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Young Malayalee Mohammad and his particular ways continue to charm. The Dravidian Malayalee hail from the South-Western Indian state of Kerala, a significant proportion of the Indian diaspora here. An old heavily leathered and pouched auntie joining the table on the weekend was second generation Singaporean, with good English and very proud of the homeland of her father and possibly her mother too. She had visited in the 80s, reporting many mosques to be found in Kerala. Aged as she was, the woman beamed brightly beneath her scarf and gold jewelry, holding a great store of feeling for her ancestral home that she could not convey to a foreigner. All her bright outflow from her chair carried fullest conviction—Kerala was a glory, true. Mohammad at the Al Wadi drinks counter occasionally got to escape his confine, clearing plates and glasses at the tables outdoors, where he took every opportunity for some kind of exchange, no matter how limited. What news today, John? (Following the practice of his Boss who should have known better, Mohammad certainly did not mean his address disrespectfully.) The gulf was exceedingly difficult to bridge, there was little scope on any side and smiles and gestures provided the best means. Earlier in the week Mohammad had returned from ten days back home on the Malabar Coast in Kerala, his first return to family in over a year. A month before he had missed an older cousin’s wedding, the loss there strongly conveyed by Mohammad with briefest words from the other side of the drinks counter. This morning when the question of the news was quickly answered and the young man asked once more about his trip, as expected Mohammad’s challenge proved daunting. Mohammad stood off from the table to one side, swallowed first, then could only stand smiling in his predicament. What was there to reply? “Good” came as the whole extent of his utterance. The fullness of smile, however, the horsey swivel of the head and touch to the heart, conveyed what words could not—in fact not even refined, sophisticated words. The gestures sufficed. No more was possible. Home for Mohammad meant more than a place where they have to take you in. Far more, that much was clear. There was work to do, no time to chat either. All the workers at Wadi made themselves look lively, boss Hussein had seen to that. Did Mohammad believe a Westerner could possibly understand anything of his feelings for home, for his family, the plantations he had once mentioned over his hills and the wider Malabar community?

Feathers Flying

A couple of days ago the new call from somewhere close by the front window was visualised as a nest of fledglings all quietly chirruping together while they were being fed by their mother perhaps, upraised heads and mouths open pleading. A single bird in this case could not have carried, but in chorus, perhaps a half dozen strong, a fine low register fluted across from one of the pavement trees it must have been by the three storey Indian house opposite. Then this morning again another bird new to the neighbourhood, a single, solitary one that had lost its way calling in a few sharp, piercing notes that suggested a long, pointed beak and perhaps a wild eye too. A brief cry this with little hope in it before the creature flew off. Otherwise the koel is a constant every morning and sometimes around noon too from the tree in the back corner of the yard. Some early mornings before light the wake is in advance of the koel’s call and it is awaited, giving a little reassurance when it arrives a short while afterward. Last week Yanasagaran reported positive mayhem unleashed on Orchard Road by the mynahs that descend on the pavement rain trees there, the whole street from Centrepoint down to Scott’s Road completely spattered by their droppings. For the shoppers of course there is not the faintest inkling, not a sign by the morning when they arrive. It needs a visit out there in the night in order to see the size of the work crews scraping, cleaning and polishing, before sending their pics on to the supervisor for confirmation. Two or three years now the newspapers have carried reports of disturbances by the mynahs—shoppers annoyed at the monotonous chirping, crowds and profits down—but never a word of this other; the mere mention would besmirch the locally famous strip. Were the Enviros on the job there already with their poisons? the Crow Control outfits with their rifles? Social media might reveal. Once upon a time and not so very long ago either that river Valley area had been devoted to fruit orchards, Yana recalled; thereby the tag. At one point last year the insistent koel in some wooded areas abutting housing has raised calls for culling.

All the World and Time

Unlikely to tire too easily of this advertising fare when it is delivered with such flair and shrewdness; setting one thinking, wondering, puzzling out. Sunday’s entire page 5 carried what the copywriters term in this market “horological art.” Time-pieces, measures of the hours, elegant accoutrements. Stupendous wrist adornment in this case that was turned horizontal on the broadsheet. (Not the usual presentation. Now why was that?...) Unusual too the jeweled encrustations here covering almost the entire visible surface, including the first links that showed in the band; speckled diamonds perhaps that left only the inner rim of gold and thinner steel outer. The arms may in fact have been wooden, and their anchor; tear drops for the hour markings. Unlike many of the highest end pieces, this article was close to pure jewel; ladies wear, though that was the category of an earlier era. The quandary here was the crimson form standing vertical immediately beneath the watch. A handsome lapel kerchief was an initial thought; wing tip of an exotic bird beating through time perhaps. Thin veins ran over the surface and most surprisingly of all was the distinct discoloration that extended from top to bottom. A unsightly dark smear had thoroughly penetrated the surface. It truly did require more than ten minutes to comprehend the subtlety, even once the petals had been understood. Oh Rose thou art sick…. Another high-end Swiss brand played on the same theme in these enticements: One did not own such-and-such an artefact; one merely acted as custodian for the pretty little floppy-haired innocent at Daddy’s elbow…. (Googling only turned up earlier models of Richard Mille featuring intricate exposed engineering, the premier example worn by a tennis player priced over $2m. A figure very soon to be exceeded.)

On the Leash

One hesitates to complain too much, to convey irritation. Owners walking their dogs here instead of the maids ought to be applauded. In the Joo Chiat area many of these chaps would have a maid at home; the size of the dogs show they can afford it and suggest landed property rather than HDBs. (There are not so many condos in this precinct, at least around Carpmael Road.) Yet instead of taking pleasure in their walk with their particular breed of canine—the closest thing to a true acquaintance with nature in such an urban setting—these guys as they pace along often in quick tempo are entirely preoccupied checking their phones. Heads bent on the ends of their leads wouldn’t know where they were or why. While the dog was taking a pooh and perhaps taking their time about it, perhaps it was forgivable. But to miss such a golden opportunity in the great outdoors under the vault of the heavens in the cool air of morning and evening.... Mindfulness chaps; you know, dwell in the moment. Behold the leaves of the trees reaching out on the branches; the perfume of the grass after the Indian crews have been through with their whippers alone can delight. There fly occasional birds into the trees, see them before they are hidden from view. A pretty girl sometimes happens by in the same bundle desperately, woefully unhappy to be ignored. Golden opportunity missed. How to alert the poor sods, awaken from the sleepwalking? They are certainly not followers of meaningful blogs. Flicking through with their thumbs hopefully from page to coloured page like schoolboys licking ice-cream. The maids sometimes talk to their charges, pet and encourage them; one pretty young Indo from the Haig whose Ma’am often accompanied in her motorized chair carries their little pooch high on her chest when the poor dear has exhausted itself.

Crypto Mall (Again) (April24)

Last minute decision for fried kway teow at the Haig. Horrid swine at the front table from which the street and the bus-stop could be surveyed leaving heaps of regurgitated food, gristly meats, &etc. The cleaner of course canna be screwed cleaning up. Perfunctory wipe leaving rice grain, globules and smears. Blasted stallholder away from his wok what’s more, having his own lunch when it was only half-two. Fattie office-worker wasn’t counting on being shamed like that caught only half-heartedly acting on her impulse. Rose-bud lips, premature auntie blouse, skirt and heels. She had taken her lunch at the adjacent table, the six-seat rectangular hard against the Tray Stand. Tray Return Point. Thank You For Returning Your Tray; three shelves, 1.3m length. If you wanted to stretch it you could place trays right on top too, though that would need Inspector Gadget. Giving up too easily on the crowded piles the woman was encouraged to go the extra mile; with smile of acknowledgement easier. But what had been intended here was something from earlier in the day in the mall that had recently featured in the US publication, a paean by this author that had struck the editors in the Northern hemisphere, where they had their own malls & associated. OneKM had opened about eighteen months before, the first fully developed mall in contemporary form in Geylang Serai. Four-five floors of retail, apartments and parking top. Water spouts in front, green fringes, buses and MRT 100m. Attracted all the best tenants — Starbs, Superhero, KFC, Popular Bookstore. The PO, briefly. City-state winning plaudits all over; including down in the homeland, where the PM there just days ago crowned the Republic & close ally top of the urban planning pops. (Malcolm Turnbull, former merchant banker.) Chase for the apple cider vinegar and maybe brekkie cereal. Nothing, only the super-size litres and the Less Sugar package latter. Approaching the front escalator to exit, the little alcove on the right held the usual couple of bods soaking up the aircon in the comfy chairs. Late morning no nodding as yet. These were not the massage chairs that one needed to fill with coin; the developer had been lent on by the city burghers, recreational freebie in the commercial space. Rest your limbs you sick, lame & weary. Come unto me. In Singapore. Four or five seats facing the thoroughfare. 4-5 comfy chairs (at home plastic stools reigned). Two-three occupants. And, what was that? Another single in the corner against the wall the other side of the carbonated drinks dispenser? Unnoticed previously. A gap afforded a narrow prospect. Without the familiar figure in the chair the additional furniture would almost certainly never have been noticed. Was that?... Back a couple of paces in retreat… Ah! Yes indeed. Squinting to be sure. None other. The chap from the Haig between jobs a number of years, who was keeping a close eye on the virtual crypto-currency market before he decided to take his plunge. Block 1 he must have been; he had been seen ghosting through the covered walkways upper end. Forlorn loner mornings at the Wadi tables months now and beginning to alternate Mr. T. T. beneath the market. Shirts fraying at collars. (Never tees.) Beltless trousers with shiny seats from the catalogues of the time of Mr. LKY’s first tilt at the throne. Slight-build coolie like his grandpappy before him, staring at the opposite wall over the heads of those seated facing the passage. Noggin eight inches from the dispenser and fourteen the inner long wall on the other side. Modicum of elbow and breathing room. There were at least one or two free chairs along the front. Hardly a jitter. More than serviceable English, of the kind that drew attention to the working of the jaw like in a ventriloquist’s doll. Bursts of earnest conversation that suddenly seized up left the man rabbit-eyed staring into the glare. Late-fifties. He had watched that market with great caution before moving to plunge. (Does one still strike the counterpart in country towns here & there over the globe? The housing estates of the cities?)

Publication news - "The Laboratory" - Map Literary

Hello all

After a lag of a few weeks, “The Laboratory” has been published by a US journal called MAP Literary, based at William Paterson Uni in New Jersey.
Map Lit. is open access, here is the link —

Pavle Radonic, "The Laboratory" - Map Literary: A Journal of Contemporary Writing and Art
www.mapliterary.org › pavle-radonic-the...

Map Literary: A Journal of Contemporary Writing and Art www.mapliterary.org poetry: "on the slaughter of 1048 horses by the colorado territory militia / palo duro canyon / 1874" by dennis hinrichsen poetry: "planet x soap opera" by keith mark ...

Snapshot of the Singaporean mall, let's call it. (Thinly disguised paean, a friend suggested.) Some of you might have read it in an earlier form, first written about a year and a half ago.
Hope you like it, cheers
Pavle

Escaping the Sh_tholes For a Place in the Sun

Adjacent table at KV the other day a couple of Indian lads chatting over lunch, fattie with a girly voice and his opposite number bearing a questionable SPUNK tee. Pair was planning an attendance at a comedy film that evening it seemed; considering the merits of the different Indian eateries roundabout and their offerings and conferring on immigration procedures. PR here was, what? Seven years?... No, ten…. Ah, ten. You are here how long?... Nine, but not putting in the application just yet because....

         Escaping Sh-tholes and joining the rush to our side with clean streets and water, clean air, orderliness, amenity, plentiful comedy and other entertainments from which to choose.
         This afternoon on the bus returning from Feidu an Indian father was starting in early with his little three-year-old: Not “Can I. Should I press the button….”
         With tuition fees prohibitive, the so-called better schools difficult to access, PSLE torture in Grade 5 that determined the educational route and the course of life, the man was right to jump in at every opportunity to give his little fella a fighting half-chance.
         Cousin V. a few months ago at Vivo City, a container ship skipper, father of three boys and striving manfully for them, told his aim was to help the lads attain a place in the jungle somewhere above the common ruck. With the Renault he had recently bought the older pair to share, V. explained, they would be able to screw any.... girl—to use more acceptable language for English readers—of their choice along the Montenegrin coast. In his own day there had been precious little of that luck for V., and, memorably, once the poor boy had been played out by a pretty Serb whose family sought good time holidays on the water’s edge at discount rates. Earlier years V. had also attempted immigration for the sake of the kids, but had missed his chance.

More Colour Still

Hussein here sporting a pretty well-judged tawny earth tone, cut fine job too. Oh, my! Moustache made it a touch risky. What was one supposed to do there though; it needed complementing. But then you wouldn’t wear mustard polo on top would you? Friday mosque, pulled out of the wardrobe unthinkingly and the wife not the sort who would be up to speed for such matters. From a dozen metres—and the man was sensing the eyes upon him—it did appear the little snowy dusting over the chin and along the underneath of the jaw was left untreated. Difficult. (The men here often kept those sparse strands in check with nail clippers, if you can believe.) Seems the brothers at Wadi were in fact none the wiser about the recent post touching the miserliness and the setting of the cops onto the riff-raff squatting at the rear tables. Younger bro this arvo explained the position from their side, intuiting some kind of reservation on the matter. Later and equally unexpectedly young Muhammad the Malayalee last night, having understood something of the remarks passed over the drinks counter, felt he ought to defend the boss for the sake of truth and justice. Yes, right enough, the man did have a fierce temper. But that was the life journey; the F&B industry. It was not the essence of the man himself. No two ways about, Hussein was a good man.... A persuasive little oration from the young naïf, all of twenty-four was he? Why did one feel it so irksome Hussein stationing himself at the hot-plate calling out in that hectoring tone, Murtabak! Murtabak!? The fire breathing at the poor young Indian foreign worker cowering beneath the assault a few months ago exceedingly difficult to dislodge from the mind.

         A couple of days later too the younger bro at the Drinks counter suddenly seemed to have sprung perfect jet on the crown and also under the chin. Called-out the fellow stoutly denied: - Not at all. Not the case; and proceeded to quote one of the Hadith that laid out the matter plainly. A man could colour any tone but black in fact; in the case of women there was complete freedom to do as their fancy took them. All plain in B/W from the words of the Prophet. Case rested. (Unhappily, not all followed the dictate.)

The Scribble

Creeping quart ten, what were the four matters needing to be recorded? Longing for the paper scratching; the marking for posterity. For.... relief? Overnight two wakes, the first because of the little boy’s crying next door; a prolonged disturbance for the little mite over some night terror despite mummy and daddy right there in the room with him sharing the large bed. (No great problem on the other side of the wall; only ghostly reminders from the far distant past producing some wincing.) And then the second and final wake was it? Ah! One must chortle confessing.... A rejection from G— Street Press for a submission that was dispatched only a couple of days ago. But—saving grace—a hand written biro note it looked at the foot of their standard Rejection letter: “....the quality of the writing highly impressive, some of the passages recalled....” Sent one positively swooning. Golly! Certainly softened the blow; some positive to take away…. By jingoes! Mid-twenties one could understand the wild elation sweet enough to cream your jeans (or in this case bedding). At this ripe old age in deep unconscious life fretting like the little boy next door. And then wouldn’t you know it, the follow-up in the morning of the Upper-Tier Reject for “Islamic Studies (S-E Asian Hemisphere)” from Missouri Review. Not quite what they were seeking, but surely very much wishing keen to see more in the future please if you would be so kind. Signed, The editors. Not a personal note signed by a notable; not an explicit soliciting of further work; nonetheless, a crust for the starving. The second such from Missouri, one of the US biggies, long history with celebrated authors in the archive. Noted in the pages. In the cloud it did not earn a place in the Cock-Tease File; editors needed to do a deal better than that should they wish to enter those portals. Upper-Tier, and a reminder to fling them something again after a decent interval. (Some send mild jerk-off, only to add the sting in the tail: "...and please wait three/six months before submitting again.") The fourth matter slipped for a time. Delaying the record until the Wadi morning teh and newspaper one ran that risk.... Last night was only the single hour at Feidu, getting off submissions to Hobart—for their Baseball callout—and one to Masters Rev. for their competition (@ $US20). Later back in the room dealing with mails, 30 x 2 pushes and the reward of luscious orange following. (3 x 30 was left for early returns; the more strenuous exertion not such a good idea late night.) The noisy unmannerly Malays in the corner room blissfully quiet through the evening and indeed the whole of the night…. And then it returned, the fourth item. One needed patience. The news from Arthur last night on the phone during our regular Sunday evening chin-wag. Through the week rather than the Jankovic or Stone house being demolished, it had been the Dingley’s that was wiped from the face of the earth in Spotswood. The dark Maltese Dingleys, father, mother and four or five children, no further trace on that spot of dirt. Erased. Heavy smoker Mr. D, as was his fat wife in her dressing gowns. The two eldest children attained some kind of office jobs that meant skirts, blouses, collars and ties in the street. Youngest Michael, Mick had been a trifle troublesome with his motorbikes and sexual heat, very keen on our Polish tenant Ana a few doors further down, a gal with whom a young boy could play mildly indecent games in the back laundry. On Ana’s trannie the first pop music was heard, Beatles and the early Oz counterparts. Townhouses shortly; Arthur’s block and our own next in the firing line.

Jule’s Jewels Again (April24)

Online those fabulous ear-rings disappear in the thumbnail pics. I’ve been missing out. 7:30, Q & A and all the rest prob. set her off just nice—low lights, no close-ups, she chooses her best side. Good looking b-friend you can understand why she don’t like leaving at home with Gina Rhino and then all those award-winning cougar journos circling. Has the guy bin offered featured soaps and dramas. He must be making plenty knocking back reality TV/adventure isle carrots. Even mag. spreads would be plenty juicy. I hope they don’t find any texts or recordings. Just saw her in a pic with the Chin Foreign Min, shining newly cleaned choppers. Poor dud beside her not a hope in the world, hardly a blimp of wattage. Hard to make out the pendants though, you’d have to go to her Fbook page. Seems she has some of the crust followin her purely for fashion hints. Nice red dress in this China thing, respecting the NY, good canny diplomacy...Just tried enlarging the item see if there was a hint of canine in the form, hard to tell. Chin dude was putting shit on the new Quad grouping, pissed being cut outta the action, Oz, India, JP and.... someone else. Yeah, the US. Still couldn’t make out the shape of the pendants. A kind of blue tint in ice or glass-like material, some special dig somewhere in WA. She’d have a fair wardrobe allowance wouldn’t she, tax deduction whatever, stands to reason advancing the country’s interests tirelessly. ‘Parently the Abbott hates her guts, the knifing by the Deputy unforgivable. Exercises, running, fit, in nice tailored apparel again. She mighta bin a little itsy bit of a looker thirty-five years ago, but nuthin like this splashy attention, back in those days nothin like that smooth boy she’s got tangled now. I’m just drafting a piece on a Minister here tackling the problem of all the plastic the island generates. This little thing is almost precisely Jules’ age, but in Asia the boys & girls go much harder at age & death-defy. Must remember to count the undyed next time the Peoples’ Committee meeting in Beijing or the show here. Hand it to him, here the PM sits easy in his grey mop, nicely shaped design, only the top stylists pull off that kinda bunched number he sports. There will be pictures of John in the files circa 1965-6 maybe carrying the same, a layered and gathered affair with foreshortening on the outer edges. In this house-share currently three Chin uncles with young foreign wives are dyed; one younger Malay has chosen reddy tint and not too sure about two others upstairs. (One young office lad looked like mother bought him his clobber, mailed from HK.) Must confess, force of circs I’ve bin using an Indo charcoal conditioner couple times a week thinkin it might perhaps over time give subtle jet. Nuthin thus far 2 - 3 months. With proper dye bout three weeks good wearing, after which you’re best go again. Woeful some of the streaking and patches, people tryin to stretch it out can’t afford more. Do-it-yourself isn’t expensive, $6 - 7 a sachet.

NB. A friend in Melbourne preoccupied about the upcoming Batman by-election hasn’t been able to let go the Australian Foreign Minister, Julie Bishop. Numerous exchanges, of which this another.

Cruising

After slipping into the seat opposite the tedious old Sri Lankan acquaintance of Zainuddin’s rattling fifteen plus minutes at the table. The last year and more the man had stopped only briefly, hesitantly, before moving on. There had been some sharpness one afternoon stating business, deadlines, a little peace and quiet required for crying out loud.... Poor blot had been abandoned by one of his daughters settled in Melbourne. Recently the second daughter had visited Perth without going over East to see the other. Flights were cheaper there Uncle; longer to Melbourne. Crossing a continent not easy... Some soothing administered nevertheless less—he wasn’t going to get too much of that in his mid-seventies now. With a retirement fund of $1.8k there had been expectation the children would add support.... Somehow the tongue bitten and the chap getting himself off. Only to be replaced almost immediately by a couple of Brits flouncing over, the woman singing a song on her approach. Impolite ignoring that, but golly gee! how much was a man supposed to bear! Sorry guys, canna offer you any cheer from the side here, no Whitey solidarity. Run all dry. Brexiters most likely. Thought they were getting themselves gone; but no, another tea after the prata whatnot. The dessert offering would have disappointed here. And now the Reprobate. Oh, no! Sidled up engaging them on his way to the end of the row and stringing us all together. Undone, nowhere to hide. The Wreck more or less assumed an acquaintance, if not family relationship. Your friends, the folk usually indicated. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. Advice sought how to spend the day before the cruise tomorrow, Norwegian such-and-such liner. They’d heard of a beach nearby, worth the venture was it? Otherwise they were stumped what to do in Singapore between times. Ah. My. Well.... Oh, the double-decker bus just like at home, cruising the city before the islands were cruised on the morrow. Maybe that would suit…. Where did one find it? Oh, the city centre anywhere, big red thing open on top, guide onboard. (Was there?) Or maybe the Uncles in the rickshaws going round the streets might be nice. Bit hot but.... Pleased with the Indian tea at Wadi they were. Ah. Well, then, another option was maybe Little India—if they hadn’t had their fill of that exotica back home. (Brexiters 101%. Guaranteed.) There were old colonial shophouses at Littl’ Ind. Teahouses. The 67 took you straight there. Perhaps that would do. Essex. The man was wondering about the real estate here. How did it compare to London? Chap was talking to a well-traveled fellow after all, wasn’t he? Pen and paper type. Panama looked genuine. Blah blah. Freehold. Condos. Taxes.... Afterward the Reprobate was given a lecture on the social strata; like the Hindu caste. Coiffure $250 at a pinch; nails ($140 say). The watch unlikely under one k. Had the bracelets, the rings and necklace been noted? Chap was dowdy Dweeb: drab tee, tartan knickerbockers; boating shoes under the table likely. Orchard Road had been on their radar. Plenty of big hair Madams there would put the lady at ease. The evident association with the Reprobate must have given pause, of course. The good English had not helped any, however the man tried to bend it. Rough and bedraggled, the turned-eye giving fright. What made you want to settle here?... Well, it was like this, Pop…. Woman couldn’t help admiring the panama. They would be in again in the morning, embarking later in the day. See you again, Reprobate being told their jalan jalan on the waters like that might be $30 - 40k left the man suitably gobsmacked. Were they royal family, then? wondered the Innocent, who had sung the anthems in younger days. And no sooner had they tootled along but another pair too a few years older out for brekkie after lying-in following the flight. Large group booking. The advertising must have been enticing. See a bit of the world while you can. Enjoy, you’ve worked hard for it. Reprobate went off to see where he had left his bag.

Plastic (2018; revised April24)

Four chaps fined yesterday for smoking at the Wadi tables, $200 or one day in lieu, the uncle who had decided against by-pass revealed at his place by the pillar.
        The sudden raid was carried out by the Enviro lads, two men caught either side, on Geylang and Onan. Getting a meal and tolerable cell conditions, forty dollar earnings per day security and cleaning, the decision was a no-brainer. (Yanasagaran, who continued in Security, told the story commented that those rates applied no longer. More like $60 per day on that gig now, even foreign workers.)
         Then, from the newspaper the plastic problem here. Bags, containers, wrappings &etc. &etc.
         “Plastic is bad, but are alternatives better?..."
         Graphics, statistics and the relevant Minister in a picture that sufficiently told the story.
         Mid-fifties plus high maintenance Madam—affordable on her salary—cut/dye bob with highlights at the points, tatooed brows, long glued lashes, lippy & foundation. (A more knowledgeable expert might extend the list.)
         Plastic?! WTF.
         (Our own Australian Foreign Minister accomplished the task with so much more class and delicacy, except in the case of her particular weakness for jewellery.)
         Dr. Amy Khor, Senior Minister of State for the Environment and Water Resources explained why her ministry was not implementing a plastic bag levy.
         Donald’s comb-over, Melania’s sculpting, Silvio’s implant and surgery, Najib’s wife’s hair and wardrobe, not forgetting Michele & Oprah’s cuticles, jewellery and dresses, would you be putting money on the Enviro horse.
         ….Adding: a year ago the author was apprehended by two young plainclothes at the Haig carrying 2-3 naked oranges in hand.
         — You pay for those sir?...
        Marched back to Mr. Lim’s stall between the pair.
        Walking anywhere with uncovered fruit in Singapore always drew attention, let alone the case of a tall White with authentic panama.
        Pisang of whatever size invariably brought gasps and eye-popping, sometimes cheeky remarks from both men and ladies.

NB. Unable to contain the curiosity, a quick Google search turned up a sixtieth birthday upcoming for Amy Khor, Doctor of Philosophy in land management, Reading.

                                                                                                                           Singapore, March 2018

Fighting Islamic State With Style

Faintly glinting beads over the forehead of a young Scarf passing under the trees outside Al Wadi on the Sunday, a fattie with nothing to recommend her apart from the entirety of self that she carried with such ease beneath her cover. Seljacka ljepota, village beauty, cousin Nedjo used to mock suchlike back in the day. Now, after more than thirty years in St. Moritz running his hotels and restaurants, Nedjo might be eating his words. The girl reminded of the Sydney Morning Hearld’s focus on the Oz Foreign Minister Julie Bishop, tastefully stylish in her early sixties representing the Southern land at all the important global forums. Seems there has been a special relationship developed with a notable couturier down in Brisbane who creates unique jewelry perfect for those circles. In the investigations by the SMH such a number of online picture-postings by the Minister herself, in addition to all the allied attention of Instagram, Followers and appreciative comments—“she looks so bewdiful.” Among the rest one display of a $100k. item was it? long ear-rings sported at a UN conference that was tackling the problem of Islamic State. Impressive glinting pendants; quite a fashion plate. Countering radical Islam with high couture and chic, as the Minister no doubt brings to the table for the challenges of climate change, humanitarian aid, refugee programs and all the other burdens of office. Foreign Ministers of some of the Sh-thole countries must feel terribly drab by comparison.

Husband & Wife Fantasia

Published by New World Writing Quarterly, July 2022 (Four Short Pieces)

Not an unusual sight. It was the actors and the circumstances that raised the platform here in this particular case. The long haired hippie string-bean who either kept a shop at the base of Joo Chiat Complex, or else managed for the owner, could be found afternoons on his stool out along the passage just by the escalator off the corner. Day by day the same, the man as if pasted on a billboard; or as if he were one of the manikins further ahead. This Saturday rather than an installation, suddenly a drama unfolding before one’s eyes featuring an august Raja receiving from his companion, his good wife in her black scarf, hooded Arab eyes and hook nose to match, lo and behold! the deepest, heart-felt bow in creation. Woman going whole hog too, dropping her forehead onto the back of husband’s palm…Everyday scene of course; nothing extraordinary. Perfectly familiar in that quarter. How many times had it been witnessed in precisely that form? Day by day this pair took turns out there by the entrance to the shop. Man getting away to Wadi occasionally, where there was always a nod offered in passing and a half smile. Going by his shop the same. Wife the same in her case too. In the wife’s case her acknowledgements came in the form of a greeting as a lover might make in a busy bazaar, no telling where the eyes of the husband and his clan are. Rarely did the woman leave the stool; certainly never ventured to Al Wadi unaccompanied. In fact she had never been sighted other than against the wall by the escalator, slumping a little, droopy lids that elsewhere could denote only one bad thing. (Sleep deprivation here in the punishing heat.) But just now had she returned from a late lunch? Visited her mother in hospital perchance?… Surely she could not give such honor to her husband at each and every change of shift, every meeting and return. (They almost never sat together in company out front of the shop.) What was that remarkable ceremony all about there as dusk fell early on the first Saturday of March? What bonds had been forged between the pair over how long a term? (Six years and more under the eyes of one witness.) Forget about four wives, harems, genital mutilation and all the rest: so often here the heart was raised and spirits soothed by the scenes of mothers, fathers and children, the elderly and their kin and husbands and wives coming together and reluctantly drawing apart on these pavements. Robert Plant was the reference for this chap, the Zepplin guy. Or was it the other, Robert Page, with the great frizz? (Schoolboy friends had been the real fans when Bette Midler’s Surabaya Johnny first began pointing in another direction even at that early stage.) Similar vintage in this case, the years weighing more heavily on the wife.

Geylang Serai, Singapore

Invention

 

Really remarkable. As in the case of some of the encounters with the fair sex here, one needed to pinch oneself, accept the unfolding reality, switch off the internal video monitor and return to the task at hand. Aduh! Gasping. Very little doubt it was all precisely as disclosed by Mr. Osman here. You didn’t need to get up to the Caribbean to source mag. lit.; plenty of action-packed colourful picaresque, unaccountable personality was on offer in these SE Asian tropical parts, as the young Indo novelist realised last year with his much-acclaimed. (No need sample the contours in that case, easy to guess; and the facility too.) Dart man Jamal lives and writes his own story daily. The man had revealed himself progressively over the stops at the table: widowed so many years; younger Filipino wife taken eventually; oodles of pesos gifted up there and much appreciative love rained down upon the benefactor. Death phobia was nothing out of the ordinary; broadly shared everywhere. How many events had the man come across to report. Just the other day the poor victim had been at the table behind there by the passage, large as life. Gone ready.... How many tehs have been plonked on the table? Here. Drink up. Please, you bring me luck.... //Jamal, makasih. Please, no. Thank you. Cannot…. Useless. Two or three returned and once six dollars foisted upon him when Jamal was found at the counter and pleaded his own side. He was buying for so many. Cannot. No.... A darts champion, won numerous trophies and some cash prizes too. His good pal Osman had blown the cover properly some months ago. A tradie; one of the simpler kind. Few shillings short of the full quid. Good at heart. Jamal missed out on the invites to Harbourfront when Osman met his collared brigade—retired teachers, principals, public servants. There may have been a magistrate among the regulars. Toffs with noses in the air. On one occasion when an invitation to join the circle at Harbourfront was finally extended the pearl that Dart man Jamal dropped on the table for the gathering centred on the old Commie Chin Peng, who had departed the region when the Rightists under LKY locked up the shop. Fellow had hid up so many years in Thailand was it? Kept well away. Wrote his memoirs; &etc. In fact Dart man Jamal knew to the contrary, the real story: a shootout it had been on Shenton Way in the heart of town back one fine day in ‘67 thereabouts. Body had been held in real cold storage since, right up to the present. Not everyone knew…. At something equally fatuous Osman who had opened the door at Harbourfront was unable to contain himself longer. No more of these cartoon stories, Jamal! Done with them! Suda!... Tricky-sticky. Overcome in the end and no hard feelings. Late last year there had been more serious, deeper hot water when one of the illegal ciggie sellers had blown his top at Jamal’s showering of the Batam lasses with fries and drinks. Down in the carpark on for young and old; bruises, black eyes. The stairs were right there by the pillar past the counter. Jamal had touched seventy. Had he been present he would have prevented escalation, Osman was sure. Dear me. Then this evening, and not for the first time, the display of the bundles had been once staged again. What had he won last time, $50k? (Accepting a treat from Jamal one did him a favour blowing big winnings his way. Oh! So many bigger near misses too—a single number out of sequence; 6 instead of 8; 1/7 &etc.) Tonight a princely one hundred thou on previous night’s much anticipated CNY jackpot of $12mil. Real giant loot. Queues had snaked from the outlets around the blocks, as usual; island-wide frenzy. Unzipping his leather shoulder bag and dropping his deeply dyed moustaches, one bundle the size of a brick could hardly be clasped in Jamal’s giant mitts. (Cigla, brick in Serbo-Croat during the hyper-inflation.) There! See! The second may have been marginally lighter. Rumpled notes, edges all mussed. With such a gigantic payout the authorities had been unable to provide usual pristine pressings presumably. No mileage any longer, however, with Osman that little show. There had come another outburst too on that particular malarkey. (Fifties on the outside and newspaper cuttings within, at Jamal’s kitchen table with his wife’s seamstress scissors when the lady was out.) Harmless enough. Certainly no offence this side, truly. None. Wherefore? One knew well and more than well how hard it could be coming up with something to captivate. To slay all and sundry in an audience. How to get one’s voice heard? Not easy. You needed to be snaky sly and inventive.

 

 

                                                                                                                        Geylang Serai, Singapore

Immobility

….Frustration @ the immobility. —Did the Reprobate actually manage to decipher that, regardless of the cursive and shorthand too? Almost impossible to believe, though the man did give every indication. Squinting, bending. Bending again. With one eye the squint was a given of course. (The turned could not possibly offer anything.) Could it have been intelligible? In the moment it was impossible to deny the man—journal turned out and angled for him in order make it easier, so that he didn’t need to bend around the shoulder as well. Something like unavoidably showing teacher in school when he stopped beside your desk. Reprobate stopped regularly by the table and not infrequently peered to examine the writing in particular. The particular reading never interested him much; only occasionally would he enquire what was in the paper. A couple of times Reprobate had explicitly asked what it was that was being written. There was something about that corner, the assortment of people there that had gripped the writer, Reprobate surmised. Rather bewildering that; difficult for the man to comprehend. Told he has been the subject of some of the writing brought no real response from Reprobate, hardly a flicker. When he was questioned on any matter the man answered carefully, dutifully and with deliberation. A year or two ago Reprobate had given his view that all men searched for god; that was their chief endeavor, however they approached the quest and however unlikely it appeared from the outside. This afternoon after lunch abashment before a reader like that, a severe, perfect arbiter might not be putting matters too strongly. After his close perusal Reprobate had given a perfectly appropriate HA! in response, having pointed directly at the particular line, touching the very paper. Soon after this dismissal the man made off. Frustration @ the immobility…. Not a grunt, a clear, loud Ha! that might have gone with the thought bubble, You have got to be joking. What in the heck are you on about?... The alcohol strongly given off. The man picked up his “medicine” early, going past the Carpmael house before 9. At least a few weeks ago that was the case. After the return from Johor Reprobate had told of the recent police raid at Al Wadi, the back-rowers, a half dozen or so men, had been taken away in cuffs. Squatting on the tables; caught with the mushrooms perhaps and perhaps more too. Word was the owner Hussein had called them. Strange, from Reprobate’s side there would be nothing held against the man. You expected Reprobate to pay out at big shot Hussein. On the contrary, hearing that the man, the owner Hussein, who had seemingly called the cops onto the Reprobate’s own crew, hearing the suggestion that the man was a meanie, money-obsessed and nothing else, Reprobate responded on the contrary that Hussein was alright, there was generosity in the man’s charity; Hussein had given liberally to the mosques and foundations…. Whose side was this guy on?... Immobility. The sense was not so heavily sunken as one found it in Pessoa’s pages; certainly nothing like the deep doldrums of the Portuguese at his most bleak. But still, a stagnant period just now and a will to pull up stumps, move on, trial another location away from the equator. Try somewhere on the fringe of the Balkans perhaps, when Montenegro could not be confronted directly. (Not the new, contemporary Montenegro; certainly not the coastal tourist strip.) Yet there was a reluctance to leave this place, this corner and this people. Could Thessaloniki or Trieste—Athens, Rome or Venice could be discounted—offer anything to compare with this open display on the equator, the striving and seeking despite all the bulldozing, the pigeon-holing and award-winning architecture, the fixing, manipulation and sloganeering? Could you beat that? It needed to be investigated. Venturing further afield in the same region was the other option, though another distinct culture and language dissuaded there. (Pessoa of course saw no reason whatever to move from Rua dos Douradores; that quarter of Lisbon of the time was more than sufficiently tolerable to Fernando, clearly.)