Muslim Mourning Oct26

A silly, unthinking question.

Since his divorce and move to Jogja ten years before, of course Paijo had slept in his becak. Where else?

What was the measure of the seat was the real question. Paijo had complained of a crick in the neck on waking and demonstrated his exercises to loosen the tightness. 

The gathering at the drinks stall near the station maintained satu stanga, one & a half metres. No one had a tape measure handy.

It was incorrect. These people were little over 1.5m themselves. No, couldn’t be.

Eventually an older hand had rescued the situation, announcing authoritatively 80cms. Much more like it.

Zainuddin’s first father-in-law in Singapore had been a becak driver, in the early, hard days of the Republic. When Din first came courting, the old man had recently sold his becak, but traded on the reputation when he warned the young buck chasing his girl.

You know I’m a gangster, don’t you?

A few weeks before the farewells for Jogja, Zainuddin had reported the old man’s lack of reaction at his younger brother’s funeral.

Before the connection had been revealed, the accident near the library on Victoria Street had been noticed in the newspaper. A lorry—a concrete truck it may have been—had run over an old Malay cyclist; in the common way, without realising what had happened for some distance.

The man had lingered a few hours at the hospital, too, Zainuddin added later.

In fact the brothers, like many Malays in Singapore, were Javanese, hailing indeed from somewhere in Central Java, where the becak still featured prominently. If Paijo could be believed, there were 5,000 registered in the city.

The elder brother who had become Zainuddin’s first father-in-law had buried his daughter early, followed by his wife and an earlier younger brother, who had preceded the other to the grave. Now this subsequent loss must have stabbed the old man deeply, as the pair were close and saw each other regularly. 

A sudden, unexpected death. The old father-in-law would certainly miss this brother.

The old man had developed emphysema and was ailing himself; smoking regardless. A defiant old bugger. 

Yet Zainuddin was surprised there was no sign at the funeral, not a flicker of reaction.

Clearly Zainuddin had watched for something.

A Muslim, like stout-hearted Christians formerly, was not supposed to betray grief, Zainuddin very well knew. Still he was surprised, two or three times in subsequent weeks telling the same story of the old man’s stoniness. Nothing. Held himself, Zainuddin reported, reflexively raising a firm chin.

There were still becak uncles in Singapore, all a very tame and neutered cohort now. Hot afternoons the old chaps napped outside the Ritz Carlton and Raffles opposite, raising half-hearted enquiries of passersby. Large groups waited at the head of Bugis Street for tourists in the municipally approved & signed outfits. Around the historic quarter a dozen often peddled in single file, pointing out sights for photographs.

Around Beach Road & Syed Alwi housing blocks, the becaks were locked and covered over-night. In Jogja some years before Paijo had a becak stolen.

During the Balkan Wars the TV footage from Bosnia had shown the immobility at the grave-sides in that strange posture, presenting open palms. For the great keeners of Montenegro it was all very dubious and unconvincing.