Leaves Again

 

Leaves from the trees. Bon fide nature on the streets, paths & gutters of Singapore. At the Haig Mr Li raked them up daily; it was uncertain whether he used them in his garden like we did the elm leaves in Melbourne. (Must ask the man.) The Indian work-crews regularly gathered the leaves along the grassed patches at the Haig, using blowers to make the heaps, before they were bagged in plastic and carted away. Early last month a friend's wife down in Melbourne was called away from her afternoon coffee by the news that her house was on fire. The battery of the Bunnings leaf-blower, left on charge it must have been, had overheated. That was enough to burn her four bedroom weatherboard right down to the ground. The brigade could not do a thing. Incredible. Astonishing. Luckily, the lady had good insurance. Her three adult children were terribly distraught to lose all the family photo albums, the keepsakes, favourite furniture. Leaves. A retired government servant on a large suburban block had needed a blower to manage. In the middle of Covid down in Melbourne again, 2021 it must have been, on Barkley Street, Footscray, an unlikely looking nature lover surprised. A middle-aged Viet woman had bent to the pavement to collect a large, dried elm leaf. Back in the day girls & women collected flowers & leaves and placed them in books... Or was that flowers & herbs only? Anyhow, rather a different profile here: a Viet; after what she had been through, wanting to collected one stray brown leaf from the dirty Footscray pavement? Wherefore?... Strange... Oh! Oh! Lady here had proceeded to used her find to press the button at the traffic light on the Barkly crossing. Lift buttons had been in the news at the time. Door handles. Phones. Death lurked all round. Here in Sing now, in this year of 2026, this afternoon returning from Bugis, a couple of young women were found in the tight little Dog Run on Guillemard. The heart always sank passing there. The construction of the run had been followed over quite some months. For many months it was unclear what was afoot there. Often they built towers in SG in less time. This dog corral was a contractor’s sideline. Miserable, really, the thing. Hardly better than being cooped up in the flats. Yes, there was grass, true enough. Saplings & little shrubs; a low perimeter wire fence. On the other side of the path a gigantic tree thrust toward the clouds. It was some notable something or other the tree, a local marker; difficult to cut down for some more housing at a sought after location opposite Grandlink Apartments. One smaller girl, younger was sitting or squatting against the fence. The thick-set, taller was in charge of some larger breed. Large dogs were common in the pigeon holes, the same as condos & landed property, invariably boutique, Insta types. The domestic helper therefore was vital giving the pet some runaround, a whiff of grass, a whiff of the open air; of the rear of a companion brought over to the Run. This lass's charge was caught in the last of the pass—a rich brown coat, larger sized animal. What had taken attention in the pass was the helper bending to pick up leaves. One, two, three. Four leaves it might have been. The majority were brown, but a green-tinged also served her purpose. Again here, wherefore? WTF? Was this not strange. There could be no guessing. It was impossible... Lingering, slowing the pace. Turning back and patiently, the attention was worth it. The gal came up close to her brown coated charge, leaves in hand; and there she bend a little and began fanning. Fanning the top of the canine head. Waving her clutched, improvised fan to stir the air. There might have been a proper fan up in the apartment left behind. If the employers got home to find the pet pooped there might be 20 Qs, hell to pay; dismissal too not out of the question. No doubt there were cameras at the Run. Devoted pet owners could sync their phones. The elderly, children, maids themselves at their chores could be monitored through the working day. Five, six waves close over the top of the head. Not to say the gal's heart wasn't in it. It was hard to tell. These girls were mostly angels, heart-melting their care and solicitude. Film would be hard pressed to capture it. Monday afternoon, past 5, after three full hours of toil at the library desk. The mouth of the dog visible. Overcast again quite heavy. There had been no need for a shower the day before. Far from the usual torch two days in a row. PSI was bad, a couple of stifling periods on Jalan Sultan and again just then emerging from the bus at Grandlink. Perhaps that was it.

 

 

 

Publication news: Lord Shiva in Singapore - The Hooghly Review

 

This piece just published by Hooghly Review up in the NE of the Sub-Continent was originally written around 2013, when the investigation of the Hindu community in SG was not very far advanced. Shiva Ratri, the Night of Shiva, is among the biggest of the Hindu festivals. My friend Ranie, a local Tamil, made an excellent guide at the largest temple devoted to the deity in the Republic. A spectacular afternoon & evening resulted.

Hooghly is named after the distributary river of the Ganges that runs through Kolkata.

Free on their site (1,650 words), here—

https://thehooghlyreview.com/lord-shiva-in-singapore-by-pavle-radonic/

Impious

 

Impious arrow flying from the bow before you could possibly say Jack Robinson. A kind of reflex was involved here, when those sorts of engagements were long in the past, three or four years now. Something like a twitch in a wasted muscle at play. Alighting from the No. 2 this afternoon after it pulled in at the stop opposite the Malabar Mosque. The lady who had come into the wheelchair bay the previous stop was given hardly a look when she approached; much the same on exit. Merely the global swipe that took in the black niqab and the other usual cover. It was improper giving such women even a fleeting glance, much less a sly once-over. All due respect and understanding; nothing of criticism or judgment. Yet, as the horned devil 😈 would have it, in a particular, unexpected development, after somehow discovering / assuming her secret heat, the ardent lamps of the eyes, a corner of the brain took a low electric charge: the flap of the fabric, raised or turned aside, revealed lips (pulled back), teeth & pointed tongue. A stair landing suggested in one of the blocks, as the newspaper commonly reported for such assignations, lady readying herself one step above. Wordlessly managed, all smoothly proceeding, without anything on either side. There was no need for any fuller revelation, not even a loosening of the scarf; more than sufficient personhood remained in the meeting. All was fine & well; siti vuci, cjela goveda, the old Slav shepherds were wont to say. The wolves satisfied, sheep all in number. Back in younger years such inspirations would torment a man the livelong day.

VVIP

 

Something was clearly afoot. From the moment the cop rocked up on his cycle and assumed his position opposite, the heads began to turn. Motioning at first to a car that had stopped, it looked like he might cross over in order to deal with an infarction of some kind. Instead, the fellow planted himself in the middle of the junction of Tan Quee Lan directly opposite the Box, bestriding the tarmac like Mussolini in the newsreels. First the gloved right hand was thrust at the car behind, before it turned to a couple vehicles which had emerged from the underground. A little guy puffed up in his leathers like a frog. Thirteen, fourteen, could have been a full dozen & half motorised colleagues coming by in the 8 - 9 minutes. Couple of the guys gave a nod to their man, one rider dropping his arm going past. Sure enough, one of the others stopped at the next junction and commanded that post in turn. None here may pass! None may enter from the side street onto the main thoroughfare of North Bridge Road. Both the men kept their helmets on, boots & jackets under the afternoon torch. The PSI was a bit lighter that day, some way short of the dangerous level. As well as the fires in Sumatra & Kalimantan, Anak Krakatau, Krakatoa Junior had send up ash the day before, with some kinda wind tunnel effect keeping the Republic fairly well preserved from anything too bad. KL & Jakarta were blanketed in smoke & dust, hundreds of flights cancelled and health warnings issued. Ten - twelve minutes the cops were required to hang tough. Had there been some serious disturbance in the neighbourhood? No shots or alarms had been heard. The government was always warning of dangers. A number of radicalised youngsters had been apprehended last few months, plotting attacks of various kinds, usually stemming from Gaza. In fact, the twenty-five year anniversary of 9/11 was just two days off. On the Equator the event had understandably receded from memory. There was no apparent edginess in the cop opposite, only some impatience, perhaps. As usual, the afternoon stoking. Immediately the show was over, the lads would need a long, cool shower. The man kept looking up toward Rochor Road, nodding now and again for messages received through his phones. Patrons at the tables gave no indication of anything, nor any of the passersby. Only one small group with suitcases stopped on the corner to look. As the minutes slowly ticked by, positively dragging for the guy opposite, it became apparent what was afoot. Rather than anything else, North Bridge was being cleared for a VVIP of some kind—maybe three VVVs were involved. In this case one who was dragging his feet a wee bit. It could be nothing else. We just needed to be patient and wait with the cop. Who might it be? The local Pres…? The de facto PM (who had recently passed the symbolic baton, while retaining the real power)? Possibly the visiting Luxembourgian leader, who had been pictured in the newspaper. Jared was in Moscow and his father-in-law at home after his new hair colouring. The next dozen intersections at least on North B. would be closed. The VVV would have a clear run to the parliament building, or else over to the Istana, the President’s formal residence, where heads of State & dignitaries like the Luxembou were received. Finally, eventually, belatedly, here was the motorcade arriving! Disappointingly, only 3 - 4 vehicles in total, travelling in the right lane at a very slow clip. The long limo nothing special; surprisingly modest. On the bonnet the little fluttering flag couldn’t be caught. Behind the wheel sat an ordinary, nondescript Joe. (Some leaders required a more handsome, buffed & busty chauffeur.) Had the passenger been the tall, gangly, slightly pop-eyed current Pres. (former DPM and Minister of various portfolios), the man could not have slipped by. That chap’s was an unmistakable dial (mother’s love itself needing corroboration). In this case, incidentally, with a bewitching, counterintuitive Oxbridge delivery. (On YT some aspiring technocrats had cheered a stellar BBC take-down of a pesky interviewer.) Altogether quite blurred. Anti-climactic. Hardly worth any candle, especially after the prep. This was nothing whatever like the roaring, rocketing example on the narrow road from the military town of Cilacap, 6-7 years before. Run for your lives you citz! that had been.

 

 

                                                                                                                Singapore 2011-26

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Publication news: Lonely As a Cloud - Post Road Mag.

 Hello Hello

Here is another recent publication up in the States. Post Road Magazine is a traditional biannual attached to Boston College; print and only print in this case; no ebook available. Keen lit. lovers can purchase directly, US$15, plus postage. After a decent interval I’ll post excerpts on the Blog here & on Substack.

The title of course comes from Wordsworth's famous poem, introduced in the old schoolrooms Downunder in the time of inkwells and the strap, way, way back. In this piece a number of lonesome souls are gathered from the streets of inner Melbourne, Footscray, Williamstown and some from my back corner of Singapore, – tallying 2.5k words.

https://www.postroadmag.com/

All best from the Equator 

Pavle

Lifelong

 

On his old laptop among the kids at the table, well into his 50s. Doing his darnedest, it did appear. The occasional glances gave a little hints of the struggle, the posture as much as anything. It was wrong, the angle athwart the table, sitting a little far out, the line of shoulders. 

Once or twice the poor bugger had his head in his hands, or covering his face briefly.  It took a little while to put it all together and the proper picture did not really emerge until a pass was made behind going to the loo. 

One girl was working mathematical questions, the boy immediately beside some undefined. At that first pass there was no particular focus on the man alone. Sometimes passing by the screens could not be read with the angles & fonts. Here the heading was perfectly clear.

Learning Activity

Connect with a buyer’s personality

Home time 25mins later stuck on the same page.

That was mid-week at the National Library. On the Friday completely outta the blue, a young chap at one of the Wadi tables in fact was altogether wrong. Long wavy locks down onto the top of his shoulders, fashionable kinda black athletic gear, sandals. White. Not Russian or other Slav by the accent. None of the usual accoutrements otherwise—watch, rings, &etc. 

The request for cover reveal was taken in good part. Orangey-red; women’s volume seemed wrong.

On my lord! No one would believe.

Dale. Well-thumbed Dale C.

‘Twas the same. The headliner.

Garbled mumbo, but the lad got the drift. Not put out.

Flicking the pages, said he was more than half through.

A lad open to any word that might be given. It was impossible. Possibly some of the little contradiction provided something.

It had been years. Where was Dale being picked up now by the 3rd gen? On the Western front? Difficult to fathom. The resurgent techno-managerials? 

That same Friday morning, taken at Mr T T at the Pasar and Wadi en route on the return, a newspaper column had tickled. Or rather, the author’s tag at the end of the piece had done.

A doctoral candidate at a Paris biz school was defending young graduates in the workforce who sought a better work/life balance. Crits had the young all wrong; looking upon the new gen. as entitled or unambitious was a blinkered response.

The substance of the column aside, what did pique here were the last lines of the article, the very last lines of the Author tag.

The author’s credentials here included a prize at the Sing Book Awards , two years ago, – 2024. The category in which the author had taken the laurels, for a book presumably, was Best Professional Title. In this case Leaders People Love (sic. Not topping the charts everywhere).

Goo-ing immediately confirmed. Penguin Random House – SEA.

Readers can re-confirm.

The author pic holding the volume face-out, a match. Perfection.

It would have a place on one of the Highlights shelves at Kinokuniya, on Orchard Road.

Spoofs and satire were hard at present and contributing by some other means was proving exceedingly challenging. The rejection slips never slipped. Years ago an author was quoted as defiantly pasting the walls of his study with the same.

Oh! The note in the journal now reminded…

That same Friday of the same week, in the life section it must have been — the Leaders ❤️ must have been Opinion — a law prof at the flagship U here was showing off his collection of designer jackets. A clothes rack behind held 4-5, a manikin stand another, and the prof himself in a patterned B&W seated, hands on knees like the cat who got the cheese.

Truth. Simple reality. Living, ubiquitous examples. (To call it abundant was underestimation.)  

 

Singapore 2011-26

Publication news: Some Enchanted Evenings

A piece of mine has recently appeared in a US lit journal called Crab Creek Review, based up in Seattle.

The theme for their summer issue was Nightshift. Having worked some nightshift myself and watched others enduring it over long stretches, it piqued the interest. Here in Some Enchanted Evenings the Singaporean foreign workforce is the focus.

Free on the site, 

https://crabcreekreview.org/the-spring-crab-vol-4.html