A Song in the Heart

The old Indian-Malay at the corner table by the outdoor refrigerator has persisted in his morning greeting over two years now. Obese man of perhaps 110kg, mid-seventies, mostly a silent presence in his circle there where Osman the retired Phys-ed. teacher has a place and Jamal the mustachioed dart enthusiast. A couple of weeks ago Jamal bought tehs for the overflowing table after a $1000 win at Toto. (Haram strictly, though as some complain there is little strictness in Islam among the people here.) The old Indian-Malay is four or five years older than the rest of the table, clean shirt always and shoes rather than sandals, never seen up on his feet. Almost certainly the man would taxi to and from home. If he can catch the eye either coming or going a call is given and thumb raised, sometimes a little salute. Only this morning however was the warbling noticed when an unwonted table was taken in the back row. Alone and bowed in his chair, elbows resting on the table-top and hands clasped, the source of the tune could not be picked for a long while. There was no indication from the facial expression, nothing from the lips. Craning around numerous times failed to make the discovery. Road traffic regularly blanketed the tune without ever defeating; after every assault it returned. On the table sat a tartan flat-cap that had never been seen on the man’s head, steel watch-band glinting. Heavy jowls and blank expression masked an easy spirit within that had been maintained into these late years. Occasionally one catches a couple of old uncles in the bus Captain's seat cheering themselves in the same way between stops, granddads like the Sri Geylang Indian-Malay. In Montenegro they say, Ko peva zlo ne misli, he who sings carries no evil. A salute to the Indian-Malay.