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. (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 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 an 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.
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