Lazy Sunday Morning

Gone eleven, low-fives with the uncle at the nasi kandar corner because of his short stature and the seated position. These people can sense immediately when they were met with some fondness, first glimpse straight out. Interesting that strong instinct. A grizzly old bearded Tamil perhaps even one’s junior here, only a few teeth remaining, wizened prematurely and sporting either beanies or b.b.-caps. Under a dozen that hour in the queue; soon after noon it would double, snaking ten metres out onto the street and around the corner. When the sun powered down the line did a loop around the tables and out under the veranda. There were at least half a dozen nasi kandar places in the area, the queues here by far the longest. Earlier Mahshushah’s recommendation at the market was found in the first row entered, easy to remember Ibu Ayu. A couple of long tables there were entirely full of middle-aged women with their children, Indons like the owner. The rujak lonton M. said was sedap at the Ibu’s, she had come out especially for it from the university many times—a good vegetarian option. Along the way to Kudu bin Abdul, the kandar place, a not uncommon sight of an ancient shuffling along with a bag over his shoulder and make-shift walking stick that might have once been a broom handle, at each footfall his cracked heels off the back of his sandals as he slowly made his way—he knew where, the old Montenegrin storytellers would say. Did the man no longer feel the hard concrete surface through that toughened skin? His mind so entirely preoccupied?... A week later he was recognised by that particular shuffle of his: on the approach a flash of a face recalled and looking around heels and sandals confirmed. Chap was first passed almost directly in front of the pharmacy where the pretty Scarf served and where more often than not the old Indian string-bean Sec. Guard slept in his chair by the doorway in his white, twin-pocketed shirt with epaulets and SHARK FORCE insignia.