The Tamil Sisyphus

Mr. Hussein struggling up the steps on the corner here with his trays bound in the pristine white cloth. (Bicarb. soda & possibly bleach too, Auntie Helen had taught recently for that sheen.) Before he climbs up with the aid of the rail near the Wadi fries stand Mr Hussein places each pair of trays on the upper level, hoisting himself up unencumbered after that. For some reason Mr Huss prefers that route rather than the few steps on the corner proper, it is unclear why. (The number of people possibly creating a hindrance with his wide wings.) From the ends of the bottom wrapping Mr H. improvises a handle either side for his trays: two pairs one on top of the other, securely fastened. It was impossible for Mr Huss to carry that weight by hand, therefore the load is borne by the forearms instead. A strain, but Mr Hussain manages somehow. Ploughing along the path here Mr. Hussein, head up-and-down like the beast of burden dragging the heavy harrow behind. The four trays might be delivered in the Haig carpark where Mr H. can be found mornings on one of the iron benches beside the access road. The sheltered walkway there is the main route out from the Blocks on that side—Nos. 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10 and 11. The old women going around to the market and the bus pass and often stop for the locally famous kway that Mr Hussein has been hawking for many years. Perfectly halal of course, and light on the sugar. (Most of the kway’s sweetness comes from coconut milk.) By eleven o’clock Mr Hussein must away from that first station. Not only does the foot traffic dry up by then, but also Mr Huss cannot hang too long at the one possie. A couple of years ago it was much easier seated on the J. C. corner around from Wadi, where the kitchen reno place provided some of their furniture and Mr Hussein could perch on the window ledge. The kitchen people indulged Mr Hussein, an old man of those years still hawking on street corners. In the earlier days too officialdom had turned a blind eye…. It was of course now impossible to erase Mu’s insider knowledge of the early days in the kampung, during Mr H’s younger years when he had made the same rounds; when add-on services back in those days were provided for the young, randy youth. Rather a shock on first hearing. Unexpected. Twenty cent quick jobs for those Mr Huss accepted; and freebies otherwise for the sweeter, needy lads chosen especially. The secret of raging young male hormones was always air-brushed from conventional reportage, in the Muslim world like any other. Mu also startled when he suggested the incessant razzing of Mr Huss’s that he had overheard might have in fact been because the man fancied the mat salleh, the tall White guy. Late 70s or early 80s, that could certainly not be discounted, not when it came from an old, knowledgeable hand like Muttalib. Greatly missed the dear friend still of course, taken so unexpectedly.

                                                                                         Geylang Serai, Singapore 2011-2019