Beating the Drum

No screen at Reaz Corner, and no music either. The only music at Reaz was provided by the calls and prayers from the mosque next door. Neither the mosque nor the Hindu temple or gurdwara here had been visited. Touristic inspections of places of actual worship simply went against the grain.

         A belated visit five years later had been made to the old Chinese temple in the morning. Interesting enough of course; as expected. This place was OK, its raw homeliness gave reassurance. The Johor Old Chinese Temple was a functional local hub without any pretense about it; apart from its Johorean worshipers it was mainly Chinese from the region seeking it out. A short half hour for introduction was sufficient.

        More than the altars and statuary, all the various old relics on the walls and in the vitrines out back, it was the building itself and the compound that held most interest.  A half-pie former builder was immediately caught admiring the structure, the fine pillars and trusses, the roofs and entry-ways. In all of these cases the sturdiness, the shaping and colour carried some kind of intrinsic, persuasive artistry.

        The guide was a pleasant, informative chap, comfortable in his role. There were rarely Western visitors here one could tell. The prospect from the street, from the outside of the perimeter walls, produced perhaps the strongest impression. It seemed in the years since the temple had been built funds had been lacking for any sprucing of the exterior. Possibly some of the roof tiles had been renewed; otherwise crumbling, discolouration and sagging of roof lines. Quite authentic.

         Nevertheless, despite the fact the building was worthy of support from any visitor, after the circuit the thought had been to creep off dignified and upright, nodding perhaps to the guide and slipping away without further ado. The chap certainly would not have said a word nor pulled a face. No doubt not all visitors here made a donation.

        There had been only one reason for the donation made at the end before leaving. Ultimately what drew the fiver from the pocket at the Johor Old Chinese Temple was the prospect of the drum-roll that would result from it. Ten minutes before the beating had sounded and the guide had explained the procedure.

         On the right toward the altar on that side an old grey office safe that stood over a metre high held a little wooden insert in the slit cut on top. This was a giant money-box such as might be used in some kind of wacky TV comedy of cops and robbers. With all the array of colour, the rich reds and greens, macabre figures of gods and demi-gods, it had not been noticed immediately.

         A tall Montenegrin in a fine panama this August day at the temple on the rise of Jalan Trus caused the taut skin of the drum on the other side of the floor to be beaten and its brief roll of thunder to echo through that quarter—three rapid strikes, the first slightly more forceful and the resulting note longer. From within the walls of the little cavern there on the rise the ancestors had been reached.

         The guide and his father had been born in JB; it was the grandfather who had come down from Fuzhou city itself it seemed (where they spoke a language distinct from Hokkien), roundabout the time of the founding of the temple a 120 years ago. Four or five language dialects had worshiped at the Johor Old Chinese Temple over the years, melding together their various local deities and practices. Down in Geylang Mr. Cheong the Cantonese had been meaning to go up to the temple for fifty and more years. Trips over to the badlands across the Causeway meant engaging a reliable and trustworthy driver and wits about you all the while. When he heard the old man would be a little pleased at the proxy visit.

Big Shots and Their Big Motors

Light veg., cuttlefish and fruit lunch on the usual corner. In this case sitting precisely on the corner, leaning against the last end pillar where with the crawl of the traffic the heat rose 2 - 3 degrees. A blast of 6 - 7 degrees too suddenly when a big shiny motor inched along. Razali the Indian convert here who runs the food-stall remarked yesterday on all the development in JB that had left behind the basic infrastructure from the days of his boyhood fifty years ago. A couple of months before Razali had complained about the big expensive cars parked illegally outside the mosques while the big shots ran in for their prayers. In and out all in a rush; nothing like what was intended for the mosque gathering in Islam. Once when Razali went to speak to a chap blocking the way double-parked an old grey-beard had unexpectedly emerged from the vehicle and Razali had to button up. It was not just heedless youth who didn’t know better acting in this fashion. Yesterday Razali was having radiator troubles with his own car. With five driving-age daughters still at home and a wife, a single vehicle was tough trying to conduct a business; on the narrow old pot-holed roads particularly tough. Finally some cloud moderating. A large crowd at the tea-house. Not all the big chariots here were from over the Causeway either; plenty of locals had made a packet of ringgit. Nearing 2pm for the meeting with the ThinkCity people around in Jalan Pahang regarding this projected chapbook featuring precisely this quarter of Johor Bahru. Five hundred copies distributed locally for free, funded by the urban regeneration group and its partners. Finding appropriate readers would be the problem it has always has been. Then photographs and design considerations. Aduh!

                                                                                                                         JB, Malaysia 

Irresitible Baby Boulder

Near quart 8 after an hour at the Net place trawling through the archive for a fitting competition submission. At Reaz Corner beside the mosque the lad with the good English recalled the standard order from three months previous, down to the raw onion on the side. (Nan, dahl & veg. otherwise, with teh RM8 — about $2.75.) For a little blast of aircon after the PC a circuit of City Square had been in order, Body Shop called into just for the bona fides. In the back corner before circling around a boyish impulse suddenly at the little park-like way-station. Seats provided on cut-out coloured pods placed within a sci-fi cartoon strange park-cum-recreation zone it had to be called. It was the mini baby boulders that immediately drew attention. Already once earlier that day this corner had been scouted, the sight taken in and onward without pause: nothing to see there like. Second time round a trigger-niggle, almost a reflex of some primordial sludge time. How many little rocks had been kicked innocently along the streets over the journey, rocks thrown, even at high stained-glass church windows? (There was an enemy territory Mick school that needed to be passed on the way to the State.) Then the yonnies that were strewn between the rails of the line at the top of the street. Strong arm long developed as well as a pretty good hoof. A Montenegrin passing up the opportunity? the taunted red rag to a bull? Not bloomin' likely. Lucky it wasn't more forceful. The toe of the KEEN sandal may have made a little dint—certainly a crack was clearly audible and the mini baby boulder definitely slid over perhaps half the floor tile. Jeez! The uniformed guard right behind too in something that looked like brigadier's uniform.  (City Square was probably the flashest mall in Johor, all the usual culprits represented.) First pair of the lighter model KEEN had lasted almost twenty months daily footslog no let-up. (But no foot odour either.) The major part of the central plaza at City Square had been given over to the Mid-Autumn Festival traders—moon cakes galore, biscuits and shortbreads it may have been additionally. Polo-smart guys and dolls offering tastings. No money-burning obvious thus far, nor food plates, oranges or candles anywhere on the streets; that part of the observance might in fact have passed a day/two ago. Only on the next day were the swan cut-outs around the pretend park noticed, the lilies and lotus may have been the other. The charcoal burnt-out bole of a large grainy tree sprouting new (plastic) growth up top had been cordoned off in order presumably to prevent children clambering. The whole here sat on segments of coloured felt or fine grade hessian. ESPRIT behind with adidas and MANGO; Dorothy Perkins had flown in. Perhaps a stall-holder had cancelled at the last minute and a hole needed to be filled. Five years later finally a visit to the old Chinese temple on Jalan Trus has been scheduled. In fact the intention is to perform the service for Mr. Cheong back at Geylang Serai, who has been meaning to visit for over fifty years. 

                                                                                                      Johor Bahru, Malaysia

Colour Your World

Live Life Full-on With

The Fuel That is Designed

To Last Longer.
         Mum, dad and the children making for the open arms of the car door from which the camera has been aimed.
         E ——————— Family
on the fuel dial, atop a bus-stop on Jalan Besar - Big Road angled toward the footpath. (Local copywriting.)

         The reverse side was presumably turned to the vehicular traffic, which had been the initial target, before somebody twigged, Hey! Wait a minute. Why don't we same time shoot at the peds footing north-bound here for the stop? The weekend drivers?...
         Almost certainly the day before there had been only the electronic stand adjacent scrolling through that month's advertisers. 
         The corporate capture here breathtaking, amazing, beyond astounding, all in a landscape otherwise void of feature. Forest, hills, fauna all extracted.
         Around at KV for lunch one was reminded further of the hollowness when the chap at table beamed with delight at the sight of the lemon rice he had ordered heading in his direction on the platter in a tone not dissimilar to the corporate yellow.

The Turbaned Cow

Yesterday again the Darts man stopping at the Al Wadi table while Omar was there. The eyes, the cast of look, the little stoop channeling had one ready and waiting.

         — You know the man....?
         This one was well-known, the thick-set Indian-Malay who for his alms had for a time taken to sprawling himself on the paths playing dead, lying there sometimes in drizzle. 
         There would be no acting for the man now.
         — Gone ready.
         The last year or so the chap had procured a bicycle with a little cart behind and seemed to be half-heartedly collecting cardboard for re-cycling. Drinker, perhaps in his late sixties.
         Nothing much came out about his case. Without family it seemed and precious few allies. Coming across the man the first time in that pose he adopted for a couple of months made one start of course. More than once he had lain out motionless in steady drizzle and remained there for a half hour. For real collapses ambulances had been called a number of times, fine, gentle and delicate treatment always on display from the young uniformed crews. There had been no hope for the chap.
         Omar thought it was normal and correct for the Darts man to convey the news, not knowing the fellow had form. Was this the fifth or sixth announcement of this kind by Darts man, one of which at least subsequently proving false?
         In his early seventies himself now, the dyeing, the screwed down baseball cap, a certain bodily size gave the Darts man a slightly deceiving impression. (He himself thought a rather larger impression of youthfulness was achieved.) 
         A number of years ago Darts man had lost his wife to cancer; it had been a shock. Darts man tightened his jaw and screwed up his eyes delivering the matter. It was always easy to know now what was in store.
         Omar knew the old Indian-Malay drinker. Not to Omar's taste of course. Well, he would face his maker now; we in life could not presume to judge. (It did however seem Omar had a fair idea how the case might conclude for th.) Told of the imputed terror of the Darts man Omar commented that of course that was unIslamic. Of course.
         An unrelated follow-up came later during the conversation once the Darts man had taken off.
         Omar sat something over the hour.
         The conversation with Omar had first begun somewhere around the end of 2012 from memory, the meeting at one of the front former Enak Enak — Tasty, Tasty — tables at the market. Politics, both in the republic, the wider region and then the Middle East, was among the chief subjects. Belief, proper form and rituals for Muslims regularly cropped up. Some little raciness could be shared with Omar. Though for his part Omar had kept on the straight and narrow with his wife, the man had a keen appreciation of the fairer sex and an understanding of stronger allure. A wild boy nephew who liked the ladies and had owned some experimentation with the horse wallop was indulged by uncle Omar. When the incidence of hard drugs arose in this case Omar's reaction was a surprise. Omar had not said a word of condemnation.
         Arab-Malay traditionalist. Wahhabi one might say. Sundays a Qur'anic teacher visited Omar's family circle at Marine Parade, delivering classes after lunch. Omar and his wife, one or two of the children and the grandchildren in particular in attendance.

         Omar's grandfather had been a teacher of the Qur'an, with quarters at Khadija Mosque up the road in middle Geylang provided, where Omar had spent early years. In turn Omar had continued the pedagogic line teaching social sciences across the island.
         A Hadrami Arab by ancestry, Omar was an active member of the Arab Association, a couple of years ago having a place on the admin. board and still active and interested. Meetings of the Association were regularly attended. A single year of Arabic language studies at university was almost sixty years ago; over half a century. Even Omar's father's Arabic had been imperfect.
         A traditionalist, ex-school master, holding firm, steady and settled belief. Outside the Sunday classes Omar did not go back too much to the Holy Book these days. Numerous verses remained in memory and could be delivered when the occasion required. Omar was securely and safely situated within his religion. Not complacently, but securely and safely.
         There was a good deal of the Arab firmness in Omar, despite the predominating Malay features. An impressive certitude was the impression. Certainly Omar would not claim so much, but what he had imbibed from his parents and grandparents, what he had developed through his studies and enquiries, held Omar in good stead. There was little serious or unsettling doubt. The Sunday Qur' anic teacher would no doubt be on guard for any slippage with Omar presiding at the head of the table.
         Not all believers, whether in Islam or any of the other faiths, required such firm grounding. The essentials for the Muslim were the key prayers, Friday mosque attendance (for males), the form of the obeisance was important; then the Ramadan fast and observing the prohibitions, according to Omar. Being able to perform the hajj was a privilege unavailable to all. Faithful, earnest essentials were sufficient.
         Whereupon we came to the tale that occurred to Omar in the particular context.
         The men and women at the Al Wadi tables and the tables further afield there had prompted Omar. Neatly ironed shirts and polished shoes were not well represented among these chairs. The Prophet had enjoined his followers for the search for knowledge and understanding. Not all were fit for the task.
         A Sultan or eminence of some related kind somewhere in the vicinity of the holy lands had needed to attend to the always tricky matter of succession. The time had arrived and no further delay. There were two candidates who were difficult to split. How to achieve his end?
         In the preamble one had thought perhaps a familiar, known tale was in the offing, wise old King Solomon's unmasking of the true mother in the famous case of the two claimants of the child. Granddad Rade up in the stony village had a number of similar tales that had been relayed by his daughter in Melbourne.
         On some advise, this particular Sultan at his morning assembly outlined the challenge for the men.
         The pair would to deliver to his royal person—now listen carefully—a cow crowned with a turban. Did they understand?... They did?...  Go hither then. Do your best and may the best man prevail.
         Away the chaps did go on their quest.
         Logically enough, the first man haunted the cattle market, awaiting his chance. No one had heard of such a thing of course, not at a market nor anywhere else. A turbaned cow!... But was there a better option than the market? Where otherwise might such a beast have been found? The task itself presumed such a creature in existence.
         A wait. Patience was required.
         Before the man's beard had turned completely white, what did his eyes behold? Just as foretold. Simply the beast needed to be purchased and herded back to the palace; the royal tents perhaps, standards aflutter in the breeze.
         Now, meanwhile, the second man, the other candidate in line for succession, had not taken himself off either to a cattle market, nor the pastures. (His competitor had kept a keen eye out.) This man rather had repaired elsewhere. This man had taken himself directly to the chief mosque of the province.
         Man of insight, intuition, ready to leap into the heart of matters with élan.
         It was the time of the Friday prayer, man waiting for the exodus. Here were the worshipers emerging, the usual large crowd.
         The man, the second candidate in running for succession to the particular principality in question, rich fertile lands no doubt, and no doubt one or two fine sultanas attached into the bargain, approached one worshiper, then another, and third and so on.
         Could the men, one by one singly, and privately, tell him what had been delivered in the sermon just then, did it please them? Could they report the matter? They could take their time about it and reflect.
         One. Two. Three. Four. In short order nothing less than a sizeable herd marshaled.
         Ah! No more was needed. Off to the knees of the wise old ruler and the prize awaiting.

Murtabak Drive-Through

Couple of jokers manning the street trade at the murtabak row opposite Sultan Mosque. Parking a pain and then the heat. Drivers were flagged down with smiles, fingers to the mouth for those who might not know the service available. An older Arab reddy-tinged baldie carrying a comb in his shirt pocket; baseball capped younger from the sub-continent. Walking up and down, after 2PM thankfully the shadow covering the entire inner lane on Northbridge. The Arabs had cornered this strip and the streets of Kampung Glam beyond for a couple of centuries now. The traffic marshaling from the Arab came in a couple of gestures: one hand the short digging motion, dog burying a bone, — Come hither, in front of the midriff; two was both hands either side in a kind of dog paddle in a stream. Low whistle faintly audible for the man's own amusement. Comb back. (On the windless equator the short plastic comb in the back or shirt pocket was rare.) With the red light at the intersection in front cars that looked tempted were followed just in case. The simple, unelaborated dog paddle could be developed with a miming of folding the brown grease-proof paper, bundled and clasped with elastic band. Orders were relayed along the line to the waiters, who passed to the kitchen. Under two minutes in a couple of cases. A well-heeled shiny black late model Merc was accorded special respect, enlightened Indian allowing his wife behind the wheel. Chap himself strapped the grandchildren, who had been waiting to be picked up, into the back seat, kiddies shortly in need of good schools, currently enrolled in enrichment programs. Faces here and there from Geylang Serai, Hello, Hello. Unexpectedly old Chinese Richard from two years ago, spotting his quarry and no way out. Took a few brief moments either side for proper recall. Richard with his jittery bonhomie stringing out conversation. Excellent, confident English acquired from the strict regime of the Presbyterians spreading the gospel in the kampungs out off Bukit Timar Road and later Java Road. Memorizations of twelve verses a time to be recited before the congregation Sundays. Richard reeled off a retained sample. Wobbly, trembling chin; no damn wonder the jitters. Owned no religion now; a brother took it further; Richard never proceeded to baptism. Richard liked to get out and about. Inquisitive. Always something to do, somewhere to go. A mention of this and that in the papers away went Richard. So, writing all the while hey? A drink? Had your lunch? Three times drink offered and four meal enquiries. The empty plates sat before Richard, but that might have been another diner perhaps. Mother had always taught Richard and his siblings never to leave a morsel on the plate. (Richard ignored the minute fragments of vegetables on the plates before him.) The answering tale Richard was given of having to kiss food and cross oneself before throwing out in childhood failed to impress Richard. It had in fact been elicited in precisely the same way on the first meeting with Richard at Geylang Serai, the memory was recalled later; and likewise failed to impress on that occasion too. (Was Richard being humoured perhaps?) A drink? Had lunch been taken? In the end Richard would get himself a drink. Another meeting was a surprise. How about that? Well, well. It had been assumed Richard had been converted, during schooldays likely, even primary school. But no, not Richard. Richard was asked whether by chance it was Hiroshima Day. Ah. Hmm…. Unexpected line of enquiry for Richard. In fact it might indeed be Hiroshima Day today. Either today or yesterday, the 5th was it? Richard recalled he had seen a mention on the TeeV. There had been nothing in the newspapers, killed locally by the discovery of the Batam terror cell plotting an attack on Marina Bay. Richard was prepared for other lines of conversation; not this. Richard could spin chat effortlessly more or less, high level attainment; an accomplished orator. After being treated the tea Richard's coin was returned to his pouch carefully, penny saved, penny earned. Richard had earned his penny here opposite the mosque. Bukit Timar—Tin Hill—sixty years ago was not the wealthy enclave it was today. It was OK being left alone, not to worry. Richard was used to being lonely.

Raffles Corner

RockyMaster believe it or not for the potato & spinach soup with toasted bread ($8.50) while finishing the last pages of Perfect Questions, Perfect Answers half a century after George Harrison and John Lennon. Tubby middle-aged Aussies escaped indoors only to find others out. Big-size, as they are called here. That’s pretty reasonable. Burgers are… Swiveling round for a check of the board outside confirmed: $12.90 it was. Fair bita dough spent for the calorie intake by these chappies. Thirteen bucks! Didna look like Raffles wallets, but you never can tell with the mining sector; graziers perhaps. Fatties every way you looked on this corner, expats in particular. Ghastly striped polos running the wrong way. (Wasn’t it vertical to hide lumpiness?) After their café and cake indoors the quartet stepping into the furnace was immediately uncomfortable, skittering away for the next airconned haven. Exceedingly difficult keeping the waist-line in check when the good things of life beckoned at every turn. Lumpy, lumpy, lumpy. Perhaps they were dreaming at point of purchase for that tight clobber, just booked gym membership and bought a bicycle. Fat chance in this heat. Gyms were airconned of course, but still. Rocky does soups for a month no doubt, freeze/microwave: cool top layer, minor scold middle and stone cold thereafter. Fanfare piece in the paper today reported innovation, cost-cutting and labour-hire saving initiative where half a dozen Indian restaurants had banded together to cook all their vegetables and other ingredients jointly at an industrial estate at Tuas. Giant mechanical mixers, grinders, whatever doing the job of 10-20-30 men. Great strides forward with technology. Luckily, as one would have hoped, KV was not among the group. Labourious slow cooking preferred there over a naked flame, wooden stirrers, spatulas and rolling pins for the dosai bon chance. One taut, trim and terrific dweeb and then twenty minutes later one more. Hold on—a third too, but in pink stripes running vertically. Undecided.  (No mockery or ill intended of the poor porky. Easy to understand. The author’s own footballing six-pack was a distant memory now from yesteryear. Thanks to the example of the Sufi Zainuddin, Ramadan, a smattering of Vedanta, Confucian and other philosophy, some little measure has been clawed back)

1.   Swami Prabhupada and his Krishna Consciousness Movement subsequently turned into the Hari Krishna movement; the book in the form of an exchange with Swami and the young seeker Bob Cohen, from the late sixties.

Homecoming (Uighur)

 

Another sizeable group of Xinjiang people, Urumqi perhaps, women predominantly black at one row and two rows back men in white. At the Al Wadi tables the look of an exotic flock descended from the clouds. History, geography, culture across centuries within touching distance. Witnessing the good fortune of people finding their own; oppressed people come from afar, reaching their brothers. Gestures and expressions must suffice: here the old man in white shift and matching cap requesting a toothpick. Pleased to offer assistance, Zahruddin the manager, an Arabist who had studied eight years in Syria and more in Egypt. Indicating the holder. Chap carefully removed one stick, showing it to Zahruddin. Oh... Zahruddin calls him back, holding out a dozen he has plucked from the bowl and giving entreaty. Much obliged. One more then, thank you. Shows the second single again, raised hand for thanks. With a light frame the man nimble on his feet, unlike Zahruddin after a month’s feasting through the New Year festivities back in Malacca. The transformation had been spied immediately on Zahruddin’s return, 5 kg. owned and intended loss of same within the same time-frame has proved too much for Zahruddin. Stationed in the kitchen, behind the prata stand, what hope was there? The group of travellers filed off around the corner to the hotel. When community and homecoming everywhere was difficult, if not impossible and inconceivable, a pleasure to behold. 

 

 

Non-Place

Along the walkway the Java girl on the bicycle rattling like the schoolgirl she had missed out on being. Heading to One KM Mall where her Chin employer worked in a nail place it seemed, 4^th floor. BlahBlah. $550 she earned. Good for her but she had heard others earning $600 and $700. Not very happy there. Still, Myanmar maids scored $410 and $420. So…. Illegal was difficult to convey, hardly any kind of concept for the lass. (High School Year 9 poor achiever was about the mark, nice, rambunctious, distracting others.) A Cirebon lass caught us up after we had been detained by Cat-lady Auntie Josephine, who was taken by the colourful batik tee…. Where did you get it?... Oh, Indonesia…. Only $10 Singapore money was it? Cheap. But dangerous. The Cirebon girl like many others looked mid-teens. Illegality. The prostitution industry was similar. Documents shmockuments in the kampungs…. Auntie Jo was a seasoned traveler who had irritated the Carpmael chapter of the feline sisterhood with her unceasing appeals for relief while she went gallivanting roundabout. Inconsiderate of her; dereliction of duty and betrayal of love. Auntie Helen had been up to Josephine’s flat a few times, where she lived with her bachelor brother. Auntie Helen’s JW shtick had been indulged once or twice, but on the last visit the brother, who taught something at one of the U’s, would not turn his face from the TV set. Auntie Jo traveled widely through the region and sometimes beyond. Excellent Convent English no doubt that was even superior to Helen’s. Vietnam on a number of occasions, Thailand, Malaysia, Myanmar—all non-place hotels safe bet like all the Singaporeans booked for their non-explorations. Or most. Indonesia dangerous. The post-Soeharto mayhem was understandably deeply embedded in the memory. Jogja was a mystery to Josephine. Jakarta was it?... The uneducated pair of Java gals laughed and laughed.

NB. A recent mention in the media of Marc Augé’s non-place hotel environments that were now seeping into all areas of contemporary life. Non-place planet.

Rip-Roaring Tune (Doubtless)

The old Malay uncle clearing the plates at Al Wadi was indeed a Singaporean. Therefore he well remembered the old song Di Tanjong Katong that featured in the gala for the local PM at the White House in the U.S. yesterday. If you asked a Malaysian they don't know, Malay uncle declared. He knew. Down near Amber Road the Embassy Hotel…. Last time there was ..... something.... how to say?... children's many.... Immediate recognition of the tune nonetheless perfectly obvious. The picture of the red carpet reception of the PM on the steps of the grand old house took half the page of the newspaper, clearly visible. For the mention of the song itself the uncle bent low, three inches from the sheet that had been turned around for him. Sure enough, Di Tanjong Katong, uncle read, luckily at the top of a column. On the corner up west not one hundred metres away sat Tanjong Katong Complex on Tanjong Katong Road, the older style mall presenting to the traffic a cylindrical front inspired by a water tower possibly. Hang a left you would get to Amber Road. The former terrace houses and bungalows there, the former children's garden (it seemed) no more ready.  Last time have. Could the uncle recognise Lee Hsien Loong in the pic? (Apparently even the accomplished orator Obama had stumbled over the name, understandably.) Uncle did not watch TV or read the papers. Lee Kwan Yew? he surprisingly asked…. Was he slyly joking? Habis, gone. Suda, done, uncle. No more ready. Raised a smile over the Malay uncle’s creased face, jaws always working, blinking and tossing his head like a colt. Ya, but son now. Money many.... cannot finish one.... many. Well it did stand to reason there would be dough and plenty of it for the best paid pollies in the world, the celebrated duo pere and fille reigning for almost an entire half century between them. Uncle played 4D and Toto with some kind of arcane knowledge and insight. Like many others, the man could often be seen nights bent low over a fan of tickets. Big Beefy Mohammed consulted sometimes with the wise old mentor uncle. One would have said older than 1950 — the former carting, present day ciggies and hollow cheeks added another decade at least to look at him. Fine little to-do in Washington, State dinner no less, toasting and pledges. The "anchor" (Barak O.) in the S-E Asian tropics assuming greater importance as the global re-balancing continues. (Will there be war? a bookish chap was often asked. Pushy Chinese, it was often commented, by the Malays usually.)

NB. PM Lee was keen on the TPP Agreement, free trade; Don Trump giving some cause for concern clearly between the lines. The great benefits in a nutshell, as enunciated by the PM Mr. Lee: “I am spending, I am consuming, I am importXXXing and, because it’s freed up trade I am getting a wider range of products, of services, of opportunities. Consumerist heaven.  (Originally read as important.)

                                                                                                         Straits Times, pA8 Aug. 4 2016

Dessert (Payasam) - published by The Literary Yard, Sept16

Would be interesting to verify with B/P, but certainly this place produces calm, ease and releases some strong endorphins. The music needs to filter out from the kitchen unobtrusively like this, almost beneath consciousness. One little precociously rattling child fails to counteract the smoothness. Possibly the colour and patterns of the saris add to the effect, even on old and portly frames revealing rolls of fat. Not a single pretty girl more often than not; one perhaps today, wearing too much make-up. How these others would have copped it at the schools fifty years ago in Australia—poor Lorraine McLaughlin and the Mead girl straight from the dairy farm up country. Auntie was pressing a taste of the payasam, her dessert (not the assam that was “sour” in Malay); a warm yellow liquid with some kind of nuts. When the pongal arrived in fact Shanmugam had added a full container on the platter. (Jaggery, green dahl, 2 cardamom & cashews fried with ghee, Auntie later informed at the register.) We agreed Mug had lost at least 5kgs. in the month since his father’s death, the shock especially received by telephone at such a distance. There had been sun outdoors too back in Tamil Nadu, a definite darkening of skin tone in Mug when he returned. It had been a surprise on top of his colour. Work to do; grief could not stop all the chores in a busy household. The pint-sized Sri Lankan champ who had recently won the Test for his country against the Australians in Kandy was indeed a Tamil, Mug knew. There was not much the lad did not know about cricket and Tamil cricket in particular. Steady, settled and even spirits in men and women alike, both older and younger. Almost not a single phone in evidence; even the occasional Chinese here keep it in the holster. Could finger-eating be a factor? A ballast delivered by the elders somehow, a certain something in their example reigning subtly over all. Even the Tamils themselves would be stretched attempting to identify the tunes of the old songs peering from behind the curtain as it were. Temple-goers most of the clientele and confirmed vegetarians, non-drinkers and smokers. (Over-eating was their problem, the high sugar content at the sweets counter added.) The blue cloth cap gifted by Altaf, brought up from St. Kilda in fact, must be presented to Shanmug, it has been decided. Almost three years of sweets if nothing else make it well-deserved.

                                                                              Komala Vilas, Singapore