Matrimonial (Israeli pagers)

Jan25

 

Coming across to the courthouse Rupe Murd looked a picture pretty much; certainly his new Ruski wife did. Having her by his side would help with the dynastic doldrums. Not out of the question either he could have consummated the marriage; there was some very good product available now.

Little tubby Jumaat—Friday—had come over to the table the other day boasting about his own new wife. Only forty, still menstruating, and looking quite a bit younger.

Ju was convincing in his report of the nuptials. With this particular item he had found, only some few dollars, the bar held true full three days. No bluffing, Ju maintained.

The way he told it you could believe.

Some time ago Osman, who was at the table, had listed the 4-5 resorts that the old guys thereabout used. This one now seemed an advance.

In the pics Ju and his lady did come up roses. Jumaat had prepared with a facial in Batam and might have dieted in advance. Since he had settled back into the former barrel.

An electrician by trade, and, as it happened, wedding photographer on the side. Eight years he had cared for his bedridden wife, or at least his domestic helper had done. Now in his early 70s man had spread his wings.

On the same subject, Ali at the tea-stall last night gave the history of the girl at the Fries. That woman had been working there 4 - 5 years, a former looker, easy to tell.

Lady with excellent fashion sense. Without real spends, she wrapped those beautiful scarves just so and keeping in trim her blouses and jeans always sat in nice lines.

Four - five years she had avoided the eyes at every single pass without exception. Exceedingly circumspect. Either a devoted wife, or else victim of some roaring steam-train, it had been concluded. As time went on there was growing sense of the latter; that maintained strictness was too much.

Sure enough, a bad smash-up. And more than bad.

A father of five, though hardly forty, Ali understood the curiosity and accepted it.

A human story; something to tell there, as it proved.

Three times married the lady had been. Three times divorced. Still have been shy of full thirty-five, possibly.

In ten years in that community there was nonesuch encountered. Exceedingly rough circumstance.

After a fair acquaintance now over the term, the thought immediately leapt up. 

Not talaq, surely? Don't tell me, Ali!… 

Sure enough, ‘twas none other. The very epitome, in fact.

On three separate occasions the woman here had suffered the indignity. Ali gave it straight.

Years past Ali had taken stints in the Fries on the corner. All these years there had been only fine, comradely relations among all the many workers who had passed through in the many iterations. Never ructions of any kind. Ali told how the lady's regular absences had left him wondering. Court cases. More court cases. Again more. Finally, Ali asked and the tale of woe was told. 

The fair minded considered talaq an outrage; completely unfair. Nothing more than for a husband who had a mind to once, twice and then a third time forswear his wife.

That did it—annulment on the spot. There was no come-back; no appeal. Finished and cast out.

It was horridly inhumane, especially in the earlier time. Now the courts intervened at least as far as child support was concerned (how well enforced in practice was another matter). And now a property settlement.

Men in Sing complained the lure of a wife collecting a man’s CPF, or at least a good portion thereof, was leading to the dissolution of families. Recently a regular at the tables put down his own divorce after forty-two years to precisely that. But talaq was looked upon as completely unfair.

The numbers of cuts suffered by the Fries woman spoke clearly of the matter. Nine times she had had the words uttered over her.

You are not my wife. You are not my wife. You are not my wife.

There were three children, one to each of the men. Details of custody & arrangements unknown.

 

 

NB. As expected, the Israeli pagers in Lebanon gripped attention this morning, prompting a couple early WhatsApps. Understandable too if in the reactions there was some marvelling at the ingenuity. 2,000 victims; 9-10 fatalities; hundreds hospitalised. Perfectly measured (“counter”)-terror. Little wonder the necklacing of traitors and the bodies dragged through the settlements tied behind the motorcycles. How far away the dirty bomb at the nuclear facility, or similar? 

         Couple weeks later the report of Indian crews in the construction sector in Tel Aviv & elsewhere to replace the Palestinian.

 

Ali Kutty, the moniker signalling his Indian heritage. Southern Kerala in his case, like the current operators on the corner.