Highest Stealth

Once more the study through the glass of the window. There was telltale glistening over by the rail-tracks on some kind of corrugated sheeting it looked, though that could not be right. Patterned concrete possibly; twilight made it very difficult. Not a sign of anything otherwise on any side, not on Meldrum's orange paving, not the awnings, nor the usual reliable square under the lamplight of the store by the corner. The sky itself was the last place to see anything. Cars going past the servo half-way to the rails were often a good guide—perhaps it was raining fifty metres across there. Again negative, none of the blades going. Overhead the patchy black clouds were certainly dark enough. Not a sound of any kind, not the merest whisper; the light voices as usual from the tables down below. On this occasion the event would be waited out patiently by the window, ears pricked and determined. Not unlike hunting a wild animal in the jungle. Ambush; though in this case one was the wary victim-to-be.... It was finally the play of drops over the strangely transformed rectangle by the rails that showed definite and undeniable two or three minutes before the first hint of percussion, glistening like snail trail; like silver coating catching light. A downpour and one half finally that meant dinner would be delayed and a change of location needed. The lads at Reaz were a bridge too far; it would need to be the hairy-armed Paki at Medina for his garlic nan. (Amusing how the chap seemed struck by the White’s order and evident relish. He had been caught by chance coming down from Masjid India after the Friday prayer almost unrecognizable in his long caftan shift and white cap, stopping hesitantly before the table, uncertain whether he would be acknowledged away from his station. Once again the returned touch to the heart was too slow.) Thief, cheating lover, spy or terrorist could not have accomplished their infiltration with the aplomb of this monsoonal rain.

On the Corner

Woman waiting tables next door owns only the one good pair of tights for work, lurid pink which a darker toned scarf off-sets in some kind of rough harmony. In between the blouse is unimportant with the apron. Thus she carries it off night after night. Rolled up makes it half nine, in for the overnight haul. The hot fluro not a sign she’s putting out by the way: even on Meldrum–Sui Nam corner a modicum of finery is required serving customers. Here the Bangla lad with four years schooling back home explains that he has never had any kind of problem with the Chins, the Malays or anyone else. Nobody. Many in fact do not know his nationality and assume he is Malay. Nice looking skinny boy sporting a recent rust tint he did at home with a RM5.50 sachet from the supermarket. Two years here his accomplished Malay has been added to native Bengali and serviceable Hindi/Urdu. English can be parroted rather than read, but Yasir is well in advance of any of the other foreign workers on that corner and when interpreting is required it is he who is called upon. Fitted in well to his new environment, — Nobody disturb me. The verb too in possession had surprised. Well done lad! Written in caps back of journal syllable by syllable there was need of encouragement and aid, but Yasir does climb that mountain and pleasure found at the summit. Broad grin. Not so hard, hey. A task now to find something appropriate for the lad on the Popular shelves at the mall—not the worst bookshop in creation by the way; possibly print up for him this little sketch of himself and his corner where he will spend the remaining three years of his contract, before returning home for good he hopes if some kind of business there can be engineered. RM1, 000 per month, board & keep provided by the Tamil boss. Six hundred sent to parents and the remainder sufficient for new tees from the bargain tables at the mall, phone and ciggies. Yasir reminded of the simple mnemonic for Bengali Thanks: Dunno vat — Oz-Germanic intonation. Nineteen. 

Goddess (Nilla)

The name came back after a few minutes. Names of streets, locales, restaurants always seemed a little preposterous, put-ons and layovers, someone's bright idea we were asked to take seriously and carry away with us on somebody or others' say-so. Rarely did such have any true, deeper meaning. Why would you bother with them? Get on with what you were doing whatever that may be. Nevertheless, after a few minutes Nilla came back more or less of her own accord. One assumed female, by no means confidently. In foreign cultures you were lost with gender forms, among much else. We made Nilla a goddess, one of the three hundred million in the Hindu pantheon was it? Hard to go wrong. Average teh and wait on the meal, ten minutes the waiter said, closer fifteen. Never mind, even with the pain in the foot not properly elevated. Near half four, high time the cheaper thosais were available. Down in Singapore they did the same: during the lunch hour, 11 - 3, the thosais and chapattis were off—customers steered toward the pricier heavy glutinous processed rice with your choice of veg. Without breakfast and gone mid-afternoon, the rawa masala thosai had been fixed upon since noon. It was yummy at Nilla, the potato insert mixed with crunchy green peppers and three thick sambal. Go for it Boss!... First time their teh halia sampled. Not so crash hot: thin, little ginger evident and lukewarm. What to do?... Fatties over-represented piling in. Not an attractive display when eating with the fingers meant presenting the platter-tongue. Ah! the elegance of the French and English with their shiny cutlery — an art installation of sorts. Little wonder the Indians often avoided direct sight-lines with foreigners when they were hoeing in. Girls, guys, mums and dads with big bums, bellies and thighs; staggering, rocky gaits. By reports, pre-Donald they would have fitted in well in the States. Some of these young lads on the floor would positively favour the big-size gals: not a sign of any kind of distaste or indifference and quite the contrary. As in Africa, the sign of health/wealth encoded somehow affirmatively. Made one think these girls could really turn it on, never mind flab and folds. Shake it baby! Then their mothers and sisters factoring. These boys were all for it; thin anorexics were marked low. Great deal of easy sweet pleasantry from the waiters bending at their tables. Horrid alum. chairs, easy wiping and moving the diners. Like the Malays, there was no long sitting-on after a meal holding conversation. Conversation took place elsewhere; there was little time or need for it; much of it seemed in passing and casual. Uncomfortable. Prone to sliding, the chairs required upright posture. Pain. Interesting Oz nomadic miners item on ABC online earlier. Finally, after many years of fruitless prospecting across the Outback wastes, this couple struck big time big nugget. Shiny rock worth big bucks enabled them to buy a house, car, travel properly, gift their friends. Some time later, some few years, regret arrived that the pair had not endowed their children better. It had been a conscious decision from fear of spoiling. Interesting. Understandable both sides of the equation. Bushies done it hard all their lives; a terrible thing to transmit shallowness and complacency; ruin a being. Yet, then again. Infection almost certainly in the foot. That was what was causing the recent blisters when one thought one was out of the woods; odour too. Recalling the old guys out on the street, the one in particular with the swollen red feet sleeping on shop ledges against the shutters, through the day getting some comfort from the slope on little used stairs. The Rudy Valentino hair with the wave over forehead threatening to dump on the rider any sec. Wow! When was that last seen? Rockers and bikers in over-sized studded leather jackets at the top end of Mason Street Newport, near the station and the two pubs either side. Lottsa their compatriot barbers highly skilled, confident and assured like any elsewhere wielding cut-throats and sharp scissors. They would all have their particular faves of course who knew just how they liked it. Sometimes the lad with that style would blow a snort of air by nostrils and over forehead to feel it riffle the plume. Rarely did the foreign workers carry the elaborate dyes, the russet and honey highlights like the Bollywood lad at Muthu. A regular looker like him happily paid. Horrid furniture, fittings and finishing, all entirely overcome, overthrown, cast into insignificance by the people here and not only the staff;  though grounded so firmly and securely of course back in their homeland, the waiters were inevitably the front-runners. The diaspora here, young ones in particular, receive the unconscious echoes and elaborations of familiar patterning served by these distant cousins. Fluro lights on white wall tiles, gas bottle two metres from the table by the appom stand, bulky aircon unit in the front against the window, exposed wiring and racket in the cavern-like dual chambers, all overthrown. White shirt floor manager swanning a moment ago through the blue caps and polos with a platter for a front table. Everywhere warm, free glimpses among the lads, between themselves and the clientele, many regulars no doubt. Back in the day in for a late supper draped with his fox fur after a performance, Rudy Nureyev would have found a way with the young Valentino in the back squat toilets—Ruskis we used to call them in Titoist Yugoslavia.

NB. Nilla was third consort of Lord Vishnu

VD Klinik Deja Vu

St. Nikola it dawns. Yes, the 19^th. The Saint of travelers and something else. Sveti Nikola Putnik look over you from Bab for even short little outings. In the Balkans, down in Boka, it remains well short of dawn. Those holding the feast have been preparing weeks ahead. Comfortable enough in the aircon and front seat with leg room. God knows whether Doc’s arrived and the show rolling. Hour and half wait best guess for No. 5 on the appointment list, pre-booked the day previous. Overnight bad bad itch in another blister sprouting down nearer the heel, scratching resisted somehow for the 1 ½ hour torment. (The literature suggests it spreads the infection.) Five hours and another late added overnight. Dozen plus in the seats listening to the comedy skit with the receptionist over the “Marital Status.” You not married? You not married?  You not married? through the circle in her perspex. Third confirmation TIDAH in a snorted laugh spread merriment through the audience. Refrained from questioning her interest; the incredulity was clear. Newspaper trash here as always, under 10 mins. Quite enough for it today. The Skin sign out front not obsolete: here was a young schoolboy with his mother adjacent wearing some kind of facial rash that the former wants Boy to display for Uncle. There had been verification of the date on one of the Serbian sites a few days before. Jolly glad the visuals demonstrate to all and sundry in the room that the mat salleh isn’t here because he has been screwing the locals, the lasses down along the road for example. Noooo Siree! Weeks now the Klinik had been passed without the signage transmitting. It looked a sorry nook indeed; now you were yourself in need. Couple days prior at the first reconnoiter the added VD specialization in the practice was observed on the door. Ah! Well sited here. One could have played the guessing game in the room, but not from the front row. Guy come up with his young wife, possibly a No. 2. Not likely he was going to allow any kind of examination behind these partition walls without his presence. Thankfully the TV off, out of order perhaps. Large display of acne cases with black strips covering the eyes of the pitiful victims. How long could the leg be kept crossed like this?... In fact only a dozen in the ranks behind. 14 suddenly flashing along with the buzzer. Hey! What about us?... Aduh! Precisely as anticipated. Shortly thereafter orderly sequence again, a semblance of order returned. That’s better. Three quarts of an hour later No. 1 had been seen and sent on her way. Doc rocked up late no hurry to enter his surgery, you couldn’t blame him. Well, what kind of scene awaited? Will the fellow be smoking at his desk like old Dr. Clarke in the old days? Calendar on the wall, collar beneath dustcoat. Patients would not buy without the white coat. A tie? Perhaps for an Indian rising above the blood, the sweat and the fetid infections. Not a little unpleasant either having to sing out to the girl earlier the age too; holding the passport in her hand there could be no fudging. That was a first, sounding out that damnable diseased number, owning it. Preposterous. She was honour bound to ask of course, no room for complaint. Grrrh. RM100-120 best guess, all worth it if pristine condition returned and pain relief two days later. Antibiots and cream for the pustules and blisters. Out, out damn spots!

Snow-Drift (Equatorial)

Foot-slog of the second mall at City Square after lunch. Trousers, Lee jeans, various casual wear. One or two roomy possibilities found in the midst of all the tight skinny-legged whatnot. Sore with the slow recovery from this darn tinea and then the milling shoppers. Such numbers of extended Chinese families gliding through the aisles, strings of 7 - 8 like fish in a pond. Men emerging from change rooms in their white polos slashed with red and royal blue crests pulling at collars and needing the advice of mothers and wives. Cripes!... School hols. and Chrissy creeping on snow-drift quiet. Numerous fagged out shags on rocks waiting on couches. In one of the up-market stores—but then they were all up-market above the dirty street and canal—a plush apple-red Chesterfield chair held a shrunken Asian princess bargain hunter reminiscent of the skit in the Two Ronnies when little Corbert delivered one of his set routines. Polished tiles, bright colours, soaps, deodorants & perfumes. The species perfectly adapted to the environment, cruising like ice-skaters, even older heads who might have known better. Many were the recent generation of newly minted Singaporean of course crossed over for the plummeting ringgit. Poor Bangla lad coming down an escalator held his mop over the fixed stainless panel against the perspex like he was taught by the supervisor: tight, firm and applying pressure top of handle. The lad’s compatriots at the exits were dressed in fatigues almost and crowned with reddy-orange berets in some kind of compromise between security and couture. All of which almost entirely without looking, head down-nose clean, barely a single instance of eye contact. Flooding images overpowering regardless. In Malaysia mind, where on the streets of the provinces at least a social whirl of acknowledgements, greetings, abrupt enquiries after your nativity, smiles for miles and miles. The micro-climate of the mall on a Monday afternoon almost a fortnight to Christmas, sharia law about to be promulgated in one or two states to the north, flooding in various regions, the political class braving a torrent of accusation, mass weddings (one involving a fifteen year old and later in the week another national suicide bomber in Syria—thirty-eight thus far). Earlier in the morning a substantial procession of foreign workers almost to a man waving make-shift green flags down the middle of Trus toward Masjid India. Maulid, the Prophet's birthday, which in these parts really does seem to occur at least two or three times a year. And why had the author subjected himself to the trial, pray tell? Slogging through the mall?... Well, it does not befit one of the White race with Arts bureaucrats to engage shortly and then Immigration officials, to go about in what the old Australians would term "the arse hanging outta his pants." A dirty great tear in the seat of the outdoor clobber not a year old, purchased in the happy isle to the South. (Not the first shoddy product bought from Campers beside the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul on Queen Street.)

Flocking

Late afternoon light over the rail-line that sits in a little cavern surrounded by ten, twenty and thirty storey buildings. Buses with their horns queueing for the terminal beyond. The last forty-eight hours confined to the room and the window for outlook, when suddenly the larger confinement struck with some sharpness. Three times a large flock of dark birds had wheeled over in formation from the south, the water-side; two passes in-close and the third a hundred and more metres high. Dotted cloud swarms with undulating narrow wings diving and surging over this massed concrete. How long it had been! In the last week the realization had come that there were no seagulls on the shores of the equator. Were these then the pigeons that the hole-in-the-wall Indian store-keepers fed around the corner from Muthu? Middle-class children in Singapore possibly come to witness such events on holidays in foreign parts. There were certainly pigeons in the southern republic, they were poisoned regularly by the Enviro. men. Too large for starlings these here.

Bob and a Sweet Tamil Song

Bob winning the big one few weeks back—awarded just the other day in Stockholm in absentia—generated some discussion with friends down in the Great Southern Land. One lad had memorably breathed Bob’s air in an elevator in the Hilton hotel on one of his tours Downunder, the number of floors traveled in the august company forgotten now.

— But you didn’t say anything George? What! Not even Hallo, welcome to Melbourne….

(No intention to big-note, but this Scribe did manage a gallantry for Kiri Te Kanawa on the steps of the State Library in Melbourne following a choir of Maori voices within inaugurating a touring exhibition of artefacts at the then shared Museum. How much more glorious that had been than any formal recitation!)

…. Literature?/Not literature? Electric/Golden/Acoustic &etc. 

Coming after the depths of Alexievich made it rather hard to swallow for a hard-bitten Lit. man resistant to all forms of industrial production.

Anyhow, after a review recently the following rescued from the Draft file:

….Yeah, well, i got a fave current too, great little Tamil thing carrying awesome beat. After 4-5 weeks of it coming on fr the music store a few doors from my Indian brekkie place, i'm totally hooked. Knew it was love of one sort or another, sort of. Youtube suggests gal keeps a fave laying hen that the boy pretend-steals possibly. There might be a loud rooster of hers too keeping him awake that she hasta Shushhhh!... No movie sequence. In this case stills from the movie are dealt like cards that follow the wonderful beat: Bam Bam, Bam. Flick, Flick, Flick. She keeps the birds in a tall segmented cage with a thatched roof. Finger-crossing lips, — Shush. Her brand of hair oil—probably neem organic—gives wonderful lustre. (After quite a few years combing through the Indian stores there has been some insight attained.) Delightful unadorned beauty otherwise. When we were young pretenders a cousin in Montenegro had memorably dismissed such gals as seljacka ljepota, village beauties. Well, we know better now. This one even Donald in his younger days in the back-lot might not have grabbed by the pussy. Ah! The mustachioed lad here was made for her. You could see the fine character in both simply from the stills. No wife-beating, drinking and probably no unfaithfulness either in store for this union. Old Babi used to say of a particularly good, capable wife, Napravila covjeka, Made a man of him. If you beg me I'll give you the title. Attracted 2mil+ hits by the way. Beaut stuff.

NB. Titled Ei suhali. Give it a spin

A Great Teacher

A Guardian excerpt of Alexievich from her Chernobyl book from last year after her win rather disappointing. The reader landing on that would wonder what all the fuss was about. Plain, mildly touching personal testimony from a few "polyphonic" voices in brief fragments without any grip. It was nothing like the soaring other excerpted by the NYRB earlier this year.
         Gone 7pm. Unavoidable little 20 minute snooze a couple of hours ago after writing and reading.
         — Bome platit cu ja to!...
         Her voice returning with the characteristic phrase. By the Lord I'll be paying for that.
         A wave of her undemonstrative, deep love radiating from it.
        Nearly ten years after her death Bab's legendary holding herself to account suggested her great capacities and dimensions.
         A snooze in the middle of the day would certainly be paid for in the night. Sometimes a night could be longer than a gladna godina, a year of famine.
         There had never been such an expression as Volim te, I love you.
         It had been strange on the first visit to Boka hearing all the love songs on the radios and cassette players in the houses of the younger generation.
         Volim te duso draga, I love you my soul.... Jedina moja, My one and only….
         Once Bab had complained rather startlingly, only once, — Nikad me i njesi voleo. You never did love me.
         Of course in the last years if not before, if ever there was any doubt, the falsity of that charge was made abundantly clear to her.
         All thanks here to our dear neighbour Dragica too. Without Drage's example one might never have kissed mother’s hands, the snowy top of her head, perhaps not even her cheeks. Drage was the great teacher. In childhood we had an old spinster neighbour we called Teta zlato moje, behind her back. Auntie my gold—in the sense of fortune. The old widow had adult children of her own, but when a child came within her orbit they were blessed with  her fine, expressive loving and given one of her cookies. That dear lady’s way was not our own. At home in the last years we secretly mock-cherished Dragica's magnificent tenderness too.
         Along with dozens of other emigrants, mostly from our own community, Bab had minded Drage's two young children, Nada and Sasha. Drage might have been the first of the newer immigrants to call Bab “mother”. The strange occasion registered of course most particularly. Most of the others respectfully called Bab Tete, Auntie, the standard.
         Pitying Dragica in her financial struggles, Bab would wrap her child-minding fees in little Sasha's nappies for Dragica to later discover at home.
         Drage from a village in Southern Serbia in the vicinity of Vranje, where they taught her beautiful ways of affection. (Like Babi too, Drage was a terrible scold—a lazy-bones husband, children careless with school-work, relatives slipping in proper conduct all fell victim. But that for another episode.)

Obs.

The Paki from behind his pillar furtively observing the meal being consumed. Cool nights his clay oven offers some welcome warmth—even here in the tropics, spitting distance from the equator, believe it or not. (Damp mid December, grey skies like over the cricket fields in England.) White guy, journalist or writer something or other taking bread from his hands; taking his finely diced shallots into his mouth with his fingers. Never tiring of the fare, invariably the same order night after night. There was a McDonalds in the near mall and KFC the one over the canal, queues at both, weekends in particular. Yet this chap preferred the bread he had shaped from his dough, raw onion and two plain sambal. Staying at one of the hotels nearby not short of a shekel; knew some Hindi. Early on picked him as a Paki and took his plate and glass out back before paying. Strange bird. (Difficult to counteract the drones of course for all             
     
                                                                                         Johor Bahru, Malaysia Dec2016

Athlete’s Foot

Shaving naked at the basin in front of the mirror towel draped in the classic way you inevitably gather some movie star glitter-shiver. Ah me! Well, well.... In order to stop the blood flow into the swollen toes of the right, up onto the toilet lid with you peg-leg. Top of the cistern would be better but too much of a stretch. With two-part shaving regime it made it all easier—gargling the mouthwash you did the sideys and corner of the cheeks, jaw-bone, edge of the neck. But no need that trifle. Catching in the mirror the bodily sway made by the passes of the blade in the main-sail one recalled the magnificent Polynesian sailors of old out on their communal fishing expeditions, or else traversing the vast salty stretch between the islands bride-hunting perchance. Their trusty, reliable navigation tool lowered into the cool rushing water judging tide and current to a nicety. Unsurpassable mastery of their watery world without destroying the whole box and dice. Ah! some little unexpected pleasure. Scraping the lather this morn after a fair night's sleep, the flame of the fungus waking only the once.

Winning the Lottery

A pillow-hawker with a fold-out chair now carried over his shoulder arm through the rails. Where in the heck had he been trying up that end toward the Checkpoint? And in his wake almost immediately after the newly released Lottery numbers hitting the street, chaps running around with their limp sheaves folded over their hands. There was a limit of some kind to their usefulness, the first couple of hours after the draw for all these people without access to the Net. Interesting. One of the hawkers doubled back here to deposit his large pillow in the rear of the little canary yellow motor parked on the corner (like the Roma in Europe, the runners have back-up from the operators). Woman from a few nights ago out again with her sheets on the same corner. From memory up in KL three or four years ago they charged 20 sens for early release of the numbers. (Later the girl at Reception revealed they were 50 sens currently.) Young Indian on the phone searching for the particular coin in the dark to give the woman. The old Bersih sympathiser rounding back from his supper on Meldrum stops to chat and takes one from her. Each night during the candle-lit vigils for Maria, the Bersih leader, kept a week or ten days in solitary, the group had gathered at various locations after being moved on by the police. (In advance of Bersih 5 the local Sultan here had forbade any public agitation against a duly elected government on his patch, democratic principles and all that.) Each night the old man—Peranakan Chinese-Malay—had come out to stand opposite the gathering giving his cautious, tacit support. The raja filling their pockets; nothing for the rakyat, the old man had explained in whispers. Another regular leaflet man in this quarter quick-stepping past, in his case killing two birds collecting aluminum cans same time in a large plastic bag.

Ibrahim and Ismail - published by Antigonish Review

Fifty or sixty sheep waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.

         There was no announcement, no officialdom or muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a sheep by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a short while to unbar the improvised side gate. Three or four more animals were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a prompt and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter: the blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone re-sharpened. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. This was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that; somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade carefully after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket; between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness. 
         — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. In front of the chorus as if supervising a young woman stood with a sheet of paper. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Various young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughter and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practiced communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb and the flock—standing for the gentle meekness that has erased the radicalism of the prophet (as Christ is acknowledged in Islam). Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten in the contemporary Western consciousness. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota for the hajj. Some who cannot attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat — transport inclusive.

                                                                                                Geylang, Singapore 2011

NB. Published in Canada by The Antigonish Review, No. 187

On the Crawl

Like the blind, from your sick bed you listen out more carefully and strain for the doings of the street. This rapid chopping-board dicing was a first, definitely not heard here before. According to the online advice, right now some garlic between the affected toes would be useful to combat this athlete's foot fungus. With a little more of the language the woman below might have been hailed from the window to bring some up. Tomorrow you have to drag yourself down to the mall for a number of purchases: cotton socks, a pair of sandals with a toe-strap only (not the band across), more tea tree oil, one of the recommended creams and a plaster for the other foot where a couple of days wear of these rotten plastic sandals the hotel provides raised a blister. (Like having your feet in the campfire, the medico online diagnosing the condition with a little sadistic touch.) The Paki nan-maker at what was once called Restoran Medina is only thirty metres away; anything further today could not have been ventured. Usually the only the kitchen sounds carried up here on the third floor was the steel spatula hammering in the wok. Caterwauling late nights sometimes; a couple of bedraggled crows roost in the frangipani opposite cawing. This morning going out for a late breakfast a Viet woman had suddenly set off at a run down the adjacent lane, as she passed the Tamil from the news-stand calling out, Sini, sini — Here, here. Ignored by her. A few moments later a young burly guy set off after the woman and in his wake an older fellow with a look of the main man about him. Off he paced in the same direction more or less leisurely, but face hard-set. Somewhere out of sight the heavily made-up woman in the get-up was in for it. At the eatery tables opposite a couple dozen of this woman's compatriots sit at the tables daily entertaining the old local Chinese uncles. Not easy to swallow day after day passing, though apart from a cat-fight involving a pair a couple of weeks ago the whole affair here runs smooth. Two or three times a week the place directly opposite behind the frangipani cranks up the happy days Indon numbers well past the dead of night. One hundred metres off sits a large police base, which means there are only rare disturbances in the quarter. Singapore spitting distance off, its housing towers visible at any of the passes toward the canal. The old Havana chomping uncle on the corner of the lane out back looks into the neighbour's heart all through the long day, with nary any kind of longing or disappointment one can most certainly tell. For the first month the man was selling luku at RM5 a kilo, delivered by a relative still out in the kampung one guesses. Perfectly content chap on his perch, friendly and always ready with greeting. Now the durians have arrived and the uncle sits confidently beside that king of fruits from early morning until the shadows of late afternoon, always a band of pals joining with whom to shoot the breeze. None of these men cast longing looks toward the shiny tall towers beyond sighing. They can have it, the men would tell you if the bridge of language allowed. Younger Tamil lads breakfasting at Muthu this morning had the neighbouring isle under examination. Stress, stress they reiterated in English. (That particular term of course does not exist in their mother tongue.) The Bollywood waiter at Muthu with the rusty highlights maintained from Devali a few weeks ago suggested something similar explaining his lack of interest in the money lure over the water. I no like machine, he said. Only working, working. There were no gulls in the tropics and certainly few birds of the air in the cities: sometimes the crows calling over what one knows is near-by water deceive. Slamming shutters in the last half for seven, the dark soon to gather, a narrow prospect opposite over the rusted rails. With the tee showing the Arabic script from the Islamic Museum in KL and a word or two of Urdu, some small confidence has been established with the Paki.