Wives and Devotions

The library attendant divorced by the Hadrami madu trader Mr. Syed off to a free class upstairs on the corner with a friend in tow. The ustad there ministered without commercial motive, only a token of appreciation made at end of class. Good guy, every Sunday they come over for him. Once a week was not enough either, the friend declared…. But then they could study further in their own time, the Hadith and the commentaries, right? (One did know how to conduct these conversations after almost six years.) Oh yes, indeed. Yes…. The social outing and sisterhood was worth something however. (A wild guess would be the friend was a divorcee herself; nothing of widowhood hanging about her.) The separation from Mr. Syed had passed with little pain two years ago.  I don’t care. Let him go his way—something like conveyed up in the stacks at the library at the time. For a term the pair remained friends, taking lunch together at Geylang Serai, Ex. continuing to assist with the honey trade. On his side Mr. Syed still full of bouncing beans, the flame quite unquenched. (Gatal, itching the Malays term that restless keenness.) There had been a bevy of replacement candidates for Mr. Syed’s choosing. Photographs frankly displayed. As one would expect for an Arab, all veiled, demure and devout ladies caught in various malls beside posters, floral arrangements and shiny escalators. The prevailing frumpiness was surprising for an old lad like cheeky Mr. S., bright-eyed player that he was. One of the candidates, a Malay from Johor, clearly stood out, head and shoulders above the others. Divorcee. Some of the women were widows, but most divorcees like Mr. Syed. Twenty-five plus years age difference in the case of the Johor gave Mr. S. pause. That needed to be weighed judiciously and realistically. In the end sense had reigned, the KL option winning out. Understandably. One was asking for trouble otherwise Mr. Syed well knew. A good marriage, all in order, Mr. S. reported back. Nonetheless the messaging with Johor had continued. Mr. Syed had shown a draft poem that was giving him bother. The woman had written in poetic terms herself of deep-felt disappointment; Mr. Syed had shown that mail too proudly. Conforming to the regular plot the correspondence discovered. Snooping got the new wife what she deserved. Mr. S. did not mince matters: his heart was divided. How could the pair continue in the nicely regulated way they had quickly established if Mr. Syed was unhappy? The wife should understand. All was provided for the woman; nothing lacking. (Mr. S. had made his case to her with perfect frankness.) The woman in the picture on Mr. Syed’s phone appeared years younger than fifty. With the absence in JB further developments were unknown as yet. Did the library-attendant Ex. know of this pretty pass? As in Jane Austen novels with the vicars, the women here in Geylang Serai often develop serious crushes on the more charming ustads delivering the knowledge on the Prophet, on the hardship of Islam’s foundation years, the subsequent rapid success and glory, the troubles, perversions and misunderstandings. The current horrors of course. (All of these community leaders were carefully vetted and monitored by the authorities of course.) One heard glowing reports; photographs commonly displayed, honied voices reported. Deep learning, tender compassion and humility particularly impressed.