Dear Aunt

Newcomers unacquainted with the region would be unheeding, puzzled and understandably quite ignorant. The incident is worthy of record.
         Lovely old auntie come up to the table as usual for Hallo. Two dozen plus/minus shared words fails to curb the warm good-will and pleasantry with this lovely Dear. 
         Have you eaten?
         Shopping done?
         Off to the Haig then to meet my pal.
         Usual high, or medium high-five instigated by the author on this occasion. 
         Why, though, does the old sweet Love hesitate to present her palm, slowly untangling it from the arm of her bulging shopping-trolley where added plastic bags are mounted and a brolly poking up? Why particularly when her left hand is free and unencumbered? It is she who normally offers the palm first.
         Ah! There dear Reader indeed does lie the rub. And by no means a triviality either. Nooooo. The mature, serious reader interested in cultures and ways of life, who does not scroll through blogs searching out titillating pictures of exotic landscapes and costumed natives, one whose interest has been pricked by this community on the equator recently emerged from the forest and jungle on the one hand and indentured labour on the other, might find the answer in a Post of two years ago titled Hard Lessons: Sharia in Brunei, June 2014.
         (Forgive the tease please.)

Wicked English

Unendingly fascinating, especially for a non-native speaker without English at time of enrolement at Spotswood  P.S, and, needless to add, serial failure at the regular spelling tests—the annual Big Spell just warming up here again. Upper Primary cohort, although some younger level Four again early inducted this year in a record high number of participants. The photo showing most in their school-uniforms on Easter Saturday and arrived before dawn in many cases. 

Not altogether easy first round: pterodactyl, haberdashery and herpetology sifting sheep from goats this year. (Archaisms and specialist terms not unusual in this competition.) 

Words beginning with the slippery haitch gave worst nightmares, reportedly. Organizers identified the sportsmanship on display as the essence, the "heart and soul" of the competition.
                                                                     S.T. 27 March 2016 p. A 6

Close Shave

Old uncle on the No.67 retained his hair & colour, one thought momentarily. Puce they might call the polo, kinda craggy handsome like in the old Cowboy movies from couple generations past. (The routine dyeing in this region brought the realization of what one had received in all the Hollywood product back then.) In the eyes only a local element; chin, brow, cheekbones were all European. What though was the man at there? Arm of a plastic pair of sunnies sharply pointed? Some kind of durable pick attached to key-chain perchance? Levering away, the big paw covered over. It was uncertain. Difficult to tell. Casually casting back two or three times the man was still concentrated at his task. Eventually the glint of polished steel gave answer. Oh yeah, still at his toilette. What in the blazes was it with that generation shearing their sparse growth one strand at a time with these clippers? Any Chin over sixty you could catch bent to it. Certainly they had nothing there for real razoring; waste of time lathering that was for sure. Gillettes were unprocurable traded commodities like stockings immediately post-war: these chaps were fixed in the privations of their fathers, ancestor worship and all that. Raised red welts & scars failing to heal where’er one turned on the island. The better quality on the shelves were pricey of course and soon blunted. In Euro lands proper better any kind of rusty blade than this bizarre practice. The operations were all done by feeling, mirror no use whatever. You saw the geezers tighten the jaw, twist their lips, start and, Ouch! Wince at a pinch. Did they use the same implements on the toes? The long, long plumes grown from black moles was another thing too, carried proudly like a divvying rod or something. 

Green Tender

No artist or scribbler worth their salt wants to repeat themselves, cover the same ground and reproduce previously worked material. This particular author has most certainly got bucketloads of important, weighty matter waiting for attention and proper concentration. Therefore, in brief again, same operation as detailed on this site 3/4 years before: precisely the same action; different exponent and different location in this instance. (Bode oci, Pricks the sight, the Serbs say for certain annoying and irritating observation.) 

            Older Chin man looked a local in his lime green uniform caught beside the elevators outside Juicy Couture as it happened on the fourth floor of Takashimaya.  

Long fronds on the potted plant close by the entrance to the escalator where shoppers pause momentarily, before choosing a safe tread. That done and safely aboard, a passing glimpse of the long green arm reaching out elusively.  

At that place there the old uncle was bent with his wet sponge at the mid-section, drawing one leaf after another like large dinner plates for careful wiping.  

Where the dust might enter at Takashimaya remained a mystery. The automatic doors minimised any hot drafts from outside and many here needed to be pressed for entry.  

Vestigial coating of dusky grime; certainly each green tongue here took an instant sheen from uncle's dutiful attentions.  

Looked like the Super was a right royal bastard too judging by the way the man fussed at the easterly pointing, elongated fronds. Brief pause momentarily when he lost his place….  

Done to here, was it?  

One flight up World of Sports, where 2.5 years later a new pair of KEEN sandals could be purchased. (582 +/- daily wear on the soft cushion was perhaps fair value, even @ $SG142 after 20%.)  

Before that was accomplished golf platforms, running sections, baby necessities for busy, active mums. 

Overprotection Is OK the recent ad on a bus or illuminated board had reassured in recent days with an appropriate pic of the mite in ice-hockey protective kit. 

Further toward the rear corner games and toys in boxed candy colours started the Komala curry a-rumbling in the belly. 

Islamic Studies

At her university Suze paid for daily food from the funds she had been given at the beginning of her enrolment by her benefactor. The man had told Suzie to let him know when she needed more, but as a responsible and trustworthy young woman Suze has stretched out the money six months now. Many of the food stalls at the university were run by Madurese, who only charged Suze half price for meals. For standard RM3 meals Suze paid 1.50; fifty cents. Two meals daily usually; there was little hunger for the evening meal after maghrib. On campus all the cleaners were likewise Madurese, all illegals who had petitioned Suze for a hideout in the event of Immigration raid. To date there had been none; word of course was out of the registration drive. Unavoidably Suzie had granted the refuge, whether with the agreement of her roommates was unknown.
            Through the morning and afternoon Suzie pointed out many Madurese that we passed, their accents and rhythms naturally catching her ear and bringing a smile.
            Monthly calls were made to grandparents, usually after messages from a cousin that contact had been requested. Currently, approaching the middle of March, the oldies in the kampung were harvesting the corn, an important food staple on Madura Island.
            Two Southern Thai girls shared the room with one other, a local Malay. Late last year Suzie visited Thailand with her friends, where she found the people warm and friendly and the food intriguing; unusual, very different to Javanese, Madurese and Malay food too.
            Numerous Africans were enrolled at the university: tall and thin Somalis, Chadian girls; girls from Benin, Suze added after further thought. A number of Bosnians, also tall, were represented in the student body, usually enrolled in Economics.
            One Japanese exchange student from Kyoto was noteworthy. On introduction her new friends and classmates had asked whether she was...?? Suzie forgot the term. (Shintoistmisters properly, according to Yahoo.)
            — Ya, Shinto.
            But no, the girl was Buddhist. Ayu or Ayr by name. (Close but not close enough to Bahasa ayr or air—pronounced ayerr—water.)
            In a fine gesture, for the semester Ayu had adopted the kerudong that all the other girls in the dorm wore. An acknowledgement of what the young woman had encountered among the girls at their Islamic studies, one hazards the guess.
            Suze had not heard of the case of the middle school American geography teacher donning the same apparel in a class on Islam and encouraging her students to consider the parallels with their own Christianity. Subsequently sacked for the unorthodox venture.
            Coming up to the hotel room briefly to take in the view from the twentieth floor before we left Chow Kit, Suzie side-stepped the prayer mat at the foot of the bed without comment. Though highly unlikely Suze had ever set foot in a hotel room before, the prayer mat was unmistakable. It was always odd bowing to that short rectangle for the push-ups here. (Prayer mats were usually provided in the wardrobes in Malaysian hotels.)
            Reviewing one of Suzie’s printed sheets from class over breakfast one of the highlighted points concerned Islam’s voluntariness. Islam had never forced or pressed conversion, it was stated; such a thing was expressly forbidden in Islam, Suzie knew. Hearing of something other in the historical experience in the Balkans left the young woman nonplussed.
            In the city we hunted around for a mosque for Suze to perform her prayers. Suzie knew of a mosque somewhere in Little India, by a market. Where was it?
            We circled round and round following the contradictory directions given by various people. Suze avoided asking males, but women proved no better. Eventually an older lady at a bus-stop put us right. The India Mosque, beside the street market. Go there and there, then along the aisle.
            Suzie knew the term and its spelling; how though to pronounce “al-sell” (like easel with an "a")? Devilish English. Suzie was making good, inevitably halting progress in that language study too.
            Threading the narrow aisle of the usual colourful bags, scarves and accessories, we were forced to a stop by a long row of men on prayer mats that had been brought from home. (Later men carried mats over their shoulders and under arm.) It was the early portion of the prayer, the men upright and concentrated. Squeezing past behind would have been awkward and impertinent. Waiting them out was the only option.
            A long straight row of perhaps twenty younger men for the most part in casual formation. A couple wore loose Arabic clothing and one or two kept caps on their heads throughout. It seemed an unsteady line with a little jerkiness running through. At some kind of signal that was not apparent the men stooped to bow, then again in imperfect unison went down on their knees and finally lowered their foreheads. From behind the last was an ungainly posture, rather embarrassing to confront.
            Presumably the men had acted in concert for each step of the prayer with those within the walls of the mosque, though how that could have happened without any direction was unclear. There did not seem to have been any call. Possibly a few hundred men moving together made enough of a stir to be audible to these worshippers outdoors. The whole of the procedure was surprisingly brief, from the time of our arrival not more than ten minutes altogether. Suzie had bent to lean on a rolled carpet that had been stood on its end.
            Ablutions preceded the prayer and men were supposed to have donned neat, presentable attire. In Little India, Kuala Lumpur, with many foreign workers in the congregation, a certain shabbiness was the impression. The common Sunday best at church services in the West presented a quite different spectacle. Sandals, slip-ons with heels broken and various flip-flops added to the general tawdriness.
            Here within Masjid India, close by the famous, historical Masjid Jamek, the building could not contain the worshippers. Directly before the entrance where Suzie was awaited shortly after tenting had been raised against the sun and long lines of mats unrolled for the men. There too watching the last of the congregation exit the mosque the tide of the poor was striking. Of course in affluent quarters the scene would have been different.
            Few of these men would have known their Qur'an. They would know the prayer by heart, the greetings and some fragments of the texts. Attending the Friday congregational prayer and praying five times daily was obligatory — not steeping oneself in the Qur'an.

            Prior to coming to Malaysia Suzie was about a fifth of the way through her memorization of the Holy Book at her pesantren in Java. With all her other studies here in KL further progress had slowed.
            In the village in Boka it was commonly said one only needed to know the single dictum, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. With that alone one could lead a faithful Christian life. Church attendance bolstered the position, along with various observances and festivals. In the hill villages of Boka Kotorska, certainly pre-war, the priest climbed up for Christmas and Easter; otherwise the faithful were left to their own devices. During the past quarter century in Serbia and Montenegro church attendance and all the allied markers had undergone a huge revival; steely old communists now donned the new suit of clothes throughout the whole of Former Yugoslavia.
            Around at the impressive old Masjid Jamek in Little India there was no provision for women. The Friday congregational prayer was obligatory for men; not women. (In Singapore one heard unfortunate tales of Indonesian girls turned away from mosques on the free Sunday when they could attend.)
            Suzie needed to perform her zuhr midday prayer — in fact it was after 2 30 by the time all the men had cleared out the third storey at Masjid India that was designated for women. It had been a good half hour wait for Suzie on some steps opposite the entry gates to the mosque where a woman stretched out colourful towels for sale. Another woman held up a plastic cup inside the gates.
            The drabness of the great outflow at Masjid India presented an unusually captivating sight. It had been a life-time since one had witnessed at close quarters something of the Western form remotely comparable. The other crowds since had been sporting mainly and the occasional political rally. This reigning silence and quiet collectedness was altogether different; the social class markedly different.
            The men at Masjid India, the congregation at the Friday prayer, could not begin to imagine the living in the First World in the absence of prayer. No matter the inklings in the movies and the television serials, no matter the display in the magazines and the tales of returned travellers. There was no means of comprehending such a gulf for this congregation.

            Possibly the American scene might have been different in various pockets at least, in the revival and charismatic centres.
            Did the poor in the West actually attend church? Poor and indigent might seek refuge in church and receive aid and perhaps attend some services. But was there a mass of poor ever gathered together in a Western church in the half century and more post-war? The outer suburban poor, the poor in social housing and receiving government benefits, the working poor?

            One wondered among the labourers, the factory workers, cleaners and street-sweeps at Masjid India. Once the church had been a powerful draw.
            How much here at Masjid India actually hinged on ultimate hope, on the rescue of salvation? The strength of unity in the gathering, the shared spirit and endeavour, the camaraderie infused—these were the marks. Larger added hopes seemed something quite distant; the prospect of some kind of life in the beyond stood outside the frame here.
            Indian food adventure followed Suzie’s prayer, under the tutelage of a most unlikely escort. Chapatti Suze had heard about. She didn’t say, but the modesty of the fare might have surprised even an orphaned Madurese.
            What was all that fuss? if Suzie’s guarded expression was read correctly.
            Some shared masala thosai made a better impression; and then ginger tea with milk—teh halia.

A Small Gesture

Mother and daughter at Lakshmi Vilas front table. Fine featured woman in her emerald blouse and glinting frames, slender, average size; the girl was taller already in her mid-teens. One table back and across a rowdy group of three children under six with their younger mother, noisy larking and laughing. Minor pleasant disturbance; no one’s lunch was spoiled here. Returning from hand-washing after her meal the first mother, older and more well-to-do, may have thought she had been called by one of the children. Turning with a smile the woman stopped a moment, took a step or two onward toward her daughter at their table, before turning round again and going up to the other. Leaning over the younger mother she spoke smilingly, pointing at the children. This one so old, that one, and then the third it may have been. The seated younger woman did not meet the other’s eye more than once or twice and briefly, slight blush noticeable on dark skin. Tamil both more than likely, Older a little lighter; Younger wore a bindi on her forehead, loose-collared faded tee. Pointing again, smiling the while, Older spoke some more benediction to the family circle, quieting the children only a little with it. At the register shortly afterward the matter was not difficult to guess. It was easy to guess. Still, one needed to be sure. As expected, the woman did not mind the intrusion. A small gesture, she explained. Lakshmi certainly was cheap. Was it indeed true, as the woman had been told, that one had never seen the like in the West—the West proper? (In Slavic lands someone is always leaping for the bill.) Readers will answer for themselves. Really? the woman wondered; the portrayal on television had given another impression. That was a surprise too. Perhaps the older mother had meant the treating in the bars and restaurants, the Boss’ unexpected, This is on me. 

Bread and Brotherhood (Feb25)

Thin crowd opposite Mehran. Chap cleaning the grimed table unasked was nice. Through the city the harshness can strike sharply some days, all the dark young lads loitering through Chinatown. Many must be, could only be, illegals on the loose, hanging about awaiting an opening, an opportunity. Hardship and struggle.

            The stray dogs around Chow Kit hold the attention for many reasons. The other night one sitting on his tail on a lane-marker made one jittery for long minutes, before it finally moved off.

Lad just now at the naan stand sweating profusely without any other outward sign. How could he not be? There was recall of some kind of sleeves employed by the chaps manning the clay ovens—gas-bottle fuelled in recent time.

The warmth of the greetings among the Baluch have nothing to do with ceremony or custom—it is the brotherhood, the sharing of the endeavour, that gives a chance for successful endurance in very trying conditions. Belief and its specifics, Islam, is no doubt important, but serves ultimately to bolster this primary. How much it can achieve! How much strength provide!

            Ah! There you are. The lad procured the sleeve from somewhere, one for the right forearm. It is with the right that he dabs the dough onto the inner wall of the oven. 

            Hairy forearms; thick beard trimmed. There is a poem of Lawrence’s where the observation falls upon the forearms of the barman serving up solace to customers.

            The corpulent tall man in his early-60s, who normally takes two naan for his supper, currently cleaning his mouth and throat with a large glass of water. Risen from his table and turned aside over the little garden bed, half-minute gargles before spitting out. Seven or eight times and still not done. The companions politely ignore him.

            Re-used cooking oil here has been an unavoidable thought. And the chap does need to curb his voraciousness. A couple nights ago a companion who had been perfunctorily offered a portion surreptitiously watched the tearing of the bread and the wolfing.

            When the naan arrived the chap expertly folded the disk in half before tearing in two and proceeding to shovel, even with the heat stinging fingertips.

            Colour tone aside, gesture, manner, bearing, the authoritative way of speaking, all fitted within the folds of the Montenegrin hills.

            By your bread, is a common Serbian saying, a strong oath. 

            In the teaching of Christ and his ways up on Village Uble, Boka Kotorska, one was enjoined to return bread to those who threw stone.

            Thirty years ago when the Afghans in their mountains were first sighted on Australian television the identification was immediate.

Lost & Found (Four Sisters)

 

First wrong turn took one into YSL territory, where along the aisle ice-cream rose up in thirty fluro colours. At a vacant eatery a dancing troupe in service livery delivered a hand-clapping, good-time swing number. The aircon had drawn shirts, ties, heels and disproportionate numbers of Westerners.   

It could not be too difficult, 150-200m from the elevated line; downhill from the station. That much was clearly recalled.  

One-way traffic was promising. Touts for massage places getting warm.  

Garish dress-up of cheap labour, opportunism, noise and clamour made the passage a minefield.  

Three years later, the last of the past, of customary rule, had more than likely been rooted out of the area.  

Ah! Yes. The Royale Bintang, KL. The Four Sisters had sat directly adjacent on the facing corner looking onto those walls.  

Could the old girls possibly have held out against all the encroachment and the hellish construction? If investment in Malaysia had dried up and the economy was constricting, it did not look like it in the YSL quarter. 

Four Cantonese sisters still in life three years later? The eldest would be mid-eighties. Against the odds.  

Yet…What was this, then? One old face, that of the son-in-law, was it? The apron suggested.  

Another too. And in behind the tea-stand a third. 

Gee. You could get lucky sometimes.   

Slowly crossing the stage-set from one side of the room to the other, with what must have been an odd and puzzling smile.  

— What you wan? from a customer roughly volunteering aid.  

Told it was four sisters that were wanted, the chap was not daunted.  

— And what you wan, take them?  

Well, that depended on your price, my man.  

The Fourth had not yet arrived, reported Elder, the one who perhaps most reminded of Bab.  

All three of the older reminded in some way: sureness of manner; the lines of jowls; the prints they wore. In their day too they might have been pretty and caused their father some consternation.   

Three present and Youngest evidently in life too, delayed at some home duty, they said.  

Bab likewise had three sisters. Thirty odd years after the immigration, only three could be brought together. On the single occasion that was witnessed, the event was negligently observed, casually discounted; received as simple entertainment. There was enough presence of mind only for a photograph, and very little attention.  

The fourth, the youngest sister, an unlikely blonde like their father, and more beautiful than Doris Day (doubly unlikely), had stood unrecognised, uncomprehended and positively disbelieved in Bab’s kitchen vitrine along with some other ghostly mysteries. Embarrassing artefacts from some dubious unknown that was best ignored.  

Changes were minimal at the Four Sisters on Bukit Bintang—Starry Hill, down to the simple, basic fare on the menu. 

A young lad now dished up the mee, without the meat a thin meal of pickled mushrooms and a couple of leaves of green. 

The recalcitrant gypsy Fifth of the extended family, with the red bird-cage ear-rings, was missing in action. Replaced now by others. There had been some friction last time.

A series of tables pushed together catered for banquet parties—larger office groups at least, perhaps. The four sisters still had their local fans. A group of 7-Eleven from HQ nearby had come down.  

The chilli container surprised. Surely it would have been remembered had it dated back to the first acquaintance. Small plastic screw-top, yet holding a spoon within?

Ah. Glass jar was Part A. For which a cut-off plastic bottle (Part B) formed close-fitting lid.  

The corner of one of the Petronas towers, split down the middle, stood as another of the orientations.  

It was Bukit Bintang Station under construction opposite—the sky-line here would not be radically altered. The Four Sisters could troop some way further onward yet.  

What was keeping No. 4 so long?