Eyes on Stalks

Three beggars in the little stretch up toward Coliseum needed something on the passes. On the other side of the crossover outside SOGO a couple of others too were difficult to ignore. All five or six of them there had received the single blue ringgit at one time or another. After the first few days the three on the further side always received a note, one of them at the very least. Usual practise: blue singles were in the right pocket, the outer side of the little pouch (bought at the Thieves’ in Sing’); green fives on the other side. Red tens in the left against the Jogja batik pouch that held the credit cards whatnot; then orange twenties that were difficult sometimes to distinguish from tens, nights in particular, emerald fifties and violet hundreds zipped in the Thieves’ pouch proper. All in good order without any bulkiness showing. The young man in his chair with both hands and forearms gone selling tissues might have received less than the other pair there. Many passing on that path gave to the lad, who always returned a nice, easy smile with his thanks. Armless and such a countenance maintained. Down against a pillar an old Indian fattie with plastic cup before her made the finger-to-mouth gesture within the last stride thinking she was going to be ignored. Something about her contorted look was off-putting; nevertheless, age and stunted size made it a necessity. Children of course pulled on the strings of the most stony heart. The Arab woman offering tissues like the amputee kept her little girl beside her perhaps for that reason. This pair sat against the window of a shop with their backs cooled by the aircon within. It was doubtful that any tissues along that stretch were taken in the daily exchange. The Arab mother may have once been given even a pair of Blues. There was nothing exceptionally pitiable about this pair really, the mother and child; if anything perhaps the way the girl avoided all eyes and hung her head low. Once or twice the mother seemed to encourage the child to give thanks. Today in passing the mother had been writing on one of those plastic children’s blackboards with marker pen. What was that?.. Craning round to see.... NAGOYA?... It struck strangely. What did this Arab know of Nagoya and Japan? Where had she heard of either? Did she have even a day of schooling back in her homeland?... The woman pointed across the road at the sign above a shop…. Oya! In Batam, forty-five minutes by ferry from Singapore, the better corner of the island where some apartments were springing up, the developer responsible had settled on Nagoya City for his branding. A visit to the original had struck the man, they said. Not the usual caché of Osaka, Kyoto and Hokkaido recently, but this Nagoya that had been 75 - 80% re-built after the bombing through the war, a friend had reported, if the figure was remembered correctly. N-A-G-O-Y-A. Arab mother was delivering her little girl some rudimentary schooling, script foreign to the pair of course. In order to lessen the weight on the back under the hot sun removing the well-thumbed journal heavy with ink helped a little on the foot-slog. Down in Johor Bahru stickers had been bought from a young graphic artist with political nous who put up a stall at the night market. JB in a nice ring was on the front cover; rear the challenge to the last kleptocratic PM recently turfed out at the election and awaiting trial: CASH IS NOT KING. If one chose with care the young lad’s important message could be broadcast here in the capital on the hour walks up to the centre for lunch. Primary school teachers used what were termed flash cards for junior learners in order to reinforce particular information and knowledge. It had all happened accidentally in the course of passing hellos and chats and eventually became a dedicated practise. To date no challenge had been received from any quarter and indeed some appreciation. Certainly there were a great many eyes on stalks.