Salute
(Tekka Market)
For the best part of two years there had been no word of Tekka. Nothing. Zero. Then a couple months ago Zainuddin mentioned the place, rather incredulous that an adventurer so long in SG had not made the acquaintance. The market had been operating on the same site for many years and Z. had grown up in the area. By the look of the place that afternoon it had taken another form in Z.’s youth.
To this day Zainuddin ventured out to Tekka from his distant digs at Woodlands for particular Indian products, most notably his umla fruit, available in its raw, natural form at Tekka. Umla lowered blood sugar & cholesterol, provided one of the much needed vitamins in concentrations unavailable in any other food, aided digestion, softened the stool, improved complexion and put hairs on your chest. Tamils swore by umla.
The fruit had in fact been discovered independently up in the north in Georgetown, Penang, in liquid form there as a cool, partly sweetened drink to counteract the fruit’s tartness. True aficionados like Z. of course took the marbles whole, pip included.
Little to note in the end at Tekka. Fresh food downstairs, clothing up. A rather drab and dreary affair without much to recommend it, on first acquaintance at least.
There had been the thought of a tee, a particular and specific kind: plain deep red, simple and unadorned, without witticisms or graphics. Specifically, something like the Bonds crewneck. Tekka sounded like the place for it.
Who could possibly have anticipated the problem of a purchase of the simple apparel in the steamy, sweaty Sing tropics? All the labels and brands that had captured the market, the athletic range, the polyester saturation. Then even worse, the sloganeering promoting uplift, earnest work, motivation and other keys to happiness and fulfilment that was part Confucian, part corporate capitalist. The pathology of place writ large on chests all across the island, wherever one turned.
The Bonds on-line with free shipping at $24 was declined.
When Ranie too at the library suggested Tekka, the hour had dawned. A fine purple caftan top had drawn a compliment. Where did Rani get it?... They had men's there too?...
From town little more than fifteen minutes keeping to the shadows, running the reds wherever possible. Lassalle Arts Institute on the left. The road-works dividing roaring as usual, helmeted Indian & Bangla lads bearing up in the heat, with little hand-towels below their collars.
Neat and colourful roadside garden beds, world class as usual. A good deal more of Indian faces on the footpaths as one progressed.
Tekka stood at the head of Serangoon Road, Little India. Always a pleasure to visit. One’s India adventure, when the prospect of the real thing was far too daunting. Tamed India, but without the gated communities and the tourist herding—the Taj, Varanasi, the temples & forts.
Singapore was, a French girl had quipped on the bus, Asia for dummies.
Simple and wonderful Lt. Ind. The Sub-continent transplanted. Perhaps more authentic than many a corner at the source.
Spacing out the visits always produced large, often startling impressions. The backpacker hippy crowd had discovered Little India here. Lonely Planet and the others miscreants responsible no doubt.
Nevertheless, something to leaven the suits, ties & sailing shoes for the traveler around Raffles, the Gardens, &etc.
Truly, little to report. The market itself was a very minor affair. A few dozen—more than a few, twenty dozen perhaps—Indian stalls selling the traditional attire one had seen in glimpses of the Bollywood epics. Bright deep colours—saffron, cumin, lavender, sausage reds. Caftan cuts, billowing sleeves, split dresses, high collars. 95% female wear.
— Something for your girlfriend, sir?
Somehow the eagle-eye had summed up an old bachelor.
As on the walk-way on Serangoon Road, numerous tailors at their Singers rocking away, all bar one male. Late afternoon the stall-holders were flagging, not all pert and ready like the chap a moment before. Many failed to call out, much less rise from their chairs to greet a prospective buyer.
Near 5PM even a panama walking tall held little allure.
More than a couple of traders sat slumped in grotesque postures. Were one not a twenty-six month veteran in these parts, the sights would have alarmed.
There was a brief glimpse of a tall, turbaned woman before a mirror assessing her image, a kind of boudoir aspect deep within a secret chamber, hung with all kinds of fabric every side. A moment before naked arms may have been visible there, a long swan neck.
More than elsewhere, more than some other similar trading hubs devoted to the same line, the manikins & dummies at Tekka thronged the narrow passage, causing one to start on couple occasions.
A busy, bustling shopping crowd was a kind of bodily sensation passing along the aisles. One prepared for jostles that never arrived. There may in fact have not been a single other shopper on the entire first floor of Tekka; two or three at the entry perhaps.
At a particular large, possibly double-fronted outlet where a pair of figures, solemn and august in aspect somehow, had been stood, a first-time visitor was made to not only start momentarily, but actually unpurse lips in preparation for something forthcoming.
Certainly the stride was broken…What?… How & why?
This was a gesture of Rome or Alexandria one had stumbled upon; as if behind a magic glass. Something from a far distant past, literally arresting.
The figures were separated by a few metres, yet they did not seem a natural pairing. A kind of double shock, one following close on the heels of the other.
In all else these were standard, blank manikins, soulless and with only the momentary glimmer of imbued life. Nothing noteworthy in themselves, minor hint of androgyny aside.
What set these two so markedly apart, what brought one to almost a complete halt coming upon the first, and then the adjacent, was the raised arm stretched full-length above, straight and high.
Left in both cases, possibly.
Almost certainly the first had raised the left, the near arm one came upon from that side of the aisle.
Erect and sharp. An instant before it seemed the motion had been made by the figure.
Had the arm been extended horizontally, a first-time visitor would certainly have taken it in hand.
Oh, Madam.
Here the arm was pointing at the stars that had long been extinguished over Sin’pore.
Down the ages, emperors & pharaohs had been announced on entry to great halls precisely in such fashion. Carried on the shoulders of their retainers; rajas likewise little doubt.
All hail! All rise! A triumphal march across the raised dais to the throne.
For most perfect effect, there would not be any trumpet employed. The gesture like lightning sufficed. Soft tinkling bell that one strained to hear, perhaps.
More or less evenly divided Muslim and Hindu Tekka that introductory afternoon. If nothing else, remarkable for the brief fanfare for a passing prince from foreign lands.
Singapore 2011-26
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