High Honour

 

The man had not a word of English, nor even a smattering of Malay, most like. Had to be a Mainlander, who could converse in some fashion with the local Hokkein workers. Chinese patrons at Mr Teh Tarik were rare. Mid-late thirties; Buddhist jade on his wrist; coloured strands brought from in front over the back of his head. Over these more than six months he had not been observed at a counter; backstage lad, dicing vegetables or dishwashing. Eye contact had not been made until 2 - 3 days ago one evening after his shift, when he passed Al-Azhar on the lower path, whereupon, lo and behold, suddenly here he was climbing up the slope toward the table. The deep bow might have preceded the offering of the hand. Oh! Oh!… Ni hao. And, Kong xi fa chai. (Two weeks into the NY many locals were still celebrating.) Chap had been charmed at the first and especially charmed by the second; a little gasp escaping following the latter. A few days later, same place & time, here he was again, almost passed on this occasion, but seeing the eyes raised to him over he came, from the upper path this time, the outer edge. Similar repeated. On both occasions deep bows and a gesture toward the open journal full of the Pentel black lines. Definite bows in that direction. Shy smiles, bows, flowing well-wishing, gratitude and honour. There was little doubt. Extraordinary as it most certainly be, but little doubt. In this quarter similar had been expressed over the years in more articulate form by Malay and Chinese both. They were grateful having the scribe among them. Perhaps it was clear he was not writing about the upper end of town either, the food or attractions; some of the lads who had featured in the pages had no doubt quietly put it about. Made you blush in turn. Again, how far back into the ages did this kinda thing fetch. (Not taking part in the current ganging up & demonising the lesser element here.)