Reality Kills the Novel

Quart six at Meldrum on the ledge by the window, curtains opened. The fly-over, rail-tracks, couple of old hotels and what might be a new under construction—the ugliness of any city back-corner on the planet. Some narrow strips of uncovered ground with grass sprouting alongside the rusted iron of the train tracks. An hour later supper as usual at Reaz Corner for naan and veg., served by the motley band of North  Indians beside the mosque first discovered five years ago. Last night Steve and Sayuri joined, both relishing the plain, simple fare. For the break in the day's photo-shoot we went for toddy at a little place in the midst of a construction zone where a Jack Sparrow and some other lads entertained the foreigners. (Steve was able to reference the movie character.) Jack told of his 2 1/2 hour crossing on his motor-bike over the Causeway to his job in Singapore; his younger companion took a half hour longer still. Five plus hours crawling along at the two Checkpoints inhaling the toxic "kerosine" fumes, Jack termed them. The toddy shop had operated on the same premises between Wong Ah Fook and Jalan Trus from the 1920's; in occupation himself since the early 70's, the present owner showed his pleasant side once Jack had assumed master of ceremonies. In front and along the side of the building broken clumps of concrete needed careful footing; indoors in the stark room with concrete floor tables in three corners and old wooden bench seating. Unrendered walls, grilled windows, a young black bitch in the store behind with distended teats weary and sore. Up in Georgetown the toddy had been the familiar whisky brown; here in JB coconut from Klang produced the desired sweet/sour balance. Eleven ringitt jugs. We managed three, the last gifted by Jack’s young friend. A merry interlude with bar-room chat of the usual fine order. Through the next afternoon an Emerging Writers’ competition winner down in Australia had been read in two sittings. It was too much reading a thousand words of that type of work in a single gulp: richly fem matter presenting a great deal of ecological filigree and maternal solicitude of the TV drama form. In a threatening storm the chief character soothes an alarmed child with the pretence of a tree-house seclusion after the pair had taken refuge in a basement; through the worst of the event a reading of a Peter Pan episode for distraction. One could not help thinking of the refugees of the past number of years in flight and making their perilous crossings over land and sea. And then the example of last year’s Nobel Alexievich with her altogether different treatment of trials and hardships—Chernobyl, Stalin and the rest. In settled, peaceful times one might more easily accept worked up, manufactured entertainments and diversions.