto the plastic table-top beside her she also collected, pinching at the strands. The cutlery she placed to one side; it was in her way.

         A slice of lemon was also put aside.

         One plate carefully and thoroughly cleaned, followed by the other. For the second the young Indian waiter had come up. The woman paid him no regard.

         Off a little the polite young Indian stood waiting without word, a kindly, respectful lad noticeable in his earlier serving.

         At the last he stepped forward and the woman co-operatively handed him the second plate.