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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