Pillows & Blankets

Gone half ten after a circuit for the newspaper. Two 7-Elevens and two street stalls had turned up nada. The reliable fifth stop was up on Jalan Trus opposite the Johor Bahru Old Chinese Temple. Was the New Straits Times a touch better or more comprehensive than The Star? Golly the factory product produced at politico HQ! Could Pravda ever have been as bad? Politika in middle-late Yugoslavia seemed quite a few notches above in the 1980s while there still remained some belief in the federation. This morning it was worth the trek for the coverage of Maria's release from prison, the leader of the opposition demonstrations ten days kept in solitary. Front page was a tinge of yellow, the protest colour, but within that cloud a smiling PM resplendent in red polka dot tie and matching handkerchief in the breast-coat pocket.  En route two trash fossickers, one on Jalan Wong Ah Fook and the other out front of Muthu, both surprising by the passable attire they wore. Such chaps no longer make one wince each and every time, not necessarily. More than all the others, more than the cripples, the dark foreign salt-mine labourers and the trafficked trannies, in recent weeks the ones afflicting the mind most strongly on these streets of the old town were the Paki and Bangla pillow-hawkers carting their colourful product round and round. Good quality over-stuffed articles wrapped in plastic in each hand and hanging from straps on their backs. At the cool, wet end of year the men had been laden with floor mattresses, blankets and bed-sheets of the same bright colours and design. Last night one of the bearded chaps had stopped to chat to a working girl under the columns on Ah Fook, recognizing a compatriot possibly, or else trying his miserable luck.
            .... Spoke too soon too. After breakfast and the newspaper a poor blighted old girl missing her two front teeth came jigging along the pavement to the song blaring from the store up from Muthu. A long white fabric that might have served overnight as a blanket she had draped over her poor stricken head. The dress of chocolate embroidered with gold trim recalled better days. In mismatched flip-flops standing in front of the Restoran mouthing into the street, rocking and swaying. Did she actually have the coin to pay for the sachet of milk at Muthu, or was it provided by the lads?
            Ten minutes later Yick's security guard jumping up to move the witches-hats for the late arriving Merc at Warna altars raised the stakes further still. In forty-five days of breakfasts there opposite that ponce in his chariot has not alighted and dirtied his own fingers even once.

The Kambodja

Nearing half three after lunch back at the Teahouse where a good option has been discovered at Razali's stall—pre-packed mee noodles with a couple of veg. perfectly satisfying. There are now five or six alternatives at different places here in the old town, even Reaz offering vegetable briyani as a good alternative to their thick, oily nan. As usual too the appetite returned after lunch for another review of last night's revisions and the morning print. Truly the matter is an appetite: sometimes looking again at the work for the fifth or sixth time in a 24 hour cycle just cannot be stomached. Making the first journal note of the afternoon the kambodja happened to deposit a large, only partly yellowed leaf directly onto the shoe almost. Plop! audibly onto the old mottled concrete path under the Teahouse veranda where a familiar rusted drain-cover reminded of the one at Bab's outside her laundry window. On the raised concrete basin there over the drain Bab would wash the potato and greens from her garden for supper, catching the dirty water in one of her troughs and back into the garden. It had taken over forty years to identify the tree Malouf and the other Queensland writers of a generation past had delivered to the literary world down in the great Southern land: the handsome kambodja or frangipani, originating in fact from the other side of the world entirely in Mexico. Couple of sparrows here on adjacent branches that appeared from the ground as brittle as our backyard walnut; pendant dead flowers in November with small new blossoms of the coming season. The thickset new Indon waitress clearing the table pauses for a message on her phone that she carries against her cheek tucked inside her tight brown scarf. Something of some concern by the looks. Opposite at the popular bakery disappointed customers from Singapore who had been unaware of the half-day Sunday trade. On the other side the Fruiterer was awaiting the sale of the last of his goods, around a dozen various cuts in their plastic sleeves prepared at home by his wife. Another RM20 if the Fruiterer was lucky. Sundays were always a good trade.

Consumption

Almost six weeks in Johor Bahru the count of soaps surprises: 2 small cakes of camphor bought from the store on Jalan Wong Ah Fook opposite the canal (RM1.50); one turmeric & agar from an Indian store on Jl. Trus (RM5.19) and thus far two small lozenges of coffee from the night-market. (One initial purchase of the latter and three subsequently discounted — RM7 & 15.) The heat in the bathroom across the day progressively softening and melting possibly; the little bugs feasting on the sugar content the other possibility. Wonderfully fragrant all; the first used for hand and clothes-washing and shaving. One large tube of Dentobac NEEM toothpaste recommended for tartar control almost finished, with another waiting on the high ledge of the bathroom. Two and one half Listerine neon-blue tartar control 250ml flasks; perhaps 7 - 8 cold-pressed pomegranate vials from the night-market (RM15 two nights' usage); and four 120gm Yemeni honey jars (morning and nightly teaspoons). (The Singaporean regime of apple cider vinegar has been omitted for want of the product—only found now at a medical supplies on Trus opposite the temple.) Forty either pongal or uppuma breakfasts at Muthu, excepting unavailability during Deepavali and the once or twice run-out after late arrival. Lunches have been mostly taken at Razali's stall at the teahouse opposite the bakery where a range of fish and 2 - 3 veg. RM7 – 9. Fruit to top off ciku & papaya usually. Supper alternates a few places in order to limit the nan in-take — Reaz chiefly and then the nameless mamak place on Meldrum - Siu Nam corner where the hairy-armed Lohorean does his thinner with mint dip side. The two 50ml Dettol should be added and perhaps half the part-spilt 320ml treating a painfully inflamed blister of some kind on the sole of the foot that has developed into what is perhaps a boil on the third toe. A fortnight now with antiseptic cream (25gm) recalls tales of Babi's father crudely operating on his daughter's heels and Uncle George's late-onset gout. Lattes every second day at Maco mostly beside the bakery RM9.90 and perhaps 3 - 4 small-pack banana cakes bought from the latter largely in an attempt to gift the Indon crew at the teahouse, where finally the sleepy-head Sumatran is accepting both fruit & cake (RM5.80). The New Straits Times (RM1.50) usually from the trannie at the convenience store a few doors from the hotel, as it is difficult to find at the Indian vendors; otherwise the Star. Forty days reading and scanning one continues to marvel at the half-baked propaganda hashed page after page shamelessly trying one angle after another. Blunt bludgeoning that demonstrates how far the outer rings of hangers-on extend in kleptocracies. Perhaps three gel pens, which emptied of ink and left at eatery tables cause Indian lads to run after the writer. (RM3.20 the better class.) With the original Mark I ipad barely functioning and battery running down in little over three hours, the purchase of an Energizer portable charger from the Apple store at Machines, City Square (RM299). Malfunctioning within a week in fact and only today returned from KL. Still awaiting a graphic artist/designer to recast the MS of Southernmost Point: Jalan-Jalan Johor Bahru. A map is to be added to the end pages, captioned photographs gathered and finally a Cast of Characters in order to fit a format the ThinkCity people intend to use for further writings about this town. (This after meticulous page lay-out with Steve Black the photographer.)

NB. At time of writing $AUS1 : RM3.23

Three Recent Publications: Canada & India

Earlier in the month a short piece of mine from 2011 in Singapore titled “Ibrahim and Ismail” was published in Canada by The Antigonish Review (No. 187), a quarterly literary journal issued by St. Francis Xavier University, Nova Scotia. It may have curled their hair a bit up in the far north that one.
Digital copies are available at Kobobooks.com — $US8 for anyone interested; hard copy mail-out otherwise. (After a decent interval I will post it here on the blog.)

In late September an Indian journal where my work has appeared previously published another piece, titled “Dessert (Payasam)”  — a short masquerading as a food item and placed on the site in the Non-fiction & also Travel files. The Literary Yard is a N. Delhi-based free online journal

One more too appeared in August: titled “Southernmost Point”, published by Contemporary Literary Review India, Vol. 3 No. 3, downloadable pdf file available online

Salam and shanti to all

Pavle

No Offence Taken

A kind of non sequitur this, although nothing had been said to the lass in passing. Merely as our eyes met she unexpectedly threw out, — That man has a big cock!

         Smiling, rising lilt in the voice like a girl (a real girl) much younger than herself might have made to mummy at a fairground. ("Willy" substituted perhaps.)
         An old Montenegrin would have deadpanned: — Jesam li te ja sto pitao? Did I ask anything of you?...
         Caught by surprise of course. An innocent, hapless victim of one knew not what. They didn’t do better on the stage; old-style vaudeville perhaps.
         One had to laugh. Twice it may have been and after an attempted stifling; which meant with the road noise the lass was unlikely to have heard.
         — My dear, do you suppose that is of any interest for myself? Englishman faking it….
         An odd kind of stud in this case too one must say, certainly to have raised such evident enthusiasm. In passing there had been a glimpse of an odd young chap loitering on the inner footpath. Almost certainly the woman meant the dork in the shorts, sandals and non-descript tee who looked a mite touched.

         Loose mouth, bent head and mussed hair. A couple of lasses had gathered close. Certainly fellow didn't look like he would have any money in his pocket. (Assuming the briefs were equipped.)
         Did these chromosomally conflicted ladies truly do favours for well-hung chappies, as some of the folklore suggested? The testosterone run wildly in that direction?

         Some men of course did find ridgey-didge textbook ladies rather dull and uninteresting by comparison with these spirited, high-strung gals. And it did seem to be the Indians in particular who had the knowledge. The Indian lads were always disproportionately represented along Wong Ah Fook there evenings, no shame about frankly admiring.
         Now, by making the remark, conveying her appreciation and relish, was the gal here attempting to insinuate herself in fact? self-promoting? That is, in addressing a white guy the lady hinting her anticipation of a certain likely parity and giving to understand there was delight ready to flow from that?

         Declaring such keen interest there was a definite inference to be deducted that could only run in the lady's favour touting for some business?
         Why in the heck otherwise would the woman offer such information? Purely a case of a lady’s enthusiasm bubbling over, the exclamation just happening fortuitously to be directed at your person passing at that juncture?

         These girls had a range of seductive come-ons, sneaky and adept. Genet of course had written startling prose on the subject.
         Not the prettiest on the street this lass, tall, stout and round-shouldered; she was forced to other strategies. Some were quite beautiful and naturally so: there would be no surgeries or expensive enhancement at this street-level in such a town. Thais or Filipino/as almost certainly. (The matter of trafficking only occurred later.) 

         A number of older veterans who did not enter the fray usually sat at the first table within the lane. One of the seniors, a Chinese still in good trim, spruiked for the youngsters.

         Another fixture at that place—wholly male in his case—always hovered nearby and dropped his eyes when observed. Living on the earnings.
         One could only thank the girls, smile and lightly break the hold on the arm. After a number of weeks now they were hardly putting out at all for the panama. The bright-eyed girl that night was new.

Baby Among the Reeds

Long article in the Sunday Times needed to be read through in order to decipher the caption for the main picture accompanying:

“OrphanCare arranges adoption of babies left in baby hatches”

Scarved woman hovering over a new-born lying within a kind of out-sized microwave capsule built into a pillar or corner of a building on a street pavement it looked…. Keypad adjacent, temperature controlled presumably; piping of nutrients not visible.
The penultimate paragraph: “An average of 100 babies are dumped every year in Malaysia and more than 50% do not survive.”
And the last paragraph: “OrphanCare runs baby hatches in Petaling Jaya, Johor Bahru and Sungai Petani…”
….Facility adopted from where?... They didn’t dream this up here that was for sure.

Google search showed 1. china 2. baby hatches a safer and better future 3. germany 4. usa

The contemporary church steps, basket among the reeds by the river-bank, what-have-you.

                                                                    S. T., p.14 November 13 2016 Johor Bahru

Night-shift Martyr

Tubby with his yellow apron on the night shift must have trudged up early tonight. A recent hair-cut. All the lads at Reaz receive regular trims from the barber shop that was run by a branch of the family down in the ground floor well below the eatery. The red and yellow cap tonight that matched Tub’s Maggi apron had not been sighted previously; blue nylon short-sleeved shirt. Tough climb up the incline nights and not a happy camper on first landing Tub. At home at the bottom of the dark lane there was no one to wash, cook or warm Tubby’s bed. (Overcast, cool drizzly days upon us now at the tail-end of the year.) First notice of the chap's presence tonight was the strange half-yawned tune from the entry to the severy behind. Allahu'akbar in a tone certainly never heard before. Resting on the counter and head back-tilted, the cap pulled from his brow and scratching beneath, the man gave out the battle-cry of the suicide bombers and other martyrs just to himself there in a moment of release.

Double-Barrelled

Remarkable insistent flashing. Mesmerising to watch. The chap at the cashier’s desk at Muthu turkey head extended, and the eyes above all. As if on stalks. Beaming, bulging, near popping from their sockets. The greatest strain was concentrated in those orbs. Nothing whatever about the cashier to explain it, good, regular guy possessed of a brilliant smile tickled. But this chap was seeking, enquiring, unable to fathom something that was before him. Not surprisingly the other avoided his gaze. What too was remarkable here almost as much as the look itself was the reflection of Yanasagaran. This man was darker, colour and even more features recalling Rawat’s revelation of the African slave trade that was introduced into that unexpected corner of the sub-continent. Old Hollywood films, comedies and serials, where the servant or cow-hand entered, contained precisely this visage, the cameras searching it out for the audience laughs. Yana when he was hearing the unexpected, when challenged or uncertain, would flex his facial muscles and cast into precisely that form and aspect. Striking and most unusual to have it repeated here in Yana’s home town. Was it Africa and Southern India too in confrontation with the gun barrel and its administrators? What was it?

NB. The Slave Trade in Africa - A Historical Perspective, Hasan M. Rawat. Karachi, 1985

Johor Bahru, Malaysia

Some Dirt

As usual the Fruit-vendor after lunch needing a little chat to break his boredom. Weekday afternoons were slow and the last items always took some while to sell. Rain was the great dampener too now in the monsoon season. Still, little of it in the past few weeks, evenings mainly that were of no concern to the Fruit-man. After the fruit-stall the vendor would return home via his massage shop to check on things there. Today however he was tired and needed an hour's sleep. Thick pouches under the Fruit-man's eyes told of his nightly battles.
         Three thousand ringitt a month was made from the fruit-stall, massage operation and some other venture that the man did not specify, some minor kind of enterprise. One thousand dollars. Hardly a pile, but in Malaysia not too bad either. The Fruit-man ran a car, owned his own house some way out of town. Originally he had hailed from a town about an hour out of old JB. The fact had emerged during a conversation with a younger Indian who had sat at the adjoining table around on the side where the Fruit-man set-up shop. Since the Fruiterer had moved he rarely went back. Some of his tiredness peeled away listening to the Tamil speak of his former home.

         A customer had made the Fruit-man jump. When he returned to the seat in the shade against the wall he quickly flagged again.

         There would not even be energy for teeth-sucking today; Fruit-man was too tired. Who needed paste, floss or picks when a chap could bring suction like that to bear.
         Fruit-man had two sons, one working ready, as they said in the local patois, as an engineer down in Singapore. The younger was currently in Prague on an exchange program in his final year of engineering himself. Once that lad was earning there would be an easing of pressure. The exchange was funded by the Singaporean university the boy attended where a scholarship had been won. Nevertheless there were of course additional expenses. Winter in Prague presented an ordeal for a boy from the tropics. In January it would be all over and hopefully a job in Singapore or elsewhere.

         The Fruit-man, formerly a taxi driver, was a proud father. He had done well with the upbringing. Another year or two of fruit nonetheless.
         — You younger than me, Fruit-man guessed, risen again from his lethargy.

         Some chat would help keep him on the job. Like most others judging outside their racial group, the man was at a loss on this ground.
         Fruit-man's sharp eyed look suggested understanding his gambit might just as likely go the other way too. It seemed he did want to know, was measuring himself perhaps.
         Told he should call his friend abang, older brother, the Fruiterer responded with thumb and forefinger.

         There could only be a small difference in it; in the difference of the two ages. A bee's dick, the boys said in Australia.
         Weekends you could count on a fair trade and good takings, about double other days. Weekends and public holidays.
         — Singapore holidays best.
         True enough, Fruit-man had to agree. 
         The old charcoal-fueled bakery over the road drew large groups of Singaporeans. With prices three and even four times cheaper in JB, many crossed the two hundred metre Causeway to take advantage. In recent days the Malaysian government had placed a fee on vehicles crossing onto their territory through Johor Bahru and within a day or too the Singaporeans had replied with the same on their side. For some while now there had been a difficult law to enforce stipulating drivers exiting Singapore could not have less than three-quarts of a tank of fuel. The border hopping for that common lurk was destabilizing Singaporean retailers. 
         Last week a call from the dark had found old Raja Leong, the Sale King in one of the massage chairs on Jalan Meldrum. Then the other day Raja’s John! from a bench in front of a barber's behind Muthu.

         Great to see the old indomitable rogue. Many crossed the border for a hair-cut, manicure or massage.
         Slow days the Fruit-man sought opportunity for chat. With limited English there was little scope. Fruit-man was not a real talker either. How he could turn some more ringitt was his sole focus; it was doubtful he talked anything else with his pals.
         — Not married huh? Single?... Your wage how much?... Go America, England, very good?...
         One needed to humour the man best one could. He forgot everything he had been told in any case; the Abang line had been used at his last enquiry on age. Perhaps he had not forgotten and was foxing, distrusting what he had been formerly told.

         One needed to humour. Do the minimum and shake Fruit-man off politely.
         Today however we would venture some little part further nevertheless, tired as was the Fruit-man. Stuck with the fellow milk him some or prick just for the heck of it.
         The arrangement at the teahouse was not altogether clear. The lady operator sub-let to Razali for his food-stall. (In fact head-hunted Razali to bring his food business there.) Sub-let to the Fruit-man and to a Chinese woman who ran another food option, a mee alternative. (Razali offered traditional Malay, cooked by his wife at home and transported.) 
         Fruit-man was charged RM300 per month to set up his pre-packed ice-box of cut fruit around beneath the frangipani in the side street opposite the charcoal-fired bakery that had become a great favourite: watermelon, papaya, pineapple, chiku, a local pear and apple variety. 

         One hundred dollars near enough. Many fruit vendors were charged a nominal fee, but they weren’t sited opposite the gold mountain.
         Most of the serving girls of Razali's and the Mee lady were Indonesian. There was one Chinese. The teahouse lady had a few Indonesians and also four male waiting on tables, fetching supplies and carting. Two young lads, one of whom was the Teahouse lady's youngest son; the second a pal of the boy, perhaps a cousin. Minimal English both; neither had progressed far in their schooling and almost not at all in the English stream.
         One other older man just an employee and the last who looked some little part more. This latter was the odd man out, difficult to place. 
         There was nothing in it of course, mere idle curiosity. However today Fruit-man was to be  asked whether this chap might be the husband of Teahouse Madame.

         The question had been crystallizing for some time without any particular focus. There was nothing in it either way of course.
         Affirmative nod elicited; lizard-lazy eyes.
         Husband Number Three in case you didn't know, Fruit-man added, nodding again with less threat of nodding off.
         Not so common this and worth remarking.
         One heard of course of men with two, three and four wives in this region; simultaneously of course. Divorces were not altogether uncommon, but one usually heard of men in the record. A woman who had had three husbands—the Teahouse lady was a first there, in this particular perhaps not extensive acquaintance.
         And three—Fruit-man held up pinkie, ring and middle finger, unfurled in that order, all long-nailed—three years the lady's junior to boot.
         Wah! Husband No. 3 was three years younger than his twice previously divorced wife? (Almost certainly we were not talking widowhood.)
         Heavy lids and jowls added years to Fruit-man's visage. Clearly into his sixties a casual observer would guess.
         Other chap concerned here with previously twice married bride and three years his senior had been difficult to pick for rank. In the years previously the assumption had been that he was another employee, perhaps within the family circle and not hireling.

         For the first few years thought had been the husband of the Teahouse lady kept away, perhaps with bigger fish to fry and serious dosh making. This other man did seem to have a certain elevation, but not much. His calls from the tables over the other side of the street on busy weekends had been noted five years before.

         — Kopiii Oh! like a cock chortling. Most of the others called the orders on the move without any grandstanding.
         Five years ago in fact when the Teahouse was first discovered the Teahouse lady, clearly the owner and moving spirit, had been asked whether she had inherited the business from her family perhaps. The old building had been theirs?
         No. Her in-laws, she had said. And Fruit-man gave the same information unbidden today.
         Hubbie No. 3 hopped to the tune played by his senior and wife. On his own resources the man could never have carried out such an operation. Never in a day. This was perfectly evident to all and sundry, the Fruit-man and everybody else. Had the chap somehow attempted to carry the venture here on his inherited plot Fruit-man would not be docked RM300 per month.

         Nice tubby fellow, always with his hands full. Occasionally there was briefest consultation between the couple. (Good reliable cousins one had thought.) Something the man had seen that needed pointing out, as today. Nods. OK. Away the woman went with the insight.
         — Veeeery stingy, Fruit-man charged.
         That was plain to see and no doubt Fruit-man suffered for it.
         Three hundred a month for nothing really. The fruit was an addition for the patrons, a further draw for the teas.
        Iron discipline over the work-force, helmet hair-cut, jowls and marching gait. The wounds of the past worn by the Teahouse lady were all too visible. How long buried was carefree ease and generous spirit? How the younger self had paid for it. It was exceedingly difficult to reassemble something of the former life.

         From what a depth the Teahouse Madame had been raised the week before when she had been told what a spitting image was her baby boy—as if there was no father involved. (There was a girl from the same second husband and eldest boy from the first, the Fruiterer knew.) Warmest delight from that particularly fine gallantry. Hit the mark quite unexpectedly.

The Saved

Omar had been delayed an hour at the Checkpoint, from where he texted apologies. Earlier the queue at the baker for the banana cake on a weekday had puzzled and no one could provide the answer until Omar arrived. 

Of course. With Deepavali falling this year on the weekend Monday had been the designated public holiday in Singapura. Therefore the 35-40 in line snaking around to the far tree beyond the neighbouring café. 

Bulging plastic bags carried by those exiting. The lads at the teahouse were feasting on the forest of fine, shapely legs. (Cuci mata, bathing the eye, the Malays termed the pleasure of ogling.)

Lunch with Omar, a cafe over the road, followed by a walk past the slowly gentrifying old Chinese shop-houses and finally fruit rojak at City Square Mall. 

There was some news from the south. Omar had attended Sharifa's launch of her father's re-issued book of short stories. It had been a small gathering, but noteworthy. Brief Singaporean items from Geylang Serai; brief domestic matters. Then Yemen again.

On his blackberry Omar had a report from an English-accented reporter barely containing her rage at the devastation and brutality. The six minute video file full of mutilated bodies was difficult to watch.

Omar was uncertain whether it was Al Jazeera. The woman was a Saudi, her life no doubt in danger now. Full of seething fury, she would have known of the danger of speaking out like that.

After escorting Omar to the Checkpoint, another session at the Cyber, brief recovery in the room followed by late, light supper. It was only after midnight that the memory of what had been delivered earlier that day returned. It had been buried by the sudden arrival of Omar. Indeed, when Omar first rounded the corner of the teahouse a shock had resulted. The scheduled visit had been clean forgotten.

A short while before Omar arrived Razali had come as usual to take a seat. A short chat, some shared fruit, followed by the recent news.

A half hour prior Razali had received a message from a friend who had attended another of their circle's funeral that same day, the Monday after Divali.

In youth under a different name, Razali had worn the mark of a Hindu on his forehead. After having sought succour and meaning in the belief system of his mother, Razali eventually converted in late-teens. There was some of the sharpness of the convert in the man; in Razali’s case confined to a strictness and seriousness over the adopted faith. For his earlier faith and other faiths and practices Razali gave good allowance; there was no cheap dismissal of his roots. And Razali continued with moral questing and probing; his Islam was firmly grounded, but questions never ceased for him.

In recent time Razali had been under pressure from a number of quarters: the hip from the motor-cycle accident was only getting worse—replacement costs being assessed across Thailand, India and elsewhere in the region; friends and in-laws were in need of financial assistance; a daughter's prospective marriage had been delayed after the groom's side had failed to provide their share for the wedding. Much to weigh and much to consider for Razali. 

Then, a number of friends had begun to peel away. In the last six months there had been four or five funerals. These were men under sixty most of them. Razali was approaching the mark himself. 

Six daughters and a wife to consider. Razali was still living in his mother-in-law's house; he had left his savings late and there was precious little time remaining.

With the food-stall Razali could not manage attendance at the funeral. The friend reported soon after the event that all had been completed as custom required; nothing left undone. As there were few males in the deceased man's line, this friend attending who messaged Razali soon afterward had volunteered to help wash the body. 

This in passing from Razali as he was reaching for the climax of the matter.

Listening to the unfolding, at this point in the story a cultural Christian, one of the Orthodox form with some familiarity with funerary rites, needed elucidation.

Firstly, a non-blood relative, a friend and a male, in preparation for internment cleaning and washing the corpse?

Yes, Razali answered. For Muslims that was the common practice.

            Ah ha.

Not heard previously. 

There had been numerous funerals down in Geylang Serai in the last five and more years, attendees returning from the grave-sides taking a teh and sitting.

Men cleaning, washing, stoppering and most likely perfuming the corpse? Non-family members?

For Muslims who commonly covered their womenfolk, had them follow trailing behind on outings; sometimes discouraged them—albeit improperly—from mosque attendance, the duty of dealing with death was not charged to the female side, but actually assumed by the male?

Yes again, according to Razali. That was the case.

In Islam generally?

Well, yes. Certainly as far as Razali knew; and certainly among the Malays.

A female corpse was handled by females; male by males.

This was a surprise. For a secularised Orthodox Christian certainly. 

In our Montenegrin hills daughters, nieces and first cousins perhaps performed these last duties. Males and nearest male relatives dug the grave, carried the casket, collected the bones of the previously interned to be placed within the new casket. (Badly estranged blood relatives often remarked, Nor in the grave with him/her.)

And what the friend also reported to Razali of this particular event that the latter had been unable to attend, what was more familiar both from books and personal testimony: this sixty-seven year old corpse which had looked in the last of life thin and haggard, now at the point of death had turned into a much more fine, impressive and indeed handsome figure. Suddenly transformed. All the unsightly, frightful earlier signs were no more.

This was more familiar ground, common and widely reported. 

The friend had messaged around noon that day a couple of days after Deepavali. An hour later Razali remained much struck. A little boyish in response, flushed and nodding telling it against the wall of the teahouse opposite the busy bakery.

The bright beaming of Razali's had returned the episode to mind late night after the curtains of the hotel room had been drawn and the light switched off. In the shadow of the alcove where we had sat the light in the man had triggered long buried memories of our kitchen table at home, where mother had received Sevenths, JWs and one notable Baptist convert of our own tribe. Elation might have been putting the matter a little too strongly for feelings of overcoming like that, shared by Razali there at the teahouse.

On again it was with the light, out with the paper and the trusty pen. Like a vivid dream, in the morning it would all be lost. Or gone cold in the particulars, which was as good as lost.

                                                                                                Johor Bahru, Malaysia

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Illegals

Twice now within a couple of days. Two-three nights ago during supper at Reaz and then now this morning during breakfast at Muthu half-serve cups of teh. At Reaz full cup was RM1.50/$AU0.50; half RM1; four or five Bangla lads they must have been crowded around a table with the same number of half-serves brought. Short, slight young lads of an age mid-evening taking some rest and sharing the burden. A newsreport last week cited a government functionary suggesting 41% of the workforce in Malaysia were illegal foreigners. (Yesterday morning ABC online reported the most recent ferry capsize, in this case a speedboat—which suggested illegals—departing JB here heading for Batam; eighteen at first then twenty drowned and twice that number rescued.) The Bollywood waiter at Muthu advises they did not do half-serves there; what you saw was a cup halved. (Not to the eye: those two cups madeth more than a single.) Memorably in Chow Kit, Kuala Lumpur in the Baluch quarter, there had been the example of a single cup brought to table with two empties that made refreshment for three. Chap at the cashier here earlier in his early-seventies paying a bill in carefully counted RM0.10 pieces, about two dozen—teh and single vadai possibly.

Radiance

Rarely smiles like this for an old man passing by, stopping for morning chat over the front rail at Muthu. Elsewhere there was little time, little opportunity or inclination. In the dark corner within his booth the cashier's face illuminated like the bright flame that set the Hindu worshipers in their temples awestruck and inspired. Over eighty the impressive figure sighted mornings and late afternoons circling the streets of the old quarter, tall, slight, hook-nosed, snow-white hair combed back. None carried themselves with such ease through these littered streets over the broken pavements. What the man delivered from the other side of the rail delighted the middle-aged cashier still some way to go himself before he would be able to produce such measures. Out he comes from his cubicle where only he was permitted entry—trusted senior employee—around to the front and up close in a stance again uncommon on our side, at least where males were concerned. Arrow straight and head uptilted, the fingers of the right hand uncurled and knuckles resting on the small of his back while the man received further from the treasure-store of his Tamil compatriot. There seemed to be no more than whispers passed from barely moving lips; it was the radiance and quiet keenness on the other side that spoke loudest. The old man’s route was Meldrum from the waterfront and returning downhill on Trus with the traffic on the road. Did the ancient still have need of the temple along the way?