Seasoned Veteran

The old Indian career beggar who had been apprehended by the cops at the Geylang Serai Market last week taking a break at the end of the row. In the rain people hurried on and were reluctant to stop even under shelter. A pause was in order. Does the woman’s quiet mumbling to herself have any Islamic content or form? Most likely. Or otherwise she was communing with her departed in the usual way, what else? Rocking lightly in her chair. A passerby behind had her turning and reflexively trying her luck: Assalamualaikum. Sometimes—in fact quite often—the poor Indo visitors in search of work here would give coin, during Ramadan all the more so. At home the woman either stashed her alms in bags in dark corners, or else children and grandchildren collect and benefit. Certainly the old woman’s needs were few. Loose brown cap, usual red patterned one-piece dress. Two others passing in front received the same bird-like salutation without turning in the woman’s direction. Behind on the other side old Mr. Hussein the former hard man had made a re-appearance after a long absence, a group of his cronies fanned out before him. One was thereby saved from a rendition of one of Mr. Huss’s golden oldies from the fifties or sixties. Another pair passing in front was well-judged by the old beggar. By then only the odd drop of rain. Immediately up and out of her chair over to them before they could get very far. Yes indeed, notes from both ladies it looked without much grace about it. Little satisfaction in extending this alms: the old woman was a fixture in the neighbourhood, alternating daily between Geylang Serai and Sultan Mosque. The women were unlikely to derive much benefit from compassion there. Years ago the old beggar had filed this mat salleh here as a lost cause. Dead loss that one, not worth the slightest effort. Two or three attempts in the first couple of months had been quite enough to establish the position.

NB. As-salamu-alaikum, Peace be upon you, is the standard greeting among Muslims; answered by Wa-alayku-muassalam—And upon you. In old Royalist Yugoslavia (among the Orthodox) it was Pomaze Bog, and replied Bog te pomogo: God’s grace/And to you. Revived in recent time it seems with the religious resurgence.

On the Case

What to distinguish him from a corpse this angle? Nothing whatever. In the history of art a figure was never painted from this perspective. Whorled strands thinly covering the baldness; waxy enough and without any suggestion of respiration. Was there a heartbeat? As in the case of a real corpse, difficult to tell whether HDB uncle unable to afford aircon luxuriating in some precious cool shut-eye; or else retiree getting out from under his wife’s and maid’s feet at a more salubrious residence. Without the snoring the Shelf-stacker need not intervene. (Strictly speaking there is no sleeping allowed in the library, offenders tweaked by the ear and duly informed, even the ancients.) Usual crowd in the Basement. Hardly a student, to say nothing of a student of life. Couple of keen graphic readers noses buried.  More than a couple in fact. (Once and for all, to hell with the keen promoters of that art-form. Even the NYRB has joined the ranks!) Sleepers marginally in the majority. One little champ irritated to have his concentration on BATMAN distracted by some junior somebody by the far shelves that he can’t quite make out. Craning his neck with an appropriate look of disdain etched prematurely on his youthful face…. How a grown man allows himself to be decked out in HUSH PUPPIES like that really beats this author all ends up. Really does defy understanding. Does the man have any shred of self-respect? (This same moment within a hall of learning in a parallel world in a galaxy not so distant from our own a man in that same get-up is taken by the shoulders and shaken like a tree for its fruit: My dear friend, please take a look at yourself here in this rock-pool by the entry....) Refreshing in fact to see the lass sharing the couch submerged in ancient Egyptian artwork, Mandarin text. Not pursuing Biz. Fin. to please her parents, for all the straight up-and-down appearance. Might have been AUTHENTIC next in the same colour tone and design as the Puppies sandwichboard. (Cruelly diminished nobodies and ghost apparitions in the concrete jungle here are forced to declare themselves Limited Edition, Authentic and Superman in disguise. Global high numbers per capita massification labels.) Correction: screens of course clearly in the majority; most definitely. No contest, winning hands down. (Facing away from the main row of couches swiveling round needed to check properly.) Picasso and Truth suddenly broke like a thunderbolt from the least likely hands of a Zeus in the row directly ahead. Wow! You would never have picked this fellow, not in a million years. Australian possibly; no brand blue polo. Hair-cut and steel rims signaling mid-range Exec; boating shoes, but not the expensive leather. (Fessing up now, coming clean: you once wanted a pair of those handsome dark tan shoes didn’t you, with the stiff laces that stood up from the tongue? Yes you did. And very nearly bought too.) Nice Try was bought by mum for the tousle-haired young teen looking like a lost sheep in the aisle; or was he allowed to choose from the rack himself, induction into the consumer paradise? Didn’t even notice Creativity and Literary Arts. Plenty of graphics will be found on those shelves in there no doubt, Batman for a cert. How much more creative can you get than Bat & Robin in their cave hideout? Someone on some sort of device had a kind of rubber-duckie timed monitor or alarm hooked up.... Lap-top overheating, implicit apology offered by the fellow owning up immediately. Ear-piece, phone and lap-top. The man had tapped the latter; Indian-Chin best guess. When you have been an observer all your life, set questions and quandaries from early on, this is how you end up.

Trust Deficit

This Kassim guy!! Oh my. Grievously tedious; in the extreme. Sputtering conversation from the get-go finally had the man asking whether he could have a look at the front part of the paper. Of course, of course. Flipping pages. The failed Summit that was scheduled to take place here gave pause. That Kim Jong-un fellow in the photo couldn’t be trusted. Shaking of head like a disappointed parent over a child. What? And Trump can be? Pompeo? In the photo Pompeo was shaking the former’s hand at their meeting the week before in Pyongyang. Too late for the old gangster flicks for Pompeo. Real life had overtaken all creative brain-storming in Hollywood. Parody was out in the US, side-lined and made redundant, it had been declared some months before. Mr. Kassim wasn’t ready for any broadside torpedoes. Drawing in of lips, cheeks as he struggled with the challenge. The man would not own he had been a Najib supporter exactly, but sodomite Anwar had always given trouble. Was it really a politically trumped-up charge?... At least it was good to hear a ring of sincerity in the disowning of the conservative mullahs of PAS over there in the north of the peninsular. Not to Mr. Kassim’s liking. Kassim’s style was more quiet contemplation, patient focus on Allah and his received word. Those loud PAS granddads were too much. One previously unknown addition to the store on Islam was delivered by Mr. Kassim before he finally left for his shopping. Apart from the obligatory Friday, ordinarily Kassim did not attend the mosque. Occasionally if the mood took Kassim then maybe another additional day. In the last week of Ramadan there was a particular attendance at the mosque that was especially beneficial to worshippers. Attendance for the sermon and prayer on that particular day in fact assured a worshipper all his sins of the past year would be absolved, no less. All sins absolved for the attendee until the following year, when presumably the same recourse might be taken. Only thing was the particular day of absolution in that last week of the month of Ramadan was unknown. It was one of the last days of the seven day cycle: that much was clear. In the last stretch before Eid and the New Year people would rush around shopping and whatnot, slipping in their focus. This was a useful measure to return worshipers to proper contemplation, Mr. K. explained. Thank god and all the angels Mr. Kassim had not really been double-barrel blasted. Just a little explosion at the judgment on these politico supremoes. No one would claim Jong-un was an oil painting either—certified killer, fratricide what’s more. But fat Pompeo in his suit jacket, one of Trumpet’s cabal was a fright to behold. Trumpet for heaven’s sake Mr. Kassim. Where are your bearings?... There had been far too many heads of ghastly corrupt operators and thugs paraded on Malaysiakini recently claiming one thing and another in their rear guard denials and subterfuge. One after another lughead in their smart attire, years of arrogant power evident in all their utterance and bearing. Even in the stills one could immediately see it. The faces of new reformers could immediately be picked and distinguished from the disgusting old crew that had brought such shame to the Malays and almost ruined the country. Kassim popping by to opine on the North Korean scion was exceedingly bad timing. An old Raffles Boy Kass. Most of those anointed old boys of that generation were of a piece: collars without fail, shoes never sandals, square-head hair-cuts and in every case not muddying the waters with any tufts no matter how stout in belief. The male version of the Goody two-shoes teacher’s pet back in the day. No animus intended, truly. Just, you know, certain days and certain topics. The voicing of uninformed ignorance got one’s goat some days. The conditioning was a concern more than anything. One could hit flat rock bottom thinking about societal pressures and process, the development of judgment and critical thinking in a body politic. Some skerrick of independent standpoint and courage would not go astray too.

Flat Spot (Aug23)

Running aground somewhat quart after three after lunch and the walk round to the library. As in most cities, refuge at the library when the church or other sanctuary was not available. Such vacancy indeed that in the end Yanasagaran was messaged for a possible meet. (The man must be given more of a chance, his circs. appreciated and due allowance granted, especially in the month of Ramadan. The example of the best Muslims in the community has rubbed off a bit.) A look for Eileen Chang at a couple of the stores fruitless. 1960s - 70s HK Chang keeps popping up in references; time she was given a look. Even the young tubby lad running the bookstore at the base of Bras Basah Complex knew of Eileen Chang. Recently they had had her on their shelves, Tubby remembering the green spine. At lunch a woman with young boy at the KV table could not be judged whether maid or mother. A little attractive and with fine quiet manner. Eventually a glimpse of the little fellow as he hoed into his food delivered the shining essence of the mother in the triangle of nose and mouth. The genetic encoding that gives people such joy and reassurance. Sreco moja! Oci moje drage. My fortune! My dear eyes!... The woman’s eyes had dimmed over the years; early on she had gleamed brightly beside her own mother just like this little mite now sitting opposite her. Ogledalo moje, Mirror mine, fond and loving Montenegrin mothers will also coo over their children. Another kiddie show in practice here for the weekend presumably. The children’s parents would not be so far removed from the fun of animation either, easy to imagine their up-tilted faces on the chairs in the audience and pointing out features to the little ones at their side. In that echo chamber the practice volume over the sound system that had been installed was like a sudden burst of terrorists onto the concourse with all guns blazing. Sing-along tunes in fake kiddie slang jolly-jolly-jolly, aren’t we all having so much fun. (Did this kind of production still work for the screen generation of little ones?) At the pissoire notes had been embedded in a little groove on the top of the unit which without glasses could not be deciphered properly. BOOK BUGS?... (You think you might be able to take a leak in Singapore without being assaulted by the marketing you’ve got another think coming.) Bugsters’ Bash was promised here on the little painted back-drop back of stage. The performers in the felt get-up might be closely monitored here—every chance of someone expiring in the middle of the routines. The overcast was a godsend for all today. One could imagine how disturbed Yana would have been when the low-level babble at KV always had the man shifting in his seat and casting toward the door. “The Hook” one of the women at the Hanis tables had been mining; (biz. strategy rather than gothic/suspense). But that was nothing. Out on North Bridge footing back a young Mainland tourist he may have been wheeling his own and his girl’s suitcases proclaimed boldly on his chest like the proper contemporary Superhero, Conquer Everything.

Curly Ones

One had completely forgotten those bald old guys with the back-combing of their strands and upturned tufts behind above the collar. Fatties often, shirt-buttons straining like the old Indian on the No. 23 swinging around to KV this afternoon. Our old Yugoslavs sometimes followed the practice, dapper chappies dressed for visiting like Cika Ostoja the gypsy and one of the boarders at Mr. Vic’s across the road. Neat curls back of the neck like young girls sometimes wore on their forehead were good for ruffling after combing and bounced along a little on the road. Here the Indians applied oil and no doubt fluffed and ruffled those bunches that they could only feel and not see. The shiny pate did not exactly disappear with the fondling, but there was a certain reassurance conveyed. With the work waiting at the Warnet there was no time for the 30 - 40 minute post-lunch circuit up to Bras Basah, the library perchance and rounding back to Jalan Kubor and the soothing old graveyard of nameless dead beneath their crooked markers. Most days the hike stretched to Lavender MRT and once or twice weekly Kallang. No time this afternoon, duties pressing. This afternoon after the No. 67 had failed to arrive promptly the decision was made to cut through Dunlop and directly onto Kubor by the shortest route. In a couple of straight lines a kilometre and one half perhaps, the surprise today being the convenience of the newly erected sheltered walkways virtually along the entire path. Verandas on Dunlop provided cover right along to Jalan Besar, Big Road. Beyond that divide however it was usually a scorched passage until the Queen Street Terminal gave refuge. No longer. What one found instead now was newly erected shelter on either approach to the recently completed Jalan Besar station—on Besar itself and then turning the corner also the path leading to Arab Street. Had there been a short stretch on Victoria by Aljunied Primary where the sun poured down like molten lava currently in Hawaii? Only a short little run. Otherwise ample 1.9m. cover, secure shelter and screening all the way. One was no longer in the tropics really. This was.... something exceptional—almost armchair travel. There were no fans or air-con along the way. These had been installed at some of the larger bus-stops around the city: an air-con curtain, free wifi, massage chairs was it too? Late last year the government had promised 200 kilometres of sheltered walkways across the republic. Duly delivered. Difficult to know what to think. Was this for real? The challenge of the tropics overcome by innovation and careful planning? It was impossible to air-condition the entire island of course. The top 7 - 10% could skip between condo-car-office-resto with minimal contact of the common environment. Sheltered walkways was not bad for the rest, especially when one compared the poor neighbours in Malaysia and Indonesia. A major roadway on reclaimed land out East had been raised one metre was it? Malaysia—or the Southern State of Johor at least—had signed water and electricity provision for the next forty years. They were a chance here for the next stretch. The government certainly was not resting on its laurels. Planning for the uncertain future. Innovation and robotics was key they were continually underlining. Technological savvy. Flexibility in the workforce and tailoring in the Ed. sector. Singapore positioning itself to survive the challenges if any could.

LXXXXXXXX

Round quart 8. Two vadai again, single piece of Mr. Hussein Dodol’s kway, preceded by an apple. (Last week Zainuddin had enticed with the deep fried, oily vadai and kway had been bought in his honour from his old-time friend Mr. Huss.) Teh followed hot on the heels. One piece of kway had been taken with the afternoon teh and the third given to the Catlady Auntie Helen going out. The South African apple that was the choice crop at Mr. Lim’s stall at the Haig had been reduced to one dollar. As there had been no seat at Wadi, the apple had been eaten on a bench over at J. C. Complex on Changi Road corner. People gathered early for their iftar meal at Wadi with their co-religionists awaited the call before their plates. One could not help feeling an intruder and rubberneck even after more than six years in the neighbourhood, especially as so many in attendance during Ramadan were from far-flung corners of the island. Little more than half an hour later Wadi had cleared and there were numerous seats available. Along Onan coming out as usual people sitting in the gutters, youngsters mostly with their friends alternating cigarettes with the food and in one instance bites from a single paper bag. Opposite the bench at J. C. the stall specialised in Big Size Ladies & Gents apparel, LX - LX8. There was insufficient space on the board to fit the seven additional Xs. Scanning the racks from the bench the relevant articles could not be sighted; at the back of the rows perhaps or within a trunk in a corner. Topmost heavyweights were in fact not much in evidence in Singapore. Even lovely little Princess’s Ma at 118kg reportedly, might only reach LX5 or 6. In Kuala Lumpur in particular there had been scenes of grotesquely over-weight ladies often in phalanx stumping along the malls. (BN and UMNO supporters no doubt.) In Pekan in Pahang State today where Najib had retained his seat, the man was on the attack over one thing and another; his wife too having the gall to request dignity for themselves and their family. As more and more of the back history emerged on Malaysiakini, it seems the political murders went well beyond the young Mongolian translator and the prosecutor Morais.

Post-Election Relief — Malaysia (Some Light)

  

The wash-up of the election over the Causeway has carried much of interest. So much so indeed that a subscription to Malaysiakini had been needed as the Straits Times, ABC online and the other coverage had been so thin. A wonderful result of course that brought much relief. The great Fiend, possible murderer, thief and imposter defeated; great hopes he would duly be brought to justice, put away for the remainder of his years. The witch wife Rosmah with him and numbers of the chief hangers-on and toadies. You couldn’t get them all, where would be the end of it? where would you house the legions? In the commentary the case of South Africa was mentioned, their Truth and Reconciliation compromise. A certain number of miscreants could be used as examples; otherwise the populace needed to be settled and some sense of normality restored. Hopefully a fair portion of the loot could be recovered, the State coffers were certainly in need. One of the inside stories from the final days of the campaign was particularly interesting. Out on the stump in the last stretch of rallies the Opposition strategists had realised that in fact not only could they come close, but against all odds actually win the contest outright. The indications were all one way. In the outer realms no-one was crediting the possibility, including jailed Anwar, PM-in-waiting, among them. Central Command seemed to have twigged however and the decision was made to keep mum on the matter, not let on, to play along with expectations. If Najib and his cronies were to be apprised of likelihoods what might be their recourse? Security Service and military intervention? provocations staged, marshal law proclaimed for public safety and see what might be swung over days and weeks? Clearly, as Anwar came to reveal following phone calls from Najib on the night of the count, the latter had not seen the revolt coming and had been utterly shattered. As the days have elapsed this has been borne out by the lack of preparation for the possible eventuality: docs, loot, incriminating evidence all left in nooks and crannies across the various properties associated with Najib and his clan. When the trends began to clearly emerge in the count directives had been issued to telecos to take down live results on the pretext of securing public order. Three hours later the directive was rescinded. Some of the Comments on the news items were as interesting as the reportage itself. As the Birkin Hermes bags in the various colours were gathered, the high-end watches, jewelry and the dosh, one commentator suggested that a travelling roadshow was in order; the public needed to be educated, made to see with their own eyes and comprehend the truth. Despite the so-called tsunami against the government, despite all the abundant evidence of gross maladministration and corruption, 36% of the electorate had given the criminals their vote; that in itself needed to be addressed. Didn’t they display Imelda’s shoes and take them around the slums to show the rakyat? (Possibly not enough done in that regard judging by the political resurgence of the Marcos family and Imelda herself.) The ROS  (Registrar Of Societies), which had used some kind of pretext to prevent the registration of Mahathir’s party and the display of his picture on posters and advertising material, suddenly a couple of days after the outcome, Hey presto! unasked and off their own bat, advice all was in order, fine and dandy—the new PM and his party duly acknowledged and all shipshape. The point was the powers did not need to run to every bureaucratic head issuing one directive after another: venal toadies, suckholes and worms were always ready to anticipate every whim of rulers. It would be impossible to bring all to account. Through the course one Singaporean cosmetic surgeon was quick to insert a canny defense of his profession. Seems the man had undertaken some work for the Witch Rosmah. Possibly it had been remedial work, follow-up correction after earlier defective surgery over the years. The man’s point was that Rosmah had become a poster girl for what not to do in cosmetic surgery. Too much botox, too much filler and sculpting here and there, something else and something else again. The woman had become a fright; a figure of ridicule for the profession. Chap professed he could not understand the course that had been taken by the amateur medicos involved. The end result now was terrible botching, a grievous hatchet job; the former beauty ruined irredeemably. Poor Ros. had no control over her facial muscles — her dour frozen owl visage was inadvertent and unintentional; smiles were painful and caused migraines that led to tummy upsets; Rosmah’s forehead was in danger of collapse, her chin crumbling, the stiffened pouches beneath her eyes made blinking an ordeal and might eventually prevent closing of the eyes entirely. In prison where access to proper attention would be limited serious repercussions were expected. With best practice in Singapore, nothing of this sort could occur; only experienced, accredited professionals could be trusted with such procedures. Business as usual on the Little Red Dot for discerning customers who could have full confidence. The politics and fear over public order? Forget all that for this healer. Most recently rearguard PR from the lawyers in the Fiend’s den: pics of Najib breaking fast with his aged mum; revelations of the grandchildren’s baby clothes being taken with the designer bags and then chocolates filched from the fridge. Cause for outrage.

Billboards Up To the Sky

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Huffing and Puffing

Not something you see every day here, a Scarf on her lonesome taking deep, bite-sized puffs like she really meant it up on Onan corner. Chubby early-thirties had to be Indo; pink blouse and patterned red head-cover. Coming up subsequently to the Fries stall something in the brief exchange—given from her side it looked and fielded rather blankly by the lad serving—made the woman brighten and smile broadly when she turned away to leave. Raw bad skin, perhaps mid-thirties and fetching beyond. Have you seen a single Scarf puff like that and blow up cloud around herself like in a magic show? In fact has there been a single puffing Scarf here of any description in Geylang Serai over this long stretch? Malaysia and Java there may have been. There certainly never was such a one back in days past in Spotty among the émigrés on the Great Southern Land, not likely. Our Pere up in the village on the first visit, during the coffee in her dingy room at Radonici, surprised by taking a “stick” (as they are called here in Sing.) in her mouth and striking a flare that lit up her dark interior with the hearth in the corner. After the catastrophe of her brief love affair with the man who would shortly become her brother-in-law, it was little wonder. Here this one too might not have had any luck in matters of the heart.

(No) Walk in the Park

Ruth from Block 9 at the Haig lives with her hubbie in an executive apartment at the top of her tower just opposite the Carpmael house. Few in Singapore have such palatial domestic quarters, especially in the HDB pigeon-hole sector. Think 1965 shopping precincts London, Paris, Melbourne for Ruth: floral dresses, dress jewelry, big dyed hair, lippy and handbag. In the Great Southern Land the type expired in the late 70s; here in Sing the grip of Ascot, Princess Margaret, tea in the garden had the Chinese in particular by the short and curlies throughout and still today prominent. Ruth at the Haig was hardly Robinson Crusoe in that regard. Nice lady, good English; lively, sociable and possibly a tad risqué. Insurance salesperson up along Changi Road ten minute walk from Geylang Serai, the Malay market; twenty from Block 9 at the Haig. The last two or three years Ruth had been walking up, sauntering along: the sheltered pathways through the Haig estate, Haig Market, right at Geylang and on past Wadi and J. C. Complex with trees dotting the pavement every thirty or forty metres more or less and mid-morn. the furnace less than utterly overwhelming. That was the last three or four years. Exercise of course highly important. With the help of that morning and evening routine Ruth had maintained her trim. There was no time early before work for the tai chi at the base of Ruth’s Block. In the latter half of last year and now the first quarter of this, no more Ruth however by the morning table at Al-Wadi. Had she retired, finally? Not so common in Singapore even for people well into their seventies. In fact Ruth could comfortably manage without the money; money was not the chief motivation in this case. Ruth was good at her job; a valued employee retaining a client base over many years. Without Ruth at the office every likelihood these customers might peel away. A wise boss knew Ruth’s value. Good earnings; sense of accomplishment. Dinners, perks and a certain social round. What awaited Ruth in retirement? Next year when the building currently being erected opposite City Plaza was complete Ruth’s office would relocate to that corner. Spitting distance from the Haig. Here the dear lady was along the path this morning—time fetching midday in fact—an arm thrown wide in greeting like the TV supports in the shows back in the sixties did it. Floral, lippy, heels and hair like Lucille Ball and Princess Marg. back then. Oh! Ruth! It has been a stretch…. No clock-on card for an experienced, valued employee. Ruth was on her way to the office. Howdeedo! Hideehi! Wasn’t it hot though? Now Ruth was no longer walking over to Changi Road: thus the no-show this many a long month. A change of routine. Ruth’s chosen path now took her westward from the Haig out onto Tanjong Pagar Road and on the other side of City Plaza the stop for the No. 30 bus. The 30 headed north initially, before swinging east toward Eunos somewhere where Ruth rang the bell. At so-and-so Eunos stop such-and-such other number was taken through housing blocks and industrial precincts until another stop where a third bus was boarded. Snaking around some more the third before almost at the foot of the tower on Changi Road a couple of hundred metres past Geylang Serai Pasar Ruth alighted fresh as a daisy. Arrived where insurance was sold to clients over the phone mostly. Carpet by her desk. Side-table carrying pot plant and tree-tops outside the window. Ruth may have shared a secretary with the boss. Six or seven kilometres round trip on the three buses; 850 - 900 metre walk previously. In the torture of sun and slaughtering humidity all too understandable and not uncommon circuitry. Travel by the Cape was a regular recourse in Singapore. Once upon a time Ruth had been able to manage on her pins and bore up. It was harder now. Ruth had succumbed. To date no noticeable crumpling or added weight. A walk in the park it was not even that distance under sheltered walkways large part of the way and on the south side of Geylang and Changi Roads some cover. But not a walk in the park. Heels not helping. The tropics were hard going. (And the grass between the concrete pathways and along the street verge nothing like English lawn either.)

Curated (Trumpet / Kim Summit)

Instagrammable hotel trade setting a hot pace in the republic.  The discerning fin. products trader in the pic. “does not specifically look for an Instagrammable hotel, but places great emphasis on aesthetics.” (Potential brides BEWARE such-like chappies: a lifetime of pain and hardship awaiting.) 

One hotel ahead of the game in Middle Road near the National Library included in each room a “dreamcatcher chandelier.” (Regular readers will have noted such features as "infinity pools," "bus captains" and "Senior Minister Mentors" in the SG landscape.) 

The same Dreamcatcher provider offers guests at their hotel a boxing gym with vintage sandbag and speedball. Food has been enlivened with executive chefs encouraged to add more colour to dishes. What was on offer at the leading candidates in this republic—the Shangri La, Marina Bay Sands and the Sentosa resorts— was hardly ever likely to be trumped by Panmunjom, Vienna or any place else for the upcoming summit that is hoped to usher peace into the region.

                                                                        Straits Times, Home section p. 1-2, 10 May 2018

50 Years After the Paris Students (May1968)

If It Is To Be

It’s Up To Me
Fatty young student of some description on Selegie Road near Peace Centre; some solid part Caucasian that was clearly well outside the chief Western round and the Singaporean ethos predominating. Fond Eastern Euros at a guess spending plenty in their investment on their boy; if Mummy didn’t dress him in the morning she did see him to the door of the condo. The lad was caught nearer the traffic lights outside the Centre’s entrance, rather than 20 - 30 metres down where the local kids in their cut-offs and sleeveless tees, tattooed and pierced, smoke by the garbage bins. A number of Mainlanders join their Chin cousins in that sector, girls of sexual experience and boys who smoke weed. (Yes, even in Sing.) The more conventionally ambitious lad reminding himself of his personal responsibility was another kettle of fish. A week ago one of the Tekka stall-holders dishing up Lahore and Delhi fare, an older lad in his mid-30s, was picked up for his Schopenhauer Change is the only constant whatnot. Did he understand a word of that billboard? No, he confessed, he did not. Was he going to own that then, especially with Ramadan around the corner?... Something for him to consider. (Some years past a young shop assistant selling drapes at J. C. Complex in Geylang Serai had sported a Husserl if you can believe!)


NB. NYRB in its current edition carries an interview with one of the student leaders of the Paris Manifestations of fifty years ago.

The Hindu Inheritance

Near half two after Feidu printing. You’re not kidding it’s good to be back at KV. Twenty-three days was a stretch. The food for one thing — veg. was difficult to source in Jogja, at least around Malioboro. The turmeric helping to dodge one bullet at least, bowel or stomach C. from memory. Music filtering quietly from the kitchen low and tender old time Tamil sweeteners just as we like it. Chubby newer guy knows the standard order like the rest of them, but in his case often the two portions were delivered together. With the soup lukewarm no great matter today. Opere grlo, cleanses the throat, Bab used to say. Setting off some little cough as usual from the spices a benefit no doubt. One does not patronise Komala for pretty girls more’s the pity; only occasionally attending. Occasionally an Indo or Tamil maid will land with Madam, which sets off a fevered subterfuge of note-passing if the old dear can be got round. (Reminds of the Indo at Wadi 2-3 months back it must be rudely ignoring the overture.) One young pretty as it happens today diagonally opposite corner. Displaced once again with the crowd in the second room and hard against the window, the lass by the kitchen wall. On her screen and it must have been Bapak chaperoning earlier — she was not at all the sort for a sugar daddy. You should not be looking in that direction granted, even on flyer days with the new batik print adding lustre. Shockingly presumptive. Blonde Western wilted rose sporting a large tattoo that snakes down from her shoulder onto her bicep with some better wits about her might have respectfully covered herself with one of her scarfs in such a place, like in the temples. Poor Sweet cornered can’t help the furtive glances — what was life after all without some erotic cat-and-mouse. No harm done, no fretting; we’ll do it strictly avuncular tempered and smooth within these walls. One of the smiles earlier from a woman seeking a place at a table was reminiscent of the younger Shiela, something that was carried in the genetic inheritance indicative of womanly warmth and nature that failed to always get an opportunity to show in the big bad metropolis. An Indian trader newly opened on Malioboro had reported the nearest Indian eatery was 5 -10kms. out of the Sosro quarter; even he could not get out there more than once in a while. Always a surprise the deepest cover of the Hindu past across that archipelago.

The Morning After

Truly does feel like one is being targeted specifically here. Virtually every visit to NTUC at J. C. Complex the thing comes on at the top of the escalator as if a trip wire has been crossed. Where there was silence before, a mind focused on the Wheat Bix second row on the right, the swelling flood suddenly pouring down without warning: ....Take….these broken wings.... Inundating the brain, the frontal lobe, and deeply saturating. Take….these broken wings....and help him fly again whatnot repeated how many times as if the needle was sticking. Exposed and nowhere to hide there beneath the fluro glare. There was no counterpart to Jingle Bells for the Muslim festive season, nor the Gong xi fa cai — gong xi, gong xi, gong xi ni....of CNY. So “broken wings” perhaps, delicately referencing the saints and angels of the Islamic world in the run-up to Ramadan and Hari Raya. It sounds far-fetched. A stretch, granted. But you would not put it past these programmers here, really. You would not. As anticipated, many inches in the morning’s paper were devoted to the celebrations of the day before. Happy MAY DAY! was the banner at the main rally at Downtown East, attended by the Prime Minister. Again, polos as anticipated: orange and yellow for functionaries who were being re-routed by the PM (in cherry-ripe red himself) after recommendations from the relevant committees. These recommendations had been accepted; so-be-it, agreed the paramount leader. As in all the years previously, once more at the Wadi tables in the afternoon there had been no twigging at the crowd. Oh! A gathering. It happened occasionally. No twigging it was a mandated public holiday in Singapore. You read right. Singapore celebrating May One. May Day no less. The day of the toilers &etc. Nevertheless, one of the young cherubic journos in the newspaper coverage next morning was reminding the populace in his column that the workers should remember there was no such thing as a free lunch. Or was it no-one owed anyone a living in this life…. Young dude pictured early thirties had studied hard at university, attained all his insights and now delivered. Salutary reminder of the way of the world duly delivered next morning, May 2, in case anyone was getting ahead of themselves. Evening coming down quickly as usual in Lower Geylang, not so many noticing the blush through the trees in the West. Clouds prevented Manager Zahruddin from removing the awnings. Couple chapatti and dahl would suffice for supper, the  concession a fourth teh halia after the privation in Jogja. Leaning back lazily in the green plastic chair in that settled calm, a sight that still, despite oneself, could disturb and unnervingly rattle. Here was a tousle-haired fellow not having had a good day you could see immediately. Hanging his head more than a bit and held up by his girl as they paced toward the Changi corner returning to their pigeon hole after the trials endured between breakfast and the supper hour. Take the FIRST STEP was black with faded white lettering. Newly bought the fabric had sat more handsomely on that light frame. The chap had crumpled since; the collar of the tee stretched and come loose. Chap had tried, done his darndest striding forward; just lately it wasn’t working. There were obstacles and unexpected misfortunes. Set-back on his heels temporarily and catching breath, this might not prove his undoing. The lass at his side offered hope. Together they would continue with a will onward and steadily forward. Just now it mightn’t look like it.

Marking the Occasion

“Supposed to be a day of demonstrations….” quips the younger bro. of Hussein at the Drinks’ Counter tonight. HaHaHaHa delayed a fraction. Oh yeah, it was May Day. The day before a bus approaching the stop was flashing instead of its number a May Day greeting believe it or not. Golly. Might be pics even so in the morning of the PM raising fists with the union chappies in neat polos out front of NTUC on Bras Basah Road. Hand it to the fella — the Drinks man I mean — knows what he’s about. Man has a good fix on the local John here. Has he really been reading the Blog? Truly? How else did he twig? Lottsa little comments over the past months on the foreign workers in the family’s employ; the problem of the riff-raff at the rear tables; the little jokes at the prices nicely deflected. An Australian of a certain profile, age, look about him would be of that persuasion. Easy to read. Where was his watch? Collars rare and lace-ups non-existent. Chats with the wastrels, and some of the worst at that. Buys them drinks moreover. Bleeding heart. “This is Asia,” the man had explained once during a longer exchange. Son was doing med. at Melbourne, costing a pretty penny. Certainly a hard worker, highly efficient managing his queues and staff. Nice fella indeed. Simple answer to the gap between “supposed to be” and the actual: this is Asia. Nuff said.

On For Young and Old

The old uncle fattening his 25 - 30 yr. junior wife/girlfriend dyes weekly, ten days at the outside. Handsome pair of gold-rimmed John Lennon glasses newly purchased surprisingly good taste, more than stylish enough for all-day wear now. Likely she had helped with the selection. For his own part uncle was carefully counting the calories, some kinda trim maintained. Might easily have crossed seven-zero sum game; understandably firmly resistant to any kind of acknowledgement of this Scribe here. As for her of course, steer well and truly clear, wide a berth as possible, QE2 and then some. Once inadvertently passing close by the lady had been given a short, reflexive smile wholly and entirely accidental. Poor dear could not but unpurse her lips despite herself, risking all manner of catastrophic mayhem. Today with a crowd at Wadi an unfortunate proximity, Bapak possibly not having noticed the presence in front after the weeks of absence; or perhaps they had seated themselves while the drink was being fetched. Thank heavens luckily enough the woman was facing the right way. (Once when we had been similarly caught out the poor lady needed to reverse positions at the table in order to avoid the direct line.) At a guess even a dozen kilograms had been slowly added over the course of the three or four years, little by little making the lady his own. Five or certainly six years ago the chap had still been with his first wife. At the earliest the pair had appeared at Wadi perhaps 2015.