Exchange of News & Views

Another fella keen to unburden himself to anyone who would listen, any hapless victim would do just as well, an outsider never-mind. Mid morning at the Wadi table flipping the Saturday paper, as usual leaving the first teh for the Life section once what was supposedly the meaty two thirds had been covered. A minute or two after assuming a seat two over—respecting the spread of the mat salleh writer fellow—this chap only vaguely familiar starts in. You know your friend with the cap. Walks peg-leg. Talks with you here. You remember? Gone ready!... The dead needed to be cut loose admittedly. Pass the corpse to somebody else, anyone would do. Play Catchie. Here! Hide this someplace wouldya, there’s a good lad. Fifty-one year old Malay regular, lasted a month in hospital before he went. Leg cut off while back; the other not much good either with the diabetes. But is OK, never mind. No big deal, the chap begun with the follow-up bluff in the usual way. Handed you a dead weight like that, take it home and put it in the corner by the settee if you like, it’s OK, no charge. Ghrrr! What do you think I am Buster?... BANG! He was going to get his own back almost immediately just you wait. First though forced you to rack the brain trying to think who he meant. Who was this peg-leg guy? Didn’t have a chair, no. Nor a scooter. A regular. Always talkin to him…. But there was no known regular there with a timber fit, you would have remembered that. A chap stopping to talk in one of the gangs in Jogja had during the course knocked his wooden shaft like a salesman confirming good grade and lifted his trouser leg. None there in G. Serai had done anything like. As was almost invariably the case here, the latest victim, the chap most recently passed on from the crew, could not be recalled. A photograph would certainly have helped; but this was not the contingent of snappers, different gen. Couldn’t think who this could be. A fringe player. Two-three month old news made the passing during the trip up the Peninsular. Beaten. Retired. Just could not place a candidate. OK, you got me there, properly bushwhacked. Now then, though…. Ten minutes later some measure of revenge exacted. You hear about the neck-tie party over at Changi yesterday by any chance did you? Hand at the throat in order to ensure communication lines. Dawn yester. You must’ve heard, right?... What? Who? When?... Oh gosh. Not unexpected: not a whisper. Not the faintest. Nothing whatever…. Whatever was it for? Needle in the crook of the elbow. Understand? Fellow got it…. Ah, Singapore.... Well may you say, Ah Singapore my friend. There were two left swinging yesterday morning. And in case you didn’t know that made six this month of October, here down the road at Changi. (Changi Road began behind us there at the corner 25m. away.) Your President Halimah had declined clemency. A Minister in Malaysia and the family of the victim begged her—hands brought up to the forehead in supplication. Didn’t do it; no good. Halimah wrote back, No. One line. (Didn’t even consider the matter, the lawyer interviewed by ABC TV reported. The day prior Maslaysiakini had reported one hanging; singular. Out of the blue. By the morning that had doubled to two yesterday and another four earlier in the month of which there had not been the merest word. Suddenly six men were hung in the last twenty-six days of October of the current year.) Fellow didn’t see anything on TV. First he heard. Later when his older friend turned up, a regular Uncle, same thing. Nothing. Not the faintest…. Well, you know Singapore. She follow orders. Government say, she do…. Yeah right. Pliant, like the judiciary, as reported by the PM’s nephew last year, the chap holed up in the States avoiding defamation charges pending. Halimah did as she was told. A good woman by all and every report; just could not rise to the party in this particular matter…. We were all fair and square now. This chap could cart a pair of corpses around for a bit look for somewhere to stash, see how he likes it. Tell all his friends and share the passion…. The evening before there had been an Indian work crew there below the path just by this same table again now. Lorry pulled up, heavy bags of something dragged down with some trouble. On the ground the bags were easy enough to pull up from the roadway three-four men tugging on the straps. Even before the shovels were sighted the realisation came easy as pie, no need wonder. Of course. Naturally. There was a big do upcoming. There had been no word here too, but banners on Onan on the corner marked Nov. 3 – 4 signal days. Other Indian crews had been working a fortnight now erecting tenting out front of the new Wisma Geylang Community Centre, Cultural Centre, new Mall all-in-one four storey provided by the government for the locals. Initially we had guessed a pasar malam, night-market; they had them in all the Malaysian towns up the Peninsular. Then the banner unfurled and fluttering a bit. One never read those banners; such a lot to read always of announcements and proclamations, you needed to rest your eyes occasionally. Well, a proper opening over the road. What else would it be? Some minor kind of initial presentation had been offered earlier in the year during Ramadan when the place was still being tidied. Pretty clear now all the box and dice done. Eventually someone mentioned the PM. If the PM was coming to this corner it could only be to open the government’s gift to the local community; they had been bereft before. The Chinese had their community centres all over the place; couple of years ago the Indians were gifted their Campbell Road showpiece. Now the Malays were about to join the party. Therefore the PM and no doubt President Halimah who had declined mercy would cut ribbons and draw strings to unveil plaques here opposite Wadi next weekend. The PM would wear native dress; through the week he had been fitted out in Uncle wear for a HDB meeting it may have been, 1960s dowdy grey and blank. (Following all the malarkey up in Malaysia they were all of course especially careful now. Keep all jewels of any sort well and truly outta the picture. They were so daft up North parading like that.) But what’s all that got to do with where we started, the bag offa the back of a lorry in the Geylang night stopped on the roadway beside Wadi right there?... Well might one ask. This chap had been scared a bit by the tight-fitting neck-tie story. Unpleasant that. A bit gross. Hadn’t seen it coming at all and unfairly assaulted. It was different to a regular death that, diabetes, hospital, that was how death was supposed to go. One needed to give the devil a bit of relief now…. Well, my man, you recall there was no grass under those pavements trees there yesterday, right? Baked earth; not a blade of any description, not by a long shot. Now, will you just lookie there. What do you see, tell me? Some of the kampung brought to your neck of the woods here. By next week the strands of grass will have been tamped down properly and knitted. Looks nice don’t it, you haveta admit. Fits the bill. You remember before nothing?... Ah. Well. In fact, by jingoes, yea. Yes. Botak before. (Bald.) The man well recalled. For next weekend it would be much better, a good sight better, a picture.

Star_ucks Desperation

Desperation stakes. Bus rides into Lil’ Ind. had not appealed. The uncles and aunties were perfectly alright of course; much preferable to the smartly polished on the trains of course. But as one slowly/not so slowly approached years of sere, you felt a little.... out of sorts among that company all the time. So then, given the late hour following some extended labour on the pages, after a local lunch at the Haig, a café it would be. This was the second in the last ten plus days; since the return from the Great Southern Land, the third or fourth. There had not been a single cafe in three months on the Peninsular; a few only in Jogja and Jakarta. Therefore, with no more than three/four since OZ, perhaps two or three dozen altogether. The Starbs outlet here on Tanjong corner was renovated last year, enlarged after it overtook Superheroes next door. There had indeed been a noticeable downturn in the heroes on the street in recent times. It may have been almost a week the chesty Superman had not appeared. Bat was holding up better, film treatment and related helping retain some grip perhaps. Meanwhile, Starbs had justified its investment; weekends and evenings in particular were chockers there. Cheap WiFi—and pretty rapido at that. Aircon never to be underestimated. Escaping the pigeon-holes of course. Eric at Wadi the other night had mentioned the enthusiasm for Starbs among all the young guys at his ad. agency. Starbs and only Starbs for that crew; they held all their meetings there, lunched, lounged and dated under the F&B golden arches equivalent. Window lounge chairs today were all taken except close by the White guy up on the stool fixed on his top. Impossible to park one’s bottom in that vicinity. Two guys of an age, stubbled, oozing plenty cool between them, sitting adjacent would not be right. The locals would be totally dispirited for one thing, and inevitably the brand diluted too. No siree! Worse still, another chap of the favoured races sat only ten metres distant hard against the window beneath a cheap, fake panama. Imagine that triangle had one stumbled blindly, switched off and without wits blundered over. Over to the other side with you Buster, well outta harm’s way. Beside the escalators there. Good back-rest against the wall. Oh Hi! immediately…. The Malay girl from the cosmetic shop on the other corridor swanning past. (Scarf and baju, but no frisson there Mademoiselle, sorry. It was a lustrous handsome day today, one of those things. Some care required.) The confession must not be restrained: today the lounge and blues re-masters actually hit the spot more or less at Starbs Tanjong corner. Satchmo, Billie and one or two other throaty songsters. Love is like a Prophet. (If that was right.) / As long as I have youuuu. / I love you madly. The dial was down a touch. There had been no music months now. It was possible even the notices of publications during the term on the Peninsular had not been celebrated by the usual Maria Call. or Jussi. Steely cold discipline could not hold up forever; had to give eventually. You make me feel so young / You make me feel Spring has sprung was not a favourite. What a strange period it had been, two or three years of Deano in his tuxe, Bob dropping his well-timed lines (and later learning he had in fact been such a complete dud & dunce otherwise). The ladies, the dames in the flouncy dresses. B&W tones back then—songs, chat, dances, joke routines. Here they had never quite overcome the attraction. There had been no rebellion in the 60s or 70s here. Great leap never happened. We had all come full circle now of course across the globe, back to the future. But Sing had kept the home fires burning the entire while. Throughout. They were hanging a man here in the morning, first light. There had been no news locally. Up on the Peninsular the family had received a letter from the prison on Monday suggesting they make arrangements. Friday was tomorrow. Hangings here always took place Fridays. Beef had said 100gm was enough for the noose in Sin’pore. He had showed the usual 300 pack about the size of two ciggie boxes, a bit larger. A third of that. In a comment on the Malaysiakini item that had delivered the news the writer had suggested that doubtless Sing Pharma would in short order be involved in the medicinal trade in the rapidly changing climate. Too late for the man tomorrow.

Wedding Bells

May22 revision

 

 

 

 

Wedding Bells

 

 

 

Some days before newsreports had appeared of the disturbances at the Hindu temple in the Southern Indian state of Kerala. A recent ruling of the Indian Supreme Court had overturned the prohibition against menstruating women entering the famous Sabarimala Temple.

         Hard-line traditionalists were resisting the decree, numbers of local women among them. A stand-off had resulted, threats of violence one side and vows to persist the other.

         In neighbouring Tamil Nadu the position of conservatives and reformers would be much the same. The Muslims too had a problem with menstruating women attending prayers at the mosque. 

         There would be no easy resolution here.

         Preparing for attendance at the wedding of the Komala Vilas cashier’s daughter, the news had drawn attention.

 

 

Four or five months before when the mother of the bride, the Komala Auntie, had begun with arrangements a consultation with an astrologer was mentioned. In fact it emerged that before the wedding could be planned the astrologer’s deliberations were crucial. 

         There was one bejewelled and marked old man always resplendent in finest starched dress who regularly lunched at the restaurant. Clearly some kind of holy man, it came as a surprise when it turned out that the chap was in fact a professional astrologer.

         In the Indian sectors in Malaysia the pavement fortune-tellers often consulted what appeared to be astrological charts, spread on the ground in front of the customer. The man at KV had clearly found a much better paying clientele; kept an office perhaps, or else visited and conducted business at the temples.

         Whenever this dignified old man took his lunch at Komala V. the waiters, customers and senior staff granted him particular attention. Whether the astrologer was charged for meals was unclear.

 

 

In the surveys of the charts might a prospective Hindu bride’s menstrual cycle be factored into calculations for the most auspicious date for a wedding? 

         Even in the case of a professional young woman in Singapore, in this instance marrying a Westerner? A Brisbane Queenslander.

         Numerous questions that arose in the long lead-up could not really be put. Certainly not to the bride’s mother.
         Though the prospect of a Hindu wedding did appeal, there was hesitation about accepting the invitation. Had the KVcashier Auntie not given a number of reminders, almost certainly there would have been an avoidance. This lovely woman could not be denied. Having a fellow Australian in attendance from her side might have been thought welcome too for the new son-in-law.

         For some strange reason the wedding was due to commence at 7: 30AM. Unless it was something more mundane, possibly it was the astrologer’s doing again.

                                                                        *
        

 

All easy enough in the bus from Geylang Serai, about 25 minutes and deposited on the doorstep of Sri Mariamman in Chinatown. 

         The Chinese bus driver didn’t know the temple by name, but there were two just there off South Bridge Road. It would be one or the other, the man assured. 

         Bells from the morning prayer had immediately indicated the way. The timing was perfect, not yet the half hour. 

         At the entry there were three or four dozen slippers of worshippers who had arrived earlier still.
         Inside the doors it took some while to realise this particular place was not the site for the wedding proper. Here the regular morning prayers were taking place; the wedding  would be held up in the adjacent hall on the left. One of the older worshippers indicated the stairs.

         There had been no sign of the cashier Aunt nor any other familiar face down by the altar. 

         A bugger too not having anticipated the removal of the hat; a old man obliged with that advice.

         While waiting for familiar faces to appear the morning prayer had been interesting to observe. It had not been seen before. Up in the inner sanctum the worshipping of the lingam was familiar from earlier temple visits. The fast-paced circuit in front, however, had not been seen previously. There was almost the look of a race about it, and one or two Chinese participating with what looked a competitive spirit. 

         Four or five years ago the Tamil yoga teacher Ranie had said the Chinese often prayed in Hindu temples, for luck in the lotteries. Something more seemed to be involved in this case.

 

 

 

Upstairs the Queensland groom’s party were waiting to greet the guests on entry, a freckled and ginger-haired dozen all in dhotis and saris. Inevitably there was a sense of fancy dress and at the introductions a joke needed to be restrained.

         At the front of the room the priest was busy with his preparations, the easily identified groom hot-footing around the raised platform. 

         A pair of musicians, drummer and horn player, sat up front on the floor against the wall. At what seemed some irrelevant point, these two abruptly started playing and kept up for the duration pretty much. One of the pair later inserted a bell that could not be sighted.

         The Tamil mother-in-law, the KV cashier Auntie, had been difficult to identify from ten metres off in her colourful clothes and beneath her make-up and heavy kohl liner. 

         In some conversation with the priest, which may have been part of official proceedings, the Auntie’s head loll was visible from behind.

         The take-away lady from the KV kitchen was similarly spectacular and similarly unrecognisable in her attire. 

         Whenever the KV owner visited the restaurant she was always dressed in that elaborate fashion. This woman arrived an hour late, but still in time to perform her role blessing the bride. It turned out the woman had overslept after news her younger daughter had just given birth in the States.

 

                                                                        *

 

 

The blessing of the bride was the highlight of the ceremony. 

         Eventually the young woman entered, took her place on the floor up front before the settee and soon one woman after another began attending her in brief turns. 

         First came the mother passing two or three clay vessels around her daughter, standing on the girl’s right starting at the near shoulder, behind to the other and then around in front, where both knees were touched by the bowls and trays. 

         After the mother it must have been the aunts come out from Chennai, two younger women who were in their own elaborate costumes—not quite as outstanding as those worn by the Singaporean contingent. During the acquaintance at KV the cashier Aunt had returned to her birthplace two or three times for the weddings of nieces and nephews. Here her sisters were returning the favour, circling the young bride with the vessels in preparation for the journey before her. 

         The young woman bore up smilingly under the attention; aunts and mother the same on their side. 

         A bottle-brush moustachioed man standing to the side off the platform against the wall could only have been the father of the bride. None of the audience looked out front as keenly, though the man seemed to have nothing to do with formal proceedings. Certainly there was none of the Western giving away of the bride.

 

 

                                                                        *

 

Bride and groom had been working and living in Myanmar the last couple of years. The Australian connection had troubled the KV Aunt from the outset with the distance and likelihood of ongoing separation. Yet there were no tears, no obvious emotion, neither of happiness or foreboding. Not all mothers across the globe cried at their daughters’ weddings.

         After the two aunts from Chennai had completed their blessing it was the turn of the KV owner, clearly a good friend of the cashier. The pair often sat together, both behind the register and at the tables over lunch. That the owner was a good sort had been proved over the years with her kindness and consideration for her workers, mostly poor fellow Tamils from the homeland, and sometimes Muslims among them. 

         During the preparation of the bride with what looked like the sprinkling of turmeric, among other dressings, it had been the groom’s sister assuming the position beside her on the floor. 

         The two women were being formally confirmed, while the groom’s mother, who was also in attendance, was left out of proceedings. No doubt a Hindu mother-in-law came into her own in the time ahead; that figure always featured prominently in the annals and in the Bollywood movies. (The father of the groom had not appeared.)

         Fertility rites were prominent: with the touches on the bride’s knees there also came various fruits on trays, young coconuts and other bounty.

         The pair of new brothers-in-laws took a turn on the platform together later, the bride’s brother grasping the other by the wrist in something that looked like strong-arming as they first began their move up the aisle. 

         The blessing of this pair seemed less consequential, perhaps understandably.

         Bride and groom would likely end on the settee together in the last half hour, showered with flowers or the like. Then photographs of family and friends on the stage. 

         The Malays sat their brides and grooms on thrones before the guests, kings and queens for a day, they said, the floor before them carpeted with money.

        Taking the lead from the quiet Tamil waiter who had briefly attended, in the end an envelope was improvised and a couple of tens inserted as an offering before departure. 

        The waiter had left his envelope with a couple sitting in the row in front. 

         In preparation for the event the Sufi Zainuddin, who had attended a number of Hindu weddings in his time, had suggested a tenner was enough. 

         The last of the proceedings would be missed. It seemed best to withdraw. The ceremony was due to end at 9: 30 and the feast after that. 

         Weeks later the KV Aunt expressed her disappointment a number of times that no food had been taken at her daughter’s wedding. One lunchtime she had attempted to pay for the Komala meal by way of recompense.

 

 

 

 

 

NB. Reliable information that followed suggested the guess-work was correct: the menstrual cycle would indeed have factored in the astrologer’s calculations, along with date & time of birth. And the mother of the groom being a widow left no role for her in a Hindu ceremony.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                        Singapore 2011-20

Voided

Woeful as you can get the family gatherings at the Void tables, especially full complement with child on the fringe venturing a few steps beyond to explore its habitat. Recently painted walls, a new couple of metres of path added connecting two routes (minus lip for wheelchairs and stumbling elderly). Woeful maximus. Gangster infested flooded slums with rats less dire.

Void Deck, Haig Road Singapore

Dollars & Dope

Aljunied lunch $5 flat with the Uncle’s 30c discount for a regular who had prompted for promotion price. It was about time wasn’t it, Unc?... Bee hoon noodles were they? tatters, mock beef and bok choy with lotus soup. Man would have been robbing his grandchildren offering any less. En route around the corner by the lane and the hardware store “Embroidered Brows” at the electrified dazzling special price of $168 ONLY. The hairdresser offering was named Pop Pop. (Tattooed were for the HDB have-nots; presumably the offering at City Plaza currently for $6.) This superior and more proper knitting no doubt lasted three times longer; five and ten times would not surprise. The Chinese in particular suffered for the lack of brows. Ladies gained with lesser facial and underarm, but the brows were important for photography in particular. Tinting too added definition. Chap clearing the plates there below the MRT missing the teeth would not deny the term he had spent at Changi. Half-dozen meetings now, plates returned under one’s own steam, permission given trying the panama—there was a certain rapport established. The long pipe was it Uncle?... Too right, the man replied, only the faintest blanching at the confession. Corroborated too was the half metre length; the long, satisfying draw described, and the smoke outta the nostrils. Thirty-five, forty years experience of Users down in the Great Southern Land was needed in order to pick ordinary Joes with very few outward signs. With the growing liberalization they were going to be shown up here before long, the Justice Minister and all the rest of the hard deniers all these years later after all the hangings and incarceration. What if the industry now really took off? Canada, Australia, Uruguay and the others stealing a march? Thailand was making noises in today’s paper and neighbouring Malaysia too. With all the experience of the dens and hot trade in the recent past, letting late-comers leap ahead would grate here. Was science and research to be denied? What if under regs. and for medical treatment and rec. use there were big, mouthwatering $$$$$ to be made? Could the little red dot hot spot sit back on its heels arms crossed holding to out-dated principles?... One was reminded of the poor Indian lady at KV, whose son returning from OZ being a convicted felon (possession) was tested and immediately thrown into prison. Five days later the leaf was still detectable. Change was in the wind.

NB. A homage to Tom Pynchon and his generation rather than anything else. This author has always happily done without.

Birds of a Feather

A second call from Manager Zahruddin at the Wadi hotplate this morning. Half an hour earlier he had given his first usual greeting. Over the course of a sit at the tables Din might call out two or three times from his post in precisely the same way with simply the name. The man seemed to enjoy the roll of the two new syllables he had mastered, his pronunciation clear and confident. In younger days Zahruddin had been a student of Arabic in Syria; earnest studies over five or six years. The devastation over there of course pained Zahruddin more deeply than the rest of us, though Zahruddin was not a loud or demonstrative man. A highly reliable, trustworthy and efficient manager for the Wadi stakeholders; fair and decent with all the young foreign workers too. The man was now focused on raising his family up on the Peninsular in Malacca, two children still at school. Last week he had taken a well-deserved short break back home. Zahruddin’s second call this morning was something else however; not the usual clarion call. A tall buxom German was she? just then stepping down from the severy toward the tables. Zahruddin had lifted his chin after her indicating. Not young this lady, but in some Asian eyes perhaps formidably attractive. Tall, fleshy, big-boned Brunhilda. A loose singlet top revealed bare arms and cleavage; shorts the upper thighs. (It seems the Prophet had specifically warned men not to cast in the direction of the latter because of the particularly dangerous trigger there for lustfulness.) Zahruddin was in fact not a ladies man; it had been an mistake once some months before crowing into his ear after an entire morning devoted to the nest. Din merely pointed with his chin here; the largest part of the impulse being to give notice of the presence of an associate, a countrywoman perhaps. Here was one of your kind now among us, the man had signaled. (Westerners were not common in Geylang Serai; we had one stop for a prata perhaps every other week.) At numerous locales here, in Singapore particularly, an acquaintance or friend would do precisely as Zahruddin had done at the entry of a White into the circle. The assumption was some natural affinity and interest, some wish and even relish to greet one’s own. Your friend! has been the notice voiced by friends, waiters, plate-collectors and others here. There was none of the usual man-to-man nod, nod; wink, wink in this case with Manager Zahruddin; among the Muslims here that Latin and Western hi-jinks was entirely absent. And needless to add, for these Asians olive was indistinguishable from true white.

Humblest Apology

Almost seven years eyes and ears open they couldn’t be stretched further. Listening to talk big and small. Soaking up all that was on offer from any quarter. Reading up a little as required; enquiring what was uncertain. This particular Tamil waiter had only been pacing the floor at KV a couple of years. Nice, regular fellow; quiet type with shy smiles and nods perhaps partly because of the limited English, though he was not especially forthcoming with his own kind either. Got his orders a bit confused occasionally. Early thirties; if he was caught right in a photograph the guess might be into his fifties. This afternoon the man brushed against a young Tamil wife who had been waiting by her table after lunch while her husband was at the washstand. Possibly the poor man had trod on the woman’s toes; some minor kind of inadvertence. Oh! Sorry! Blanched a bit. (It was possible on dark skin.) And followed with a gesture that had only been seen on B grade 60s TV re-runs featuring an elaborately bedecked Effendi holding audience: the gracious high respect that fluttered from the midriff in four or five touches until it had reached up to the bowed chin and slid away from the forehead.... Wow wee! No kind of courtier put-on. Truly, sincerely sorry; deeply apologetic. Times past in other lands a chap brushing against the wrong man’s wife in the marketplace no matter how slight there might have been hell to pay. (In this particular instance water off a duck’s back.)

One World

Indian lad this afternoon by the table on his free day with a white/green striped labelled high on the chest, ADMIRABLE. In the chap’s mind he was likely thinking of the highest nautical rank. (A couple of generations ago affluent families dressed pretty boys in peaked, laurel-leafed ship captain’s hats.) Clueless gaucherie from the Third World sweatshops only a few years ago; more recently the catwalks were seizing upon precisely such kind of affectlessness for their designs. (To wit Melania’s jacket visiting the children’s camp on the Mexican border.) On the Saturday an instant reflex at the Serangoon bus-stop sighting the approaching Russians were they? Even before the blue baseball cap worn by Dad could be deciphered. A spectator at the US Open had lost an eye recently because of an errant drive on the fairway. It might have been even worse, the woman was reported to have said: she might have died from the blow. This Ruski badged with the sporting marquee event had come through unscathed, arrived in Singapore, passed through Little India’s temples and eateries and now was catching a bus someplace else. Wife, son and daughter-in-law in tow. You could tell the filial relation by a sign from the younger man to Dad within the shelter where he had taken a seat—resting against a lamppost—head-turn and nod indicated the coming bus was for them. In the States following the players around the course would not have been as taxing as the exploration of Little India in Singapore’s heat and humidity. Was it worth the candle for the Ruski? For the photos at the temples, the food at the restaurants, the cultural centre and Campbell Lane market? A new cap of brightest blue; son was bareheaded same as the rest of the party. A few years ago average stays in Singapore were 2-3 days, before connecting flights were caught. Construction sector work contracts were five or seven years up to the age of thirty-five, usually. Neither Admirable nor genuine US Open apparel had been seen here before; both were bought off-shore. Five or six years ago a Chinese girl in G. Serai who had been complimented on her tee said she never bought her clothes in Singapore. Last week a yoga teacher was met at the KV lunch table, chap who worked only mornings in order to give himself time for his own practise and his two young children. For some strange reason, in this instance the unkempt beard and unlabelled, single-coloured drab tee had not given signal of the man’s uniqueness here. With the absences in Malaysia and Indo, months past and perhaps even over a year, the Luck Meets Opportunity / Preparation Seneca tee had not been sighted on the streets. Then like a thunderstorm from a summer sky, an unexpected jungle ambush, suddenly within the same day two or even three men had barrelled into the field of vision with the same. Had it been produced locally, specifically for this market? Difficult to imagine it might be found elsewhere. Israel or Dubai perchance? Delhi during this Modi reign?... It was little wonder the original straw panama had drawn so much notice, coming up seven years. How often had one been told how much more striking a figure was created with it? how many compliments, smiles and salutes? There had been two muddled conversations in recent days with professional young expats casually encountered. The first, a young Viet “global citizen,” as she described herself, had been told her country had not been visited essentially because of guilt over the war. For a first meeting with a youngster like that, this had been way too much information of course. Way, way too much. Nicely enough taken in stride in this instance. A young Indian banker who had lived in Sing two years and had a recent three month assignment in Melbourne sitting over a quick prataat Wadi had been engaged entirely and exclusively on matters concerning India: her Bangalore home town, Indian food, the changed demographic in Melbourne in recent years; &etc; &etc. All inevitably, unavoidably, carrying the unstated, deeply troubling subtexts, colour, the rape controversies, communal strife, caste; &etc; &etc. Last thing a young lady needed reminding on a fine evening.

 

 

NB. “Luck is what happens when opportunity meets preparation,” Seneca 

 

 

Grand March

Finally this morning the over-lapping of the music behind the house was sorted properly. On the first patch of grass the usual tai chi ladies were moving through their routines, cracking in unison their large red fans with the sound of gun shots when the garbage was taken out. Further around toward Block 6 another, larger group in orange polos were slow stepping left and right, swivelling and stretching their arms. The latter were newcomers to that place, a recently formed group, or perhaps relocated from another quarter. Two or three days now the musical accompaniment at that hour of morning confused and could not be properly deciphered.  Buddhist funerary music had become familiar over the years here; with the tai chi group sometimes playing their own form, however, the conjunction these last days was difficult to separate and distinguish. None of the yellow tenting or awning had been visible from the back of the house, nor from the corner going out to the road. Finally this morning it was the rousing martial beat and the stirring lyric with which the dead were escorted to their new homes that gave the game away. Unmistakeable that and unique. There had been a death in the upper corner of the Haig Blocks, perhaps within No.s 2 or 3. In such compact housing with people placed one on top of the other in twelve or thirteen blocks all the ceremonials of life arrived regularly there and were to greater or lesser degree shared, willy nilly. The strident up-beat of this particular passage was quite remarkable. Did it trace its genesis to war-time and strife; a military guard providing honour? One could imagine the role of this hymn in the clan associations; to an outsider drinking songs were another suggestion. Death was not to be feared. Stout heart, hold firm and strong. The Russian Funeral March was more sombre and far more doleful.

Fair and Square

Five years later Beefy’s Home boy moniker came as a surprise. “Beef” was of course one’s own invention and the Bruiser had retaliated on his side with Oscar. You would have to ask Beef how the man had arrived at that. No complaints, Osk. was a bit alright; certainly it was rather better than the default John. One thought of the reckless Irishman of course. Understandably, Beef didn’t much like his own tag, but the man let it ride. Mocked for his jelly-belly Beefy had the gumption to contest the matter. There was nothing particularly fat guts about him, not at all. Why? Like anything else in B.’s case, this was no put-on. Babi used to say, We can never see ourselves.

         The Reprobate had come up to the morning table. On the Saturday Beef had in fact been asked about the Reprobate. (Jack the turned-eye boozer in the common reference.) Three days returned no sign of the man there was cause for concern. Busker/boozer Rahim had been committed to IMH; the same could easily have happened to Reprobate.

         Among the local lads Beefy was Mohd. Flores. From the Indo island, yes, Reprobate revealed.

         Beef explained it was for his broad face, slit eyes, the springy hair. In fact the ancestry was Bugis; Sulawesi. That was where Beefy’s Chinese grandfather had hailed from. Ah Bee originally became Abin when the man converted. Force of circumstances, Beefy seemed to sensibly suggest.

         Very tough days back then, Beefy said. Grandpappy Abin had been samseng, a gangster; both back in Bugis land and later after he migrated to the neighbouring isle in the thirties.

         Here he eventually settled a couple kms from Geylang Serai up on present day Paya Lebar Road. Not all Grandad’s ventures were known by the grandson, but what Beefy clearly remembered was the “treasure chests” he called them lining the main room of the house.

         Good earnings and seemed Granddad gave the law a wide berth by that stage. Later there was a legitimate venture in partnership with a pal for a bus service running initially from Lower Geylang there up into town. Later again expanded and finally bought out by a large transport group.

         Currently Beef was doing it tough. The supply of the product had dried up. There had been seizures and arrests, the heat on, man needed to lie low. Wife and kids over in Tanjung Pinang were crying out for funds. Recent days Beefy had given the go-ahead to sell the gold and all his precious stones. Tough times.

         The four leg here was returning little and the other the usual story of near misses. Couple days past 8 and 12 came up when Beef had taken 11 and 8. Terbalik. “Arse about,” the old Aussie gamblers used to say.

         Granddad used to run a book in the kampung over at Paya Lebar way there back in his day. How to set up properly to guarantee all was fair and square was the question. Seems the old man came up with a scheme of his own devising with numbers inscribed the night before on a coconut which was taken back up to the topmost branches and for the draw duly brought down in the morning. Naturally, as in all such operations, it was the House that always came out in front. Coin for the treasure chests.

         That was all good and well. Trouble was Granddad had taken six wives. That was where the trouble lay and the man came a proper cropper. Beef didn’t elaborate.

         Like a recessive gene, the gangsterism had skipped one generation. Beefy’s own father had always played perfectly straight, didn’t like anything crooked. Beef had given the old man lottsa heartache. You teach me all this—the police station, law courts, prison, the old man meant.

         Dad refused to visit Beef at Changi. On one release he came down to collect his son, but would not enter the gates, calling instead from outside the walls with his whistle.

         If Beefy had any regrets he certainly didn’t let on. What was to say?