Camels & Needles

The ailing PM here winning numerous well-wishers. On his popular Facebook page one cited in the morning's newspaper yesterday when the news broke: .... The best gift we could be granted for our SG50 would be for your speedy recovery. Fifty years of independence, one party/family rule. A strong identification developed with the public. (Critics and those wanting to kick a man when he was down aside.) Twenty years ago an earlier, unrelated episode of the big C. had been suffered and survived; the current prostate expected to be routine—in fact arms-length robotic key-hole operation as it turned out. (Some of the bum-hole jokes among the dissidents do not bear repeating. There does exist a degree of unusual vitriol.)

         The news had not filtered through to Raja Lelong, who stopped by the morning tea table en route to Pulau Ubin for some nature refreshment with a pal, another Indian-Malay with the best briyani stall up at Geylang Serai, Number such-and-such. Raja could not have had the telly on the night previous. Briyani in designer sunnies had heard and briefly delivered the matter. Raja was shown the inner spread of the paper with the hospital bed shot, Mr. Briyani filling details, no doubt including the big bullet that was involved, which immediately lodged in the Raja's brain and led to a particularly odd little mention shortly to follow. Remarkably odd.
         First some of the usual erratic chat with the Sale King that preceded. The Raja wanted the writer to record some gripes. An honest businessman gainfully employed since the year dot was unable to trade any longer at Geylang Serai Market. The local Bossy-boots from the government offices was harassing the man at his impromptu pop-up affairs. Eight hundred a go could be ignored once, twice and even thrice, the King airing his complaints to the local bench; eventually however forced to fold up his wings and the Raj thereafter unsighted at the bottom end of Geylang many a long month. To again re-establish his former standing, again the photographs in the bundle from his shiny shirt pocket: handsome, slim Raja from about thirty years ago in front of the Taj Mahal; shoulder to shoulder with the most famous maulid singer in Indonesia; his little baby Fatima (now forty); the young six year old to his present-day Filipina. Amongst the pile too the earlier busty Indon battleship who had done the man for a pretty penny had retained her place in her former husband’s portfolio—the Raja was surprised the figure had been remembered, $700k.
         — You clever, Raja complimented.
         Some other known likewise recalled brought the same flattery from the King.
         In his own way the Raja was clever too. As the moniker suggested, brilliant in his own field. Give the Raja a pile of colourful scarves, tees, tights and three square metres in which to perform his magic, watch the man go. Partners procure, deliver, assemble—all that is left to Raja is to assume his seat on the throne in the middle of all the nylon and start blowing. Two hours saw the business done and dusted, Raj over the way under an awning sipping sweet teas with his happy crew.
         Laughs, guffaws, carry-on, coins and dollar bills sending the product flying. Sparkling scene witnessed many a time at the foot of the main Geylang Serai stair.
         Luckily the Raj held onto the Condo up in Lorong 26. The Merc and convertible now only exist as reminders in photographic form. Buses presently for the Sale King, last met on the Number 13 en route to the mosque in Joo Chiat going west the wrong way. Raja carting his barrel-belly not so good on the pins, a link up ahead and another would take him to the door-step for his prayers. Knew what he was doing.
         Hospital, operation, again the Spanish dancer re-surfaced for the PM—Raja clearly assumed the worst, final curtain coming down on the great man (or at least son-of). In not so short order it brought Raj to the recall of a well-known Malay's death some years before, Abdul bin Something bin Something bin Something Something, who in his final days bequeathed so much here, so much there and more still everywhere. Great benefaction, endowments, grants, bequests. Wondrous liberality. Magnificient generosity of spirit, albeit late in coming. (You could assume a tight-arse previously.) But the thing was this man's grave afterward. The grave that held the mortal remains of the great giver. The perfume. The flowers that sprouted. Ah! the aroma emanating.
         Sitting there listening, the Sale King beaming, showing glimpses of the handsome young man from the photographs. Buttons on the shiny shirt nothing to compare.
         Listening to the matter; Raj’s vivid, excited recall.
         Behind the designers the pal nodding. He had needed reminding of the wondrous sign, but he had it now. Perhaps he had witnessed the sight himself; understandable slip in memory. Nodding. Raj captured by the memory; as if it were yesterday.... Alla-mak!
         There has long been speculation on the wealth of the first family here. All manner of wild allegation. An offensive local blogger making a nuisance of himself recently proposed a parliamentary register of assets. The MPs in Singapore famously earn more than virtually any other political class on the planet. Officially. But forget the official numbers, held the critics. Drop in the ocean.
          ABC online summed up the career—Cambridge, Harvard later, the post as Brigadier General in the Armed Forces prior to the entry into parliament. A half obituary just in case. The Sale King was expecting the worst and perhaps the best at the last gasp not out of the question. He knew it happened, everyone could be saved.
        “The stink of the grave”—as the Orthodox Serbs say in the Balkans—otherwise.

Tourist (April24)

Delightful watching fellow patrons when they observe the order delivered. Did they hear right? Rasam?... Yes, indeed: what the man said. There you go. White guy in a movie hat and today red bandana. Seen him here before. Going to take it with a spoon is it? Well, well… Almost African aspect; very dark. Maid possibly. Compatriot certainly a mark above in rank. Yes, as it proved: at the register presented the bill to the cashier, but it was Madam bringing up the rear who drew the plastic. Regal; no impolite gawking her side. Didn’t look a dragon, however. Almost without pause replaced by a quartet of nurses, among whom a Chin first-timer in the place wondered aloud, — Mushroom soup?... Fire-power riposte had her lowering her eyes, all embarrassed. Tamarind, she was told by her opposite number after the laughter had subsided… Well, even old hands learn something every day. What, not tomato, onion and cumin? Tamarind?

         Fella over the way at the market with a visage lifted straight from the CIA Most Wanted — Mohd Hanifa — guesses the drink just like another stallholder before him there had last week.

         — Mango lassi?

         Let ride, thinks he has not been heard above the hubub and repeats.

         This after the hat had been removed, red Che bandana, granted, eye-catching bright.           

         Passing elsewhere in this town before other traders and hovering briefly, they understandably guess, Beer?

         Set back on his heels Modh hearing teh halia kurung manis—on the advertising board called Ginger tea for the tourists. (Less sugar thanks.)

The Red and the White

Chap wearing a tee that needed to be fittingly saluted. Raised arm, hand waving, two-point-five metre separation.... Easy to see the fellow had never in his born days been hailed by a white man pen in hand smiling warmly and appreciatively. Yanasagaran had said after generations of toil under the murderous sun some of the Southern Tamils were particularly dark. A little tall for the average in this case; moustache was about right. What he was doing sauntering along the path on a Saturday morning must remain a mystery; there was no outward sign of injury suggesting medical leave. Bright colour tone semaphoring on the approach, with the signature white cursive branding in a long wave high on the chest—something longer than the usual here as it appeared.

Capitalism

in fact. (Cheap middle Geylang Net joints do not offer the full range of fonts.) 
         Relief as much as anything. Ducking another mental sock to the jaw. Not top-most points for wit and trenchancy, but after fully forty-four months in the midst of the co-opted Singaporean corporate peon on every street, this was sweet refreshment.

Family Bonding

Sixteen participating cafes here offering 10% reductions for meals taken by children in the company of their parents. The scheme was initiated by four undergrads and has attracted 200 participants in the three weeks it has run. A Call to Care campaign it is named. Currently government here is attempting to structure housing arrangements that enable parents to live closer to their children; a few decades ago the same government created financial incentives to encourage graduate mothers to have more children (after some time before attempting to limit family-size by disincentives). An absorbing politico-social laboratory on the little red dot on the equator, transformed unrecognizably in the last few decades in the much trumpeted transition from Third World to First.

The Refuge of Religion

Thaipusam. Like three years ago at the same spot near Dhoby Ghaut MRT, the speared half-naked standard-bearing devotee was caught through the bus window. Both Rani and Yanasagaran, Tamils the pair and with therefore Lord Murugam in the works, had suggested a look at the procession. Excellent opportunity for a writer, they both thought. Well, yeah, long-shot maybe. The day however was marked for the Indon embassy visit, no more delay, the long-term visa the object. The ninety day term in Singapore was rapidly approaching. On-line suggestions indicated a letter outlining reasons, bank statements showing means and other supporting materials might do the trick. The embassy was out behind Orchard Road, on Chatswood, Grange Road thereabouts. Fairly straightforward you would expect. Richard in the house with an Indon wife and familiar with the place said the Four Seasons Hotel was the bus-stop. The bus driver pointed out the tower but was "not very sure" of the precise whereabouts of the embassy. The embassy quarter was over there, he indicated vaguely.

         Small inclines along the way that was rare in bulldozed Singapore. Many of the handsome bungalows in this and other quarters had preceded the great leveling program. This was not HDB territory clearly. The odd old simple dwelling stood out in contrast to all the little palaces and heavy-gated condominiums. Pools and tennis courts behind greenery; dark faces manning sentry posts. Nothing like bad luck: two maids walking dogs turned out Filipinas. (Often the distinction between these close ethnic cousins was difficult to pick; Tagalog for example was forty or fifty percent bahasa Malay, reports suggested, with the twist that shared words could mean different things in the two languages. Nevertheless, certainly different nationalities, with separate ambassadorial representation of course.)
         Small, pocket-sized dogs walked by these young women; even the most palatial houses were squeezed on tight allotments now. Around Carpmael in lower Geylang they managed huskies and labradors on allotments that were no larger; even in the HDB flats such dogs were kept. One of the Filipinas pointed east and the other west. Shortly a third confirmed this was a losing streak: Filipina again and hazy. Opposite the third one other washing a car in a front tiled yard gave specific, authoritative directions that again turned out incorrect.
         Foot-slog. A reader wouldn't believe it: fourth (or was she fifth?) Filipina, this time unaccompanied. The canine in this one's household was back home because the maid had needed to attend the Japanese embassy that morning herself for own her visa; expat employers were off to Nippon for CNY, two young children in charge. The woman was excited at the prospect of first time skiing. She knew the Indonesian Embassy. It was on Chatswood Road, come follow me.
         True as her warrant in this case: around the corner suggested a large, heavily fortified building looked likely. Jeez, some hike from one end of the property to the other for the side entrance. This was a huge old building set on four or five thousand square metres; perhaps one of the rubber barons originally with fifty servants and company managers housed in what were originally annexes. Bigger than Java. After the barrier the woman indoors at the information desk delivered immediate bad news: there were no long-term visas possible to Indonesia without a sponsor. A personal sponsor or business sponsor needed to attend the office in Jakarta in person. With the sponsor's letter lodged one could proceed off-shore with an application. There was no other way. Two minutes.
         The route back to Orchard Road tail-between-legs — relief nonetheless having escaped the queuing and waiting — could be nutted out without too much bother. A couple of weeks before after some day-dreaming on the No. 7 bus one had ended up in this little corner near Tanglin Mall. From a distance the corner on the rise was more or less recognizable. Yes, the café on the bend with the wooden bench seats in the form of the old baby cribs from the fifties. Tanglin Road turned into Orchard a short distance ahead, a kilometer perhaps. On the first visit passersby had suggested buses; it was a twenty minute walk, they warned. You wouldn’t call it a happy accident being found in this quarter again so soon, but given the circumstances might as well take a second, closer look.
         A kind of Toorak-South Yarra in Melbourne; Double Bay or Vaucluse perhaps Sydney. Here a stronger European influence if anything: traditional studied elegance of the established up-market form harkening back to the golden, expansionist era. Even the one large bulbous stainless-steel sphere that suggested sci-fi incorporated at one of the many hotels actually neatly conformed. French windows, Tudor further along and rice-paper effect too on a Japanese eatery that was situated opposite the Japanese Creative Centre, housed in an English gazebo-like structure with lattice inserts. Really one did not know where to look — earnest dress-ups on every side. Arches, odd galleries, crammed, showy opulence, tiled walkways throughout—there would be no black bitumen for amblers almost the entire length of the kilometer long footpath — two kilometres perhaps to Takashimaya. Hollywood movie sets would be a close approximation: overpoweringly oppressive Californian desert heat, yet here were log cabins, snowmen and reindeer, Look honey! Some of the stores held Asian products, porcelain, carpets and furniture, but all set within the high-end Euro pinnacle style of a century or two past. An indigent traveler had not seen Genève, London, Paris and Vienna; after this induction on the equator, however, one felt fully prepared.
         At the Hilton the narrow rectangular fountain in front was in a state of disrepair, a small band of workers in attendance, with two impatient Duty Managers hovering. To one side of this group a Filipino working with secateurs for overhanging shrubbery, carefully cutting two or three leafed stems. A pricier, boutique hotel further on—the Le Roy was the initial false recall—held four Porsches behind chained barriers in the curved driveway, two with distinctive stripes and colours. The models were all of a piece, ten year vintage perhaps. Could only be for the use of special VIPs, sports and film stars flown in for marketing assignments. The great cultural capitals again everywhere in myriad facets along the way in fashion houses, furnishings, horological supplies. (The uncouth governor of Taipei who was a fan of the colonial inheritance was in the newspapers again recently: one never bought Chinese watches as gifts—horridly inauspicious.)
         At a corner store window display some books had been stood upright with the covers facing the street. A bibliophile of course arrested in his stride. Back to have a closer look. The books were mounted on the low lintel a foot from pavement level, two in the first window and another one or two further along. Left was a fat red-cover volume, right taller but more slender, more accessible to view. Books given prominence on this kind of street was one thing, but here beside each volume a smoking pipe was standing in a plastic mount for display, clearly no ordinary accoutrement and the European fire-side-in-dressing-gown model, not the long-stemmed of local ill-repute. The attention was somewhat divided and more than a bit rattled. Books and pipes by which to savour them properly?...
         A life-time of bookshops without exaggeration, such a range inspected over many years: had there ever been books presented with pipes in the past? The last twenty or thirty years of marketing had devised all  manner of props, fancy covers and hype; but smoking pipes, no matter how handsome and elegant? This was not Arthur Conan Doyle either — the name of the author of the blue volume was long enough, but not of this tri-part form. There were no opiates easily procurable of course in contemporary Singapore: no hallucination involved.
         Neither the title nor the author of the blue was familiar. Squatting low, peering closely, neither could be scanned. Agatha Christie. Sherlock Holmes would have fitted better. Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo were names to conjure with — never mind the revolutionary energy between the covers — but again too short.
         HOFFMANN
         In the window the name seemed longer, the three initials at the head perhaps elongating. Hoffmann.
         One can record with perfect surety there had never been a volume of Hoffmann encountered previously in any of the thousands upon thousands of books sighted over so many years. A reference to a single, particular work of Hoffmann’s likewise never arisen in any of the reading. Would anyone other than a student of German literature immersed in the nineteenth century be able to name a title? Of course in bygone days one could have lit up in the opera boxes of the great houses—the logic was not difficult to follow. Dear lord, dear mighty lord. Perhaps the shop-keeper had seen the same in Bond Street or on the Ring in Wien.
         This cannot be prolonged further here. On Thaipusam one went careering down the street past the Hilton, past St. Regis and its Porsches, the Forum Shopping Mall, past all the street art, the manicured garden beds, all along the way with the single discovery of the Hoffmann tattoo invading all consciousness. On the following day the same steps would be re-traced in order to capture this occurrence in all its fullness. As half expected, this particular shop when it was again finally found turned out to be no bookstore. Not even a tobacconist. What in the blazes? Having eventually found the window (not as expected one of the French or Tudor), one needed to both cast into the shop proper and also pull back. Very difficult to discern. The Orchard Parade Hotel — this was a liquor store that was attached: Oak Cellars. From street level there was no indication of a hotel; or at least close by the perimeter there was none. The pipes ranged from a couple of thousand dollars to a handsome chestnut it might have been at $8850. A tall, colourful, ornate shishka doubled that figure; an Alfred Dunhill fine wood box with a silver clasp and possibly filled with King Size cigarettes perhaps compartmentalized on felt something under two thousand. The books unlikely for sale — red was Something-Something British Bulldog (a shower had raised condensation indoors) and the blue Hoffmann an omnibus was it? The Nutcracker and The Mouse? Possibly the proprietor might entertain a serious offer.
         One was glad that was cleared up properly, all sorted in the mental file.
         Back to Thaipusam. Mr. Joe-Joe at Paul Takashimaya (there was another outlet discovered near Tanglin Mall) introduced himself.
         — Since we are seeing so much of each other....
         Filipino. The week before the man had not been able to confirm the gaggle of overfed geese gabbling at a long table as Vietnamese. (There were Viet nouveau riche in Singapore too, a magnet for a wide region.)
         Little India was the place to be. A single cafe, no sesame mini bagel with butter on the side today Mr. Joe-Joe, thanks. Away on the No. 65. Delays inevitably along Sungei Road. A two metre portion on the Eastern side had been barricaded for the procession. A number of heavily speared half-naked Lord Murugam devotees were carrying their kavadis up the slight rise to their Cavalry. There had been hopes Yanasagaram could join at the Komala table in order to help explain some of the background of the ritual. Wikipedia was OK, but a trusted human voice always added something. In particular there was the matter of the yellow smearing over the head that was evident in a number of onlookers along the route of the procession. During the late lunch at Komala one or two of the same entered with the distinctive paste liberally applied. Yana however was busy, though he did text something of his own experience of this Thaipusam from earlier in the morning. An Admin woman from the hospital up the road, third generation Singaporean Tamil, revealed that the yellow substance used by these devotees was sandal mixed with saffron oil, she might have said.
         The further matter that needed to await Yana could not be put to a stranger. Why was it that it was only the darkest, African featured it seemed, devotees who adopted this sandal smear over their shaved heads, men and women alike, one saw from a customer at Komala? The sight did strike rather deeply. Along Sungei Road in the bus the first young pair of lads noticed in this fashion standing on the footpath near the SOTA campus were assumed to be Arts students, the sons of military brass from the dark continent most likely. Nothing to do with the Hindu occasion.
         Having Indians refer to colour gradations and tones was a little awkward for a new comer to such conversations. With Yana it would have been easy. Some study prospect down in Australia that was his focus of late was keeping the man away.
         Instead of his attendance, a text from Yanasagaram during lunch, a long, detailed, revelatory message read slowly over the food and re-read a couple of times.
         Yana had an interesting history. A Malaysian Tamil raised in an English-speaking household in Johor Bahru, Yana had spent over fifteen years in Singapore; wider travels had taken him to North America, Australia and Europe too, mostly by way of the Hari Krishna network. Yana was completely and utterly disillusioned with the HKs now and presently found himself an independent and autonomous Hindu practice. Temple visits continued, as did meditation, vegetarianism and much else, while at the same time maintaining a healthy suspicion and disrespect for the priestly caste. (In passing a brief note: after so long in a secular country where religion was confined very much to fringe ceremonial, the extensive and various religio-spiritual communities on the equator always proved challenging, and rather surprisingly, in fact, congenial too. An intelligent observer and thinker from the circle here, agnostic or atheist himself and fleeing his own country, remarked the other day that it was only religious communities that he could abide of late. On the surface contradictory.)
         Yanasagaram's Thaipusam. As usual every morning Yanasagaram had visited the Perumal Temple immediately after his work shift. In fact in Singapore Thaipusam always began with dawn ceremonies at Perumal, from where the procession started for Dhoby Ghaut. Yana had witnessed the unfolding of the ritual many times at Perumal, all the busy activity, the colour and noise. In teen years when his mother’s prayers over one of his school examinations had been answered young Yana had himself carted a kavadi during Lord Murugam’s festival, in that case a wooden structure without piercing of the flesh involved. This particular Thaipusam morning however brought a surprise for Yanasagaram, a sight that grabbed him by the short and curlies, we say in Australia. Yanasagaram could not believe his eyes, Yanasagaram texted. In the midst of the big crowd and all that stir and strife, Yana's eyes had fallen upon a chap with a shaved head all in red — tight jeans, tee and with a scarf wrapped around his neck all red — spinning and whirling his body ceaselessly and ecstatically. The man wore red kunkum not in the usual circle on his forehead, or pair of circles, but smeared over his face, as Yanasagaram described it.
         The chap was sweating profusely, Yanasagaram observed, and blinking his eyes furiously. Yana must have gone up close to watch. Perhaps he had initially thought to greet the man; or in fact initially to confirm for himself the identity. For the great surprise was not so much in the attire and behaviour itself, but rather the particular actor here concerned. There might have been many all red devotees dancing and writhing at this Thaipusam dawn in the forecourt of the temple, local men, perhaps well-known and recognizable faces beneath the performance. This particular man however was one out of the box. The length of the text, all the detail and the form of composition demonstrated Yanasagaram's great surprise.
         Yana had been a fairly close friend of the lawyer R. (It is impossible to mask the identity here; anyone familiar with the scene in present-day Singapore will know the man concerned. Nevertheless, a small, light veneer.) The pair had grown apart since lawyer R.'s notoriety had risen. Rarely now did a week pass without Mr. R.'s mention in the newspaper. In recent days his photograph had begun to appear — shaved head as Yanasagaram described, though conventionally suited. Yanasagaram had likewise intended to pursue legal studies; money concerns had contained the ambition. Yana had worked as a law clerk and even at the present time drafted quasi-legal documents for various old litigious petitioners.
         In the last few years lawyer R. had attained prominence defending a host of noteworthy clients, individuals who had come before the courts, who might not have found ready legal representation otherwise. There was the Blogger who had run a campaign against the government retirement fund, anti-government graffitists, foreign workers caught up in last year's riot and drug traffickers. During the course of recent legal proceedings sharp words from lawyer R. had been uttered and reported, in some cases misreported it seemed and subsequently corrected. There was some ferment being stirred by lawyer R. The man was becoming a kind of nuisance and serial pest. Unusual in Singapore; a form of dissent. After a year or so of the reportage the newspapers also revealed lawyer R.'s mental imbalance, his struggles with a condition of some sort. Bi-polar had been diagnosed apparently. In times past this would have completely destroyed a professional reputation. On such matters however Singapore had joined the more tolerant and benign viewpoints of recent times. Lawyer R. was continuing in his legal practice, very much active and noisy. There had been no campaign from the Law Institute for deregistration. Indeed a day or two after Thaipusam a news-report revealed the lawyer, together with a group he had seemingly drafted, would be standing for parliament at the next election, in the case of lawyer R. in fact contesting the Prime Minister's seat. 
         It seems there were no photographs of lawyer R.'s enthusiastic dance at Perumal Temple, which may have been just as well. The Hindu and Indian group in Singapore numbers no more than 10-12% of the population and energetic religiosity of the form Yanasagaram described would be unpalatable in this society. Incidentally, lawyer R.'s chief platform: universal health care, abolition of capital punishment and freeing up of the media. One would assume canning might be challenged too by lawyer R., did the opportunity arise. A liberal reform program. 
         Yanasagaram found the dancing wild and wacky. Yanasagaram’s own religious observance would be more measured and restrained, it was easy to guess. Possibly Yana was concerned too how a fellow, prominent co-religionist might be portrayed with this kind of behavior. Superficial impressions were telling in Singapore, perhaps even more so than some other places on the globe. The professional class too needed to comport themselves much more circumspectly. Smoking an elegant pipe with a good book under the aircon, a glass of gin while looking over the canopy of the famous rain tree plantings, remained the high standard in Singapore well into the new millennium.
         It seems this year too there had been a minor fracas on Thaipusam. Again on Serangoon Road not far from the riot scenes of a year ago, a group of enthusiasts had been involved in an altercation with plainclothes and uniformed police. One or two men had been wrestled to the ground with some force, vulgarities hurled from the side-lines, an unfortunate incident. It seems one of the men carting a kavadi had hired musicians, drummers and others, to accompany him along the way, to help him endure his ordeal. Authorities disallowed music apparently. The Lion Dance for the Chinese, other music for the Malays was allowed, but not for the Indians, the aggrieved complained.

NB. 24 Hours after "The Refuge of Religion" was posted:
* Lawyer R. banned from practice by the Law Society until psychiatric examination proves fitness
* The Society has "received information which appears to show that Mr. Lawyer R.'s ability to practice has been impaired due to his mental condition".
* Some kind of video evidence posted online showing concerning behaviour on the part of Mr. Lawyer R.
And in an unrelated development, the Straits Times reported, the Attorney-General's Chambers advised yesterday it would apply to strike out an application made by Mr. Lawyer R. for a client seeking to mount a constitutional challenge over the ban on drums during Thaipusam. Further unrelated on the same front page of the morning's newspaper the lead of Malaysian Opposition leader Anwar Ibrahim's jailing once more.

Perhaps finally not unrelated: the fact that lawyer R. thought he could seriously challenge the PM in his constituency in the forthcoming Singaporean general election would certainly suggest some kind of mental imbalance.

Mum and Dad

The former Chin Haig Road butcher making another striking tableau with his wife pacing slowly toward their former workplace. Thin, wiry man still good on his feet; the wife carrying some bulk and needing an umbrella as a walking aid, as always this morning bringing up the rear ten or so paces. At Onan corner the man pauses for her at the steps, allowing his arm to be taken for the descent and then the crossing. Some beauty of spirit retained in the aged male; the woman's smiles and greetings are less convincing. (Their maid had in fact corroborated the impression.) A shopping trolley sometimes pulled by him; more than anything it is a constitutional involved, an escape from the pigeon hole. They live alone in the block above Joo Chiat Complex, visited by the children; the weighting of love usually apparent in the variance of attire—smart new contemporary oyster knickerbockers sported this morning by dad.

Cherished

Easy to get caught gaping, head-shaking, all lit-up like the recent Chrissy-trees observing the street scenes in these foreign parts: the shared family meals, the laughter, passage of a pair of pals (either gender). A maid doing the shopping; pushing or escorting her charge. 

Lunch-time today a young woman she might have been escorting a pair of old crones to a taxi. 

First she had come down onto the lower path to hail one, invisible light drops of rain giving her hurry it seemed. 

In her cover age was difficult to judge: full-length emerald green kebaya and matching scarf, black veil covering the lower half of her face. A pair of frameless spectacles further masked features. Slight, nimble, the taller end of the scale. Black socks covering feet and ankles. 

Once she saw the cab slowing on the approach she danced back up over the perforated concrete pavers to summon the pair of late seventies/early eighties. Floral kebayas in their case, portly and with faces uncovered. (No longer in danger of arousing lust.) 

At the edge of their lunch table kisses had been delivered either cheek for the pair, the hands lastly. A shoulder bag would make the descent to the car a little awkward—the masked escort relieved the woman encumbered. 

Quickly opening the rear door, a word with the driver. Before the women entered the same farewells repeated: either cheek and hands raised to her lips. (Foreheads omitted in this case.) 

Light shepherding touches on the hip on entry, with thanks returned as the last settled within. 

Once the pair was safely seated the handbag was placed between them—the escort stretching in to land it properly.

The impulse to enquire was restrained. A niece was best guess; possibly her husband’s aunts. For dearly loved aunts of her own there might have been something further added still of tenderness and cherishing. 

Countless scenes here of the same kind, with only minor alteration for the parallel images stored in deepest memory from an age past.

 

 

 

                                                                                                      Geylang Serai, Singapore, Feb 2015

 

Piaf &etc.

The precise chair beside the .... well, fire-place it must be termed. A recess, timber surround, iron screen and immediately beside the chair a brass — running the finger and nail across the surface in order to be sure — stand that holds a brush, pan, rod and.... Something of a puzzle the middle item. A rake perhaps. But no ordinary garden variety article. This is an elegant show-piece like back in the day Louis XIV might have had at Versailles. First meeting here the gal was over a half hour late. Pretending to be more bookish than in fact, she had said Yes, she knew Kinokuniya. A few weeks prior she had been gifted The Alchemist, the most appropriate book found at the Bras Basah secondhand shop for her level of English. In the event she read the Indonesian version online and must have kept the paperback as a memento. After twenty minutes a text asking which Takashimaya tower, A or B, housed Kinokuniya. Forty-five minutes altogether possibly waiting with pleasant anticipation. Eventually turned up with a beautiful entrance and, aided by her fine azure blue scarf, carrying off excellently well the role of Maid at High-end Cafe. Not the only domestic servant sighted at these tables at Paul Takashimaya, beside Kinokuniya Bookshop on Orchard Road, but certainly the only one in her own right as a guest, customer, a patron seated on those upholstered chairs. Usually maids help bring in the baby or grandma at Paul, after which they are excused and wait near the escalators for the lunches and afternoon teas to be taken. Nervousness kept well under wraps that day, hardly noticeable. Not many scrutinizing eyes could have guessed. Within however there were butterflies; the girl felt herself transparent to all around. Did she take a cafe at all? She might have declined in the end, the baguette or croissant that had been urged likewise. Too nervous; possibly concerned about the loo there and certainly not wanting to ask on a third or fourth date. Attendance by the nice older Malay waitress added pressure — in her scarf and without a ring on her finger her transgression must have been perfectly self-evident, she thought. (Neet was a religious enthusiast, one of the earliest outings to the Shia mosque out beside the Chin Chamber of Commerce on Cross Street; second included Our Lady of Fatima on Victoria Street opposite the library. Though ultimately dooming the prospect, highly interesting.) Overwrought. One other meeting followed at the very same table beside the fire-place at Paul, during which the girl was prevailed upon to try the cafe and something else. As she hadn't eaten it made a poor substitute for lunch—something that was not known at the time. After that meeting Neet had "begged" we make other arrangements; there was a generic Indon eatery over the road in the Lucky Plaza tower. Instinct perfectly in order of course. Vile, idiotic, grotesque. Dreadful mimicry, like so much else in yellow middle-class Singapore that was always in hot pursuit of highest European style and culture. Fake chandeliers, waiters in white dust-jackets, heavy drapes pulled back on a forty-five degree angle at all the windows, gilt mirrors, Piaf covers and aircon to freeze your balls. Above all else the fire-place. Singapore. The equator. Inevitably the recall, a kind of replay, of mother's story of her own first entry to a fashionable cafe at the market town of Herceg Novi on the water's edge in Montenegro in the 1930's, in company with her older friend and clanswoman Ljubica. Sixteen or seventeen years old; the pair of gendarme beaus much older, their firearms laid on the table amongst the plates and cutlery in order to impress the kampung girls. Not long after Ljube married her chap, while mother on a pretext broke off the agreement with her keen Herzegovinian. Made the chap angry; he had informed them of his conquest back in his own village. On the mountain paths once afterward he had stopped her and threatened, — This will pass judgment on you. Touch on the holster; or possibly actually drawn his gun. One of their last encounters rain had just burst and happening upon the fellow mother made a point to approach and ask for his greatcoat for her trek up the hill for the sheep and goats. At the time all the heads of households kept rifles at home, Grandpa Rade having once famously shot a snake threatening the younger daughter. Mother’s father always remained the epitome of a man, one difficult, not to say impossible to match. Replays on all manner of levels.