The Hougang killing in the morning’s newspaper could be shared with the plate collector, Mr. Lim. There had been an in-brief on the front page and fuller treatment within, including pics showing the victim in a zipped bag and the Chinese assailant standing cuffed within the store where the murder occurred.
The man quickly comprehended the matter:
bullying in a shop—young of old; and then the reverse once the ages were clarified
working in the same shop the pair likely employer and employee
a knife would be readily on hand on the shelf of a hardware store. One, two, and the lady done for
The ages were written out clearly on the newspaper for Mr Lim. Gender was ready at hand in Malay—perempuan & laki laki. Shop of course was universal.
Inevitably, Hardware presented a problem.
Hammer, for nails. Nails & screws. Hammering and tightening. Saw sawing. Drilling and screwing in similar motions.
The signing was good.
Ya, understood. Fixing, Mr Lim summarised. A shop for fixing. A hardware.
Later as Mr. L. stood opposite close by the table, it was unclear whether the rosary of orange and blue-grey beads on his wrist were actually being spun in the man’s rapid fingering. It didn’t look like. It looked like swiping.
The device Mr. Lim’s manager son, of whom he was very proud, had provided his father earlier in the year had not been in evidence the last 2-3 months now. Back then on his passes by the table the recorded chanting could be faintly heard from beneath Mr. Lim’s neat tees & polos.
Every morning around dawn Mr. Lim, a Hokkien, as his name signalled, paced his local basketball court for his chanting. Much of his wage from Mr. T. T. was given over to charity: old folks’ homes, the temple and other needy. Seventeen years Mr. L. had worked for Mr. T. T., over the street first on Onan corner. Having learnt to drive in the army, earlier he had been a delivery man, one involved in the union; an organiser, it sounded like.
The tall, bent Tamil tissue seller, who did his morning rounds from the Haig to the market, had seemingly been able to filch big bucks outta Mr. Lim.
The sum was not $41. Neither was it $410 and not even $4,100. By all indications the figure tallied fully forty-one thousand dollars. Mr Lim had written it out on a slip of paper, which he brought along one morning with other slips of record.
It was not forty-one million, as Mr. Lim once or twice suggested in his tripping over the English.
I no go school. Cannot talk.
But we managed pretty well.
How many years had Mr. Lim waited for the return of the loan?! How much interest alone might he have earned on the sum over the years?! Ah?…
Not that Mr. Lim sought such a thing as interest. Like for the Muslims, this seemed in Mr. L’s eyes against the code for a Buddhist.
It appeared the old, bent and bearded Tamil, a Muslim, had kept returning with loan shark stories. Should he fail to return such and such sum, the tissue-seller would be hammered and even worse by the loan shark. Imminently it always was.
The loan shark was a common demonic figure in the culture; a real life dragon more or less. Once it seems the Shark himself had made an appearance at Mr Lim’s workplace in order to corroborate the debtor’s story. Serious menaces. Hell to pay failing.
The old rogue, the tissue-seller, in his early 70s with salt & pepper beard, was seven or eight years older than Mr. Lim. Much taller, more able-bodied, and more shrewd.
The man was something of a card. Some mornings passing through the tables he would mimic the Buddhist chants that he seemed to know were the standbys of Mr. Lim, the plate collector; his benefactor and saviour.
Namo oni tofu. Over the years it had become familiar in the neighbourhood.
Mani payi omhh was a different one for a different occasion; or a different temple perhaps.
A third was, Mami orhh orhing kekjo.
The Tamil spelt each out carefully and corrected errors.
It was unclear whether Mr. Lim was an easy target. All the indications were a fine spiritual being, one with a striking humanity at his core. Some years before when Mr. T. T. had been sited on the Onan corner Mr. Lim had spoken against discrimination, against this person over that, class or race distinction. All were same; all one. Common humanity, and deserving of respect. Once talking about community and inclusion, Mr. L. referred to his union days and his activism. Something was wrong back then, something needed attention, man called a meeting. This was the case, such and such and… What use was it one good man in the know, on the path, when all around him were lost?
Ah. Hmm.
None of which matter had been learned in schooling it seemed clear. Yet in Mr. Lim’s articulation the phrasing carried scholarly echoes.
And all this in broken, severely limited English.
On the other side, the promises and assurances the Tamil offered seemed less convincing. Last week after Mr. Lim produced the slip of paper with the figures for the Tamil, there came a short exchange by the fries stand and some particular words from the Tamil. Following which the matter was covered over once more. That was that.
A little while Mr. Lim had grouched about it.
How can like that?…
And not young either, the Tamil, Mr. Lim added. Old ready... How can?
But that was all.
Money actually caused illness, attacking the internal organs, Mr. Lim had indicated a number of times over the years with a washing machine motion on his trunk. Mr. Lim dispensed quickly with money, letting it go. To the aged care, the temple and other.
Still, he would like his money returned by the Tamil, without having any great hope of it happening.
