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.
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.
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