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A man four or five weeks ago here said his time now was spent thinking about the hereafter, the life to come, for which he had some kind of hope it seemed. Strange the words have remained without anything whatever of the fellow. An older man, but not an ancient by any means, met briefly somewhere and when the conversation was turned in a particular direction—the political winds hereabout it might have been—the man responded with this.
         It had not really seemed reticence exactly on the other matter; more preoccupation with the chief.
         Oh, well, that was that then. No room for much further.
         How was one supposed to continue from there? Even a co-religionist would struggle; even a close friend. Devoted husbands from fifty year marriages in Singapore like Omar when they spoke of these matters knew the prospect ahead could only be faced alone.
         The meeting had taken place in Malaysia in these last two months, in the capital it seemed. The chap had not presented as a religious type; he might not even have worn a cap. There was nothing more. Only perhaps another clouded image of a non-descript face in profile and jowls. No kind of particular tone or cast of features.
         During the period in Chow Kit one of the notable sights in the neighbourhood was presented by the man, the vagrant you had to presume, who camped on a pillar opposite the Pakistani Mosque where the muezzin captivated with his fajr each day before dawn. Coming back to the room around 10pm the chap was usually seated up on the pillar down from the wall of the building on that side. A small frame gave the man enough room to recline against some improvised luggage. The notable visual feature was the pair of umbrellas the man usually sat open on the sides of the pillar, one shielding against the road fifteen metres up the slope and the other the cyclone fence. It wasn’t that the man was hiding himself; and as for shelter the arrangement seemed less than adequate.
         There may have been blankets in the man’s bundles and after adjusting his umbrellas when bedding down an adequate nest was improvised. One was a brightly coloured umbrella—bright-coloured once before the fading under the Tropical sun.
         Sometimes the man read a newspaper in the dark. Mostly he seemed to face the cyclone fence, back to the lane leading to the hotels and eateries. Opposite the gates of the mosque closed after the last prayer; there was no provision at the Pakistan Mosque for people to spend the night on the grounds.
         Other older men sat further up the rise from the pillar on cardboard and newspaper matting, a low concrete ledge providing better shelter there.
         The pillar man preferred to remove himself.
         The pillar man—like the forgotten other who had spoken so tellingly—could only be focused on the life to come. It seemed hardly possible he could continue in this otherwise.