A Pitcher

Wouldn’t mind betting the new Uncle here collecting the dishes at Kwan Inn was the prodigal son of the owner, the locally famous lady who took the casino to court over a disputed win and distributed the award to her employees. Good, proper Buddhist ahma, dealing in vegetarian fare, catching rainwater for the dish-washing, considerate and generous to her staff. Fair chance the monks frequenting her tables got their meals for free. The entire block was occupied by Buddhist outlets of one sort or another—books, fragrance, candles, calendars, lanterns &etc. The silver spoon was another kettle of fish altogether, running up against it in the usual way and coming a cropper, you would guess. Very much got that look about him. Tall, thin scarecrow pulling deeply on the fags on his short breaks on the grass. Chap was one apart, entirely different class compared to the others clearing those tables and dicing the vegetables. There were no tattoos visible, neat dyed cut and tidy manner—nothing street level and pigeon-hole about this one. The wide smiles were something in excess of ease and gratitude over the simple, everyday offerings gifted us. Purest silk the batik shirt the other day might have been; NY motif linen today and smart trainers didn’t come from collecting dishes. Not long ago the man had been wrestling fire-breathing dragons, if this Scribe knows anything from years on the sidelines watching the skittles fall all round. Get a load of that silver on his hand for another thing too; and the watch-face between the jade beads. Laid down the law the old lady; lad holding firm to date, quick on his feet working with a will and no complaints. Just returned from a retreat in the hills of Taiwan, or even the Mainland possibly. Few biz types got to the tables on Sims Avenue, the vibe was all in the other direction. Quiet, contained people who meditated and prayed, hardly a brand among any of them in these three years of patronage. Buttoned in front the NY apparel turned out, in the baseball style cut that was likely limited edition. Tempted to ask the lad himself, who was well into his fifties; perhaps one of the Viet kitchen hands might be more politik.

Subversive Farming - published by Wild Roof Journal May20

Moringa—the last number of months Nance had been drinking a medicinal tea made from the leaves, she thought. There had been a lot of recent hype about it seemingly. (Next morning one of the lads at Al-Azhar suggested a narcotic effect was received from moringa.) The example here stood about three metres tall. Sour sop was sighted for the first time here, another small tree; in the sorbet form it made one of Nance’s favourite desserts, with sugar or a dash of honey added to combat the tartness. The No Monkey Tree might have been one of the jests posted on signs throughout the farm, if it had not been for a number of repetitions of the same at the base of these impressive trees. Monkeys could not climb those trunks perhaps because of the sharp nodules over the surface, which was something like the outer casing of the durian, a tree that oddly seemed not to be represented in this farm. It had taken eight years in the region for the first sighting of the ginger plant, the bulging root exposed at the base of some of the potted stalks in the examples here. Oodles of bananas were represented in numerous varieties on the farm, including some particular black kind, a label indicated. A small pond near the resto held within the fringe of reeds what could only have been loudly croaking frogs, though given the locale one would have been forgiven for thinking amplified recorded nature. (By the outdoor eating area there was a plaster B/W heifer cropping the grass at its feet. In some of the open fields of Singapore awaiting development more playfully cartoonish figures of the same kind featured, the urban planners entirely unconscious of the twisted irony in this concrete jungle they had created.) Ivy Singh who was the spiritual force behind this farm at Kranji was by no means any kind of typical Singaporean, certainly not of the contemporary form—which was most clearly apparent in the sign near the entry that suggested an equivalence between politicians and terrorists. An old sign it seemed this that dated a couple of decades back at least. You Cannot Serve Both GOD & MONEY was another risqué sign here in this turbo-capitalist republic that remunerated its leaders so handsomely. Ivy lived on the farm with a Chinese husband; her surname suggesting a Sikh heritage perhaps partly explained her strongly independent cast of mind. One of Ivy’s Bangladeshi workers testified that the woman was a fine sort, good-hearted at bottom; and that made everything easier for himself and the other workers, the man said. (A tough lady you got the impression, as the farm itself suggested. This was no pretty, decorous affair of flowers & herbs created with photographing tourists in mind.) Our Kashmiri Tufail had some decent Bengali from an extended stay in Calcutta in younger days, where his father had kept a shop for many years. There was no time to take notes, the extensive unfolding of this secret garden in the far west of Singapore did not allow it. A lake full of water lilies they must have been was happened upon all of a sudden behind a stand of greenery. Like the explorers of undiscovered country, the three of us lads came to an immediate halt before the sight. (Attacked by mosquitoes, Nance our driver had retreated to the car.) The flower petals of a banana, at least one of the varieties, revealed itself after a few minutes of standing before a particular tree—just out of reach three metres from the ground, dull crimson colour in three or four long, elongated spears. Three or four days before the flower that had been sheathed might have come into full bloom. The farm and the garden was the work of a lifetime, the product of true passion and calling. Many of the people in Singapore did not know of its existence. Koels and other birds had discovered the quarter. A small pigeon first made its appearance by the lunch table; later it was found along the paths and within the greenery. It was not the same as the common pigeon, Sameer the other Kashmiri had rightly suggested. Sameer had read some Robert Fisk, knew of Chris Hedges and Noam Chomsky. He needed time to absorb what he had seen at the farm, he said over a Winston at the end of the tour. After a long campaign the Singaporean authorities had finally managed to get their Botanical Gardens on the World Heritage list; few of the technocrats would venture out to lunch at the “Poison Ivy” restaurant at Kranji.

                                                                                    Bollywood Veggie Farm, Singapore

Its Own Reward updated Oct23

Difficult to credit. Hard to believe your eyes. A young teen pacing along at the Haig in front of the shoe store, with her mother couple of steps before it may have been. There may have come a sour mouth flash of disapproval at the gaze. (If only the lady could credit; if she could know the brief.) Thirteen or fourteen, no more. Chinese, simple cut, glasses; the holidays offering an opportunity for a short outing. There had been a market visit earlier; no maid by the looks. Modesty of attire like that indicated a tight budget. There was still modesty of various kinds to be found on this island, in this republic; even among that particular age cohort. It was still reasonably common, though rarely flagged quite in this style. Black bold caps on white, in an arc high across her chest. (Well above the girl’s ripening breasts.) Never the like seen previously in eight years of eyes keenly peeled. VERY GOOD. Can you imagine those of you on the other side; in your distant lands?

Macedonians, Dalmatians, Slovenes, Montenegrins & Bengalis

In the mix overnight Dragi Jovanovski had somehow put in an appearance, emerged from the scrum of foreign workers here no doubt, who shared so many of the features of our own crowd from that earlier era of the 60s down on the Great Southern Land. This morning at the kitchen sink the little Bangla lad through the window was sweeping the Void beneath Block 9. Wielding a brush-broom and swinging into his improvised shovel (from a 20l. oil can), the earpiece he was wearing delivering tunes or news from home no doubt. At one point the elderly man on the iron bench facing the carpark seemed to lift his legs in the time-honoured way in order to give access beneath. Down in Spotswood Dragi—“Dear” literally—enjoyed Engelbert Humperdinck and Tom Jones on his little trannie in the room at the end of the hallway. When he finally returned to Macedonia to bring out his wife and son Dragi left a suitcase with us for safekeeping and cried out back before departure. Tall, dark, chain-smoking Dragi, quiet, cheerful and respectful, with his cans of Spam and jars of chili. Once over the choice of a TV channel after Bab had finally relented and bought the box, a young teenage scream had told Dragi where to get off. Like Godfather Luka, Dragi made a frightful sight in the hospital at his premature end, unfit to be seen by youngsters. Frane the Dalmatian—or Islander, he liked to correct, being from Pag in the Adriatic—with his wife Ana the Slovene, took Bab out to the hospital. The look of the group on return made you wonder about the other side of the screen.

Dumbshow (updated Oct23)

Crossing in front of Darul Aqam a greeting from the side. It happened often enough, you were dreaming sauntering along with the morning newspaper under your arm. No kind of surprise. Who was this, then? On the right a metre off, there low to the ground and almost past, it turned out the showman Deaf in fact, bright and chirpy as usual, giving his signature salute. The call had emerged very close to the standard in these parts, a touch rough around the edges, but by no means incomprehensible. Perfectly intelligible and immediately understood. It had been a first with that kind of crystal clear enunciation from that particular quarter; certainly neither of the other two Deaf were capable of anything of the sort. Once or twice in recent time this man had been met, if not in fact bested, in the ceremony of greeting there by the market. Sprung out from the side suddenly directly in the middle of the path, first of all there was an abrupt plonking of the feet as if for bracing, Sumo style. Slow-slow-slow unwinding of hand from behind that forced the man to stand back, as if observing a bird taking flight. Iceberg drift imperceptibly circling in a wide, impossibly high arc. Hold your breath! Steady on and patient. CLAP the cymbals. Thumb-rub or pinkies and thumbs both together. Ha! How. About. That! A day or two prior the chap had been sighted on the other side of the concourse at the Haig passing the first row of tables at the head of a little posse of Batam girls. Lasses from the neighbouring isle were following almost in single file in their newly laundered attire, behind the finger the Deaf held out high before him. In the deplorable old flicks the Cavalry had charged on a sudden raid behind precisely such a sign from the leader on the horse out front.

Don’t Let ‘em Get the Wrong Idea

Common story of daughters, mothers and maids, re-told many a time here. Children who have been cared for by loving maids—or nannies in other parts—when they reach adulthood will call the latter in order to share their burden, relieve their anxieties, share triumphs and happiness. (Often the maid rather than mother or father indeed.) When they marry they will insist on the former maid attending the wedding, no expense spared flying them over. A maid will have the password to the house wifi disclosed secretly by the children. —BUT don’t tell Mummy, Auntie. Don’t whatever you do! Ni a couple of days ago was gifted a new phone by her employer’s daughter. She had explained to the young woman, a piano teacher, that she would be unable to reply to her messages from “outside,” not by text at least, as that function had become inoperable on her old Oppo. Oh! Oh!... The young woman saw the problem; the button on the side was missing and the cursor would not land. OK. OK. She would try to get Ni a new one. Some kind of old substitute, Ni had thought. Next day, lo and behold! a new Redmi 8A still in its box and wrapping. Wahallah! Nice. Just what the doctor ordered. How much, Cathy? Perhaps the young woman would allow her to pay back in monthly instalments. Merry Christmas, Auntie. (To the tune of $US100/6,499 Indian rupee. Not top of the range, but not bad either; new, gift horse and all that.) But golly, don’t tell Mummy. DON’T TELL! In this particular case Ni had only been with that family a couple of months.

Careening Volunteering

Bright bubbly volunteer in pink fluro, lanyard and plastic covered clipboard. Ruby lippy, subtle scent and simple, straight cut. Hello sir, sorry to disturb you. I am actually…. crueled by the rain. A wad of tens stretched longways was clipped to the top of the board, the red note bearing the familiar first Malay President of the Republic: Yousef Somebody. (It recalled the old dodge of Slavisa’s supporting his harmonica-playing pal Uros up on stage: spitting on a $50 and slapping it on the musician’s forehead to indicate the rate for requests.) What impressed above all here was the end of the forefinger indicating a paragraph on the board to which the lass wanted to draw attention. WOW-WEE. Indeed & forever! That didn’t look like false tack-on. Might have been all original cuticle, 25mm at a pinch and possibly 30 from the quick. Tapered here what was more almost arrowhead form. Softer tone than either the polo or lips. The gal had planned ahead at the salon for this gig. The Us here commonly followed the model in the States, including a compulsory social service unit to the courses in aid of community, assisting the needy, fostering public spirit; &etc. The industrial strength hardener here was difficult to conceive.

Murder at the Haig - published early Oct by Open: Journal of Art & Letters

Readers have advised that the link on OJAL's site has not been functioning for a while, so here is the piece:



Murder at the Haig

Glimpsed in passing feeding the pigeons and only once upon the lady did the realisation strike. You could not stop and stare. Possibly the woman had made a more certain ID herself immediately. A couple of weeks before she had been met in the yard out front of the house. A rather awkward meeting in fact. This is her, Helen had announced proudly with some kind of winner’s smile. The pair had been chatting by the greenery while two or three cats weaved between their feet. The English had surprised, together with the visage the woman presented. You assumed an old Chinese battle-axe, surly and sharp. On the contrary, once again here was an altogether classic soft Balkan Babushka—they were legion around the place. First word of the notorious lady had emerged about a month before: there was a convicted murderer living up at the Haig blocks, someone reported. It would turn out the deed had been done right there at the Haig—a woman who had killed her husband by her own hand. Ten or twelve towers of so many storeys, it stood to reason; the odds were perfectly in order. Hmm…. Interesting of course. Had one on the scent a little; casually, lazily. The fruiterer Mr Lim was asked, making conversation more or less one morning over the purchase. Yes, knew the lady. Quiet type; a little screwy. People kept away from her; a bit batty. What had happened? Why? How? None could bring themselves to ask, Mr Lim answered. More or less same again with Helen: gabbing one evening when she was feeding the cats on the near corner opposite the house. Here though, in this case, Helen unexpectedly declared she was in fact intimate with the party. I know the lady, answered Helen with her usual judicial air. The story went she and her husband had looked after the elderly ahma, the grannie; hubbie’s mum. Of course the work all fell on the daughter-in-law. Hubbie/son had been a bit aged himself by that stage, doddery and weak on his pins. In time god took back the old soul; they had done their best. Afterward the usual scramble for the cash. Those who had been absent before, visitors of their mother earlier at elder brother’s place, gathered now for the spoils. And promptly. Words exchanged; recriminations. How to grab the loot quick and get away? (They were lucky not to have the flat sold from under their feet.) Over that term of money-grabbing, the old, doddery hubbie had begun to echo some of the criticisms of his siblings. Blah blah blah. The wife had not done this or that right. Blah blah blah. One night continuing by the kitchen sink where the daughter-in-law/wife was busy preparing dinner. No, not dicing veggies the tired housewife; pounding chilli it must have been. In hand the mortar and pestle. Pounding. The old guy unrelenting. One word too many tipped the boiling bucket. POW! Crack! Like a lubenica, watermelon, they say in Serbia. One strike was enough; dead pretty much on the spot the old jawbones. Lady did five or seven years of her sentence; early release; temp. insanity whatnot. Here she was back at her former dwelling, returned to the neighbourhood. Auntie Helen lacked no gumption; a JW with lots of firm spirit; one who had done her own time over a matter of principle. Helen got it straight from the source. All the feeders in the neighbourhood naturally knew each other. There were alliances, as well as animosities and demarcations. Fed more than just birds this lady. (Helen herself had recently begun adding the crows that gathered on the near corner.) The sweet, redemptive part came at the end a few years later; few years back. The son, one of the children of the victim and of the killer, must have been a Buddhist. One advanced some good way in his studies and devotions. With enlightenment attained after proper reflection, the chap, the son, comes up to Mum one day in order to announce: Mother dear, when I come back, I want you to be my mother again.

                                                                                                  Haig Road, Singapore

Eunoia

Kwan Inn tasty laksa. The uncle at the next table somehow stirring his tea with the uncanny sound of a phone ring-tone, from memory based on a bird call. A few doors down at Tzuchi, the Taiwanese Buddhist teahouse, the old aunties attending in their white blouses and navy blue aprons, imbued with the kind of “sincerity” which was highlighted in the books in the window. Bringing the pot and cup on the black lacquered tray, the woman today had angled the landing on the crowded table-top in three or four separate motions, smiling the while without raising of eyes. Head bowed, cheekbones prominent, strands of grey through the dye on the crown. Chat with the head who usually worked on his computer at one of the tables brought mention of Tzuchi’s larger centre out at Yishun, recommended especially for contemplative types, sited as it was beside a pond with greenery. There was lots of natural wood in the interior and screened from the road no cars were visible. None of the photographs the head displayed on his phone showed any of the old aunties attending; (buffet arrangement possibly there). The romanised eunoia was the term Aristotle had used for the benevolence and goodwill of the woman of a household, which the philosopher asserted ultimately formed the basis of human ethics and civilisation. The aunties at the Sims Avenue Tzuchi provided the quality in spades. Johnny K., the local non-practising architect/graphic artist, who enjoyed Kwan Inn’s vegetarian fare, had once entered Tzuchi, he recalled, without being able to take a seat. The pretentiousness of the setting had been too much, the knockabout lad reported. No doubt Johnny’s eyes had fallen on the decor and furnishings and he had not hung around for the old aunties’ performance. Understandably, a Chinaman in his own element could easily take that feature for granted. Even in back corners of Singapore, the Aristotelian touchstone was losing meaning.

 

 

 

                                                                                                     Paya Lebar, Singapore

Changes On the Ground

It was time to get to the bottom of the matter at the newly established Al-Azhar. Al Wadi had closed four months ago, before the departure. The new eatery had been announced well in advance: another Indian Muslim operation that had outlets at upscale Bukit Timah (Tin Hill) and Tampines. The food would be better under the new operators, old Hussein the Wadi boss had frankly admitted. What Hussein had failed to mention, what the man might not have known, was the accompanying decline of the teas that was coming. After almost four months away one was hesitant to pass judgment prematurely. Was the halia indeed nothing like the former? Could these dubious taste buds be trusted? Well, time to ask Mu. Who better than the grand tea-master himself. Muttalib the Tamil was one of the handful of former Wadi crew who had been retained by the new outfit. Likely the Al-Azhar chiefs had observed the man operating. Not only quick and efficient at his own task, fluent in Malay and with adequate English, but Mu also knew how to supervise his off-siders preparing the ices and sweets and collecting the cash. Eric the ad man had made the same observation during his patronage. Excellent competence and efficiency. Well then, what say you, Mu? This halia ain’t the same, is it? We are a way from that former rich brew, right? The suspicion was the new guys had descended to packeted ginger most likely. The dry, desiccated product was not a patch on the fresh article. Owning up immediately the little honest Tamil, Mu. Right you were; it was not the same. But, no, not packets. It was a different company now providing; different product involved. Unlike former days, none of the tea-houses in Sing diced their own ginger any longer. For that delectation one needed to cross the Causeway and trip up a couple of kilometres into Johor proper. Almost a drug the tangy syrup blending condensed milk, tea and fresh ginger, bubbly with a head on it like beer when stretched from a height—tarik. Across the way beneath the market the re-positioned Mr Teh Tarik was not a whole lot better. ABC on Changi Road likewise conformed to type. As a last resort perhaps the new Al Falah Baraka—mystifyingly translated by Google as “It has a living”—ought be sampled as a last resort. (The former Har Yasin run by the old ogre Hanifa had donned new livery for some reason best known to themselves.)

Another absence too now of a different kind. A more plangent note of change here. The Parrot Man, the noseless old curmudgeon who had presumably slipped down the remission rungs during these months of absence, was gone from the neighbourhood. No more in life. The bird had outlived the man. There had been a item in the newspaper, Ahmad reported that same morning Mu was quizzed about the tea. The run-ins with officialdom had earned the Parrot Man a certain profile in the Republic, a certain level of notoriety. Of course the man cut a memorable figure. Ahmad had not been a fan of the Parrot. Once again mention was made by Ahmad of the chap’s abrupt, challenging manner in the course of his tissue-selling. Cruising the tables at the eateries—the upper level at Geylang Serai Pasar in particular—the chap was wont to slap packs on the tables and then presumptuously circle back for his collection of the money. This was in addition to going about with the hole in his face uncovered, the red raw wound naked and gaping at you. A more self-possessed and dignified beggar/tissue-seller would never have stooped to such pitiful pleading, Ahmad thought. So far as the man’s religion went too, he had been all over the shop. Dressed pretentiously in the Muslim attire while doing his rounds at Geylang Serai, Parrot was nonetheless known to attend Buddhist Temples, churches and Hindu places of worship. Unlike the other jumpers from the towers, it seems Parrot Man had resolved to do the deed at his own block at Geylang Bahru, over behind Kallang. Mid-year the jumper at the Haig here had traveled from his own neighbourhood to the hawker centre in front of Block 11, where he had bought a little plastic stool in order to enable him to get over the balustrade. At his own block by the Kallang River, the Parrot Man must have used his own from home.

Publication news: Storgy - "Buddhist Christman"

Hallo all

A timely publication to announce.
A London lit & art magazine called Storgy has published a flash of mine titled “Buddhist Christmas”—set in Singapore of course, on the edge of my neighbourhood in Geylang Serai.
Digital this one and freely available on their site, here—

https://storgy.com/2019/12/05/day-5-buddhist-christmas-by-pavle-radonic/

Cheers & happy/merry
P

Whale of a Cloud

It was nearing 6 when the Buddhist teahouse was left. Strangest of ghostly rainstorms. Going up the lorong numerous people were scuttling along trying to make cover before the downpour started. The bus stop, the motor car, the covered five-foot-way were being desperately sought. Skipping across Geylang Road the segments ahead needed to be measured up until the Chinese Cyber, if it was indeed still operating. Three crossing in all. In Jogja a single crossing of no more than five metres between verandas had once needed an ojek payung to prevent a thorough dousing. This rain here would be nothing like, but still—a new tee, new trousers. The panama, the second in the almost eight years, was near the end of its honourable service. Badly discoloured, now the peak had been torn after an accident in Melbourne with a truck’s side mirror. The straw would provide welcome cover and no need fret over the damage. First afternoon of the return a soaking of the scone would not be what the doctor ordered. (Locals in the Tropics knew what they were about covering the tops of their heads in the slightest of showers.) Geylang Road effortlessly skipped. A couple of Viets they may have been near the corner—new imports to the red zone they looked—needed to be ignored. The older hand escorting the slightly younger and prettier who had called her up on the phone a minute before had brought along a shield that the pair shared. Big drops on the first crossing bounding over with an elastic stride in case the girls might be looking after. Peds on every side continuing in their flight, bums up and heads down. Wielders of umbrellas darting beneath the pillars kept their pieces aloft even once they had reached safety. The drops in the puddles on the roadway appeared as low calibre gun-fire—a shoot-out had been narrowly avoided. Number two lorong passed: every prospect of reaching the goal with only minor spattering. Glancing over to the other side of the four lane road toward Sims Avenue from where one had started, uncannily vivid blue now in a wide band somehow appeared. The dangerous, ugly, portentous black cloud had indeed hung easterly on this other side. Looming large. Whale-shaped. Possibly at the outset it had been more like an inanimate form such as a promontory, a peninsular or half peninsular. (Not a camel certainly.) The Balkans perhaps, including Greece, Albania, Serbia, Montenegro and perhaps portions of Croatia and Hungary. One was heading into the eye of the storm; the guts of the darkly hovering beast. A beast which had seemingly shifted its position in the interim, moved to the other side of the shop-row perhaps. Some soap would have been handy in order to save the wondrous $8 coconut-based shaving soap from FOE. (Friends of the Earth.) Brought along in the hand luggage, in lieu of another that precious bar had been used the day before showering and washing. Risking it then—we were under cover after all. How far progress might be achieved further up Geylang Road was a question. (Certainly City Plaza, 500 or 600 metres on, was a bridge too far.) One Indian place, the regular Bangla and another Indian that may have been Chinese produced precisely nada—only manufactured supermarket product. The single “homemade” cake in wrinkled plastic appeared altogether dubious. Perhaps a shower here too could be omitted that evening. In the Spring cool of Melbourne three and four day intervals had been possible between showerings. Strange. There did not seem to be a breath of wind. What then with the cloud? Ladies continued with their brolleys raised, but wherefore? There was no reason. Clear, bright skies throughout. Smooth and plain sailing as far as the eye could see. At the third crossing a look over to the East confirmed the impression: nothing but delectable blue stretched wide such as one was rarely gifted in the Tropics, athwart the Equator at least. Inviting luscious tone that made one think of scooped ice cream in a tub. The movement of air currents here remained a mystery almost eight years on. On the flight back two days before the captain had forecast some rockiness in the last portion of the journey, the last couple of hours, for which on landing he had unnecessarily apologised. The usual Tropical “turbulence,” did he say? Could have fooled me. Ground level certainly there was anything but on the Equator, that was for certain. The Canadian panama trader around in Joo Chiat, a long-term resident himself, had made the point during the purchase of the No. 2: There was no wind on the Equator. No need fear the straw flying off in a sudden gust. Down in Carlisle Street, St. Kilda, in Melbourne, the sought after classic Ecuadorean had been nowhere to be found among the stands.