Bum-wipe

 

To call it a joke makes for a sour laugh. Choked. More of a grimace. It’s no different the world over; perhaps only a smidgeon more ghastly in Sin’pore. The Sunday newspaper. Having noticed the morning tea table by the pavement on what must have been furtive passes, the housemate IT guy Rony wondered why you would bother. But his point was more the ready online option available. Was it the tactility? Ron further wondered. Well, kinda, man. ‘Twas in fact a closer engagement, sheerly because of the medium. Something like in-person as opposed to screen / zoom / rubber whatever. Even sharply pointed disgust was worth your while collecting in order to better apprise the life position. You were in the thick of it, right? Canna hide. Know the enemy; &etc. Travel porn naturally (today there was a typical SG complaint about a scuzzy Sicilian beach); the pol. wrap to be sure, both local & internat; the puffing of pygmy notables of one sort or another, culture usually on a Sunday, helped reconfirm how the scaling always worked. Oh! Long piece on personality tests. Lady concerned here today shared much with the big O, lover of Michelle. (In the heading. Don’t for a minute imagine this tosh was read, Rony!) Food, nostalgia, young locals making good in the big world after stints at US Ivy Leagues was a regular, again particularly Sundays. (Wellesley, with a family Taj Mahal pic accompanying.) Re-locating to a place where there was no local English language newspaper would be a grievous loss. (The Jak Post is the best in the Malay world, for when one was in the capital there, or even one of the other cities – if it could be found on newsstands or in the malls.) This morning a brief review of Rachel Cusk was useful for a practitioner.

The Amulet

 

Ten wives Anwar’s father had had. A couple of days ago the fact had been revealed. This afternoon was added that in his own case, despite numerous opportunities, the son, Anwar, after his marriage had never taken a lover; never cheated on his wife. Over the ten or eleven  year acquaintance quite the contrary impression had been conveyed. However, that was mistaken; never once a lover taken. Anwar’s sincerity could not be questioned. There had never been thought of a second wife either. Clearly Anwar had never countenanced the thought; the hurt of early youth when he and his mother had been abandoned remained in mature years. In the photo Anwar showed the mother was every bit as beautiful as the son suggested. A Minangkabau. Number three wife to the short, unprepossessing and quite poor Boyanese father. Yet the man managed exceptionally well with the ladies, including one very pretty eighteen year old who may have been number 5 or 6. By that time Anwar was teaching and this stepmother was his junior. Anwar met five or six of the wives. With the last, No. 10, some closeness developed, which extended to a step-brother. With Anwar’s own mother, the beautiful Minangkabau, there was a younger brother too. Anwar knew nothing of any further siblings with the remainder. It was unclear if some of the wives were simultaneous, or all divorced. The hint in the father’s uncanny history was the small island from which he hailed, a couple hundred kilometres north of Surabaya, Java. The Boyanese were well represented in Singapore. And among the Malays, respected and rather feared for their black magic. Anwar’s father was a good example. Many came to him for potions and amulets: those seeking a partner, the ill and afflicted, the ambitious. In upper primary, not long after the father left No. 3 wife, Anwar’s mother, the man presented his son with an amulet that would protect him for the remainder of his life, and also win him the chief beauty of Jurong district here, of the period. A cable car disaster that resulted in a number of deaths, a six car pile-up in  Malaysia, a scorpion planted in the newlywed’s kitchen, all left Anwar unscathed. Every day of his life Anwar kept on his person the little bundle given him by his father, either in his wallet, or else a little Strepsils tin that over time had rusted. Over sixty-five years the charm was kept. A pair of twigs no more than an inch & one half long, separated from a third by a little, flat stone that fitted neatly between, wrapped in aluminium foil. The father had securely bound the pieces with bright yellow thread, which over the years Anwar had further secured with the same colour. In teen years there had been resentment and anger at the father, before this was later overcome. There had been concern too over the amulet itself. Anwar had approached a number of ustad for opinion. As long as there was nothing Satanic, nothing of devil worship, it was all OK; Allah remained primary. In Anwar’s mind the amulet was an aid to courage. Nothing wrong or contradictory. Anwar preferred the amulet not be photographed. Better not, he decided, after a couple moments’ reflection.

Trapeze

It was just not possible to weep for this Courts man. The pool of tears was simply insufficient; couldn’t be found. Certainly not with the load of daily fare in the newspapers. One could only look and listen. The department where he worked couldn’t be recalled; there may have been mention of whitegoods. 2AM last night crashing through the wrought iron screen door. Bang! The inner behind him, making the glass panel rattle. Helen down there must have started from her sleep. Ah! The Courts drunkard getting back. What time was it?… Five or six years ago there were plans to retire to Vietnam. The companion was a sweetie; not too young; nicely presented. Sing dollar could go far over there, as the man said. There must be a tidy sum in his CPF. Something upended that applecart. There had been much less of the beer and ciggies back then. The pair would regularly take late brekkies over at the Haig, man proud of his lady, you could tell. Did her patience give out? Was the CPF too difficult to withdraw before he was 60? Impossible to meet the eye; loud helloes without stopping and swinging onward. When Wahyu moved out he immediately took his room with the balcony. No more need to hang out the window. Still dyed regularly, never letting the grey through. Boyish physique retained. Whatever he was doing for emergency love there were no ladies brought back. (Even the Toyota man has desisted there.) 11AM brekkies up until recently, when his shift seemed to have altered. Coming back from the morning paper there were no more sightings on his bike. Often he fell asleep with the light on in his room. (Unexpectedly, all the chaps had accepted the turning off of the main pair of lights overnight in the anteroom.) Siblings, parents, friends—none in evidence. There had never been a brekkie companion apart from the Viet. Shocking coughs & splutters; terrible stink in the toilet. You wondered whether he could look himself in the mirror (shaving was hardly necessary for Chinese like him). Nothing for it; only watching. How much longer could he stick? Trapeze act. Easy to underestimate the inner fortitude.

 

Big Kool Biz

Chinese cool exports soar: key items 25%, 22% & 19% increases. Not the earlier Brit, Jap & Korean cool lines. These new are far more unique and groundbreaking: respectively, refrigerators, fans and aircon units. Going gangbusters and the only way is stratospherically up and up. If surveillance chips can be secretly embedded the region and the world might be saved from the great Setan.

On another matter this morning amidst the teh & newspaper, the sweet old Chinese-Malay nene stops to cast over the journal. You stay here? there? Fingering without words. Needed to make clear over there was not above at the hotel. Not one of the well-heeled foreign talent, Grannie. No. Oh! Oh! And… Here she indicated something with her thumbs as if over a console or screen of some sort. Kids sending texts often used their thumbs rather in that fashion. Hammering a little both sides, Gran. Pint sized, reaching about the same level where her interlocutor sat. Thumbs busy… Well, we had hit a roadblock; no passage. But, just a sec, there was a table of Malays behind. The older chap carried a series of scars just beneath his chin, on the left side. Nasty motorbike more than likely, older style helmet responsible that stopped short beneath... Took a little while getting it himself. Oh! Oh! Lady wondered where was your wife… Understandably. Regulation question. Wives gave good tickle in these parts, you could be assured. Oh! Oh! The answer finally became irrelevant.

Sight For Sore Eyes

The lad at the Indian joint on Arab Street yesterday with Gab cried out for notice. A number of the guys had been lighting up in the exchanges, watched from the side by the angel. The lad behind the counter by the till – not on it – went the extra mile. Lighting up like the others with the pleasantries exchanged, that included some fragments in their own language; before raising it a notch further when he saw the $100 bill passed over. Fifteen buck lunches he had surely seen at those premises earlier. But two zeroes, three numbers like that, on the one note, never in his born days. From 60 wattage suddenly upped to 120, widening the whites around his dark pupils; more perfect the row of choppers. It was as if he had rec’d the note himself, for his own pocket. Wow! & one half. In fact, merely standing to the side of such transaction was an honour. Immediately following the radiant gleaming, widening & glinting, the left breast was palmed. Humble thanks for that act of grace. The former iteration there on Arab Street was part of the ABC chain, shut down recently by the authorities because of all the foreign workers, when pretending the local quota had been fulfilled. Yesterday again not a single of the boys was from here. Tamils in the main; the one taking the orders with a smattering of English Bengali. Doubtful that the palmer had understood there were even $1000 notes in circulation in the blessed Republic. Nor faint chance the underlining that the white guy had never had a piece of that pie himself. Terribly, excruciatingly embarrassing appearing a big, big shot like that. Gold ring (inherited from a paternal uncle), shirt collar, newish panama. Luckily the Versace thrift shop specs had been left upstairs at Gab’s, along with the Eyephone. That woulda been too, too much.

 

 

 

 

Light & Darkness

 

Two possibilities on the open field awaiting development on Kallang Road, just past the river. The traffic chap usually stood roadside monitoring buses, presumably. Occasionally he gave little waves or nods to the passing drivers. White shirt, navy trousers & cap; sometimes jacketed. Years ago he would have been proud of the uniform; the earlier generation at least. Either he was wanting to dry his jacket from the sweat, or else preparing for prayer. Roadside at work he kept beneath the thin shade of the rain trees. Here though he had come away from the footpath and was spreading his jacket in the full beam of the noonday sun. Lunch hour fetching 1pm; fetching the prayer time. Cloudless, hot and sticky. Appealing to the almighty should occur not in the shadows, but in the full, open light. That was the tentative guess. The bus passed by too rapidly.

Spettacolo

 

Thin salmon pink streak across the western sky and couple foot above plain white. Unusual. Unworldly. With the F1 landed nothing other than contrails for some preliminary entertainment around by the waterfront. In the air the speeds are far more rocket rapid—Ukraine, Gaza—but for proper spectacle terrestrial measures are needed. For the correspondent human stride: the old charts of the progressively erect orang ends in the modern with the seated F1 driver tearing along before the eyes of the audience. Something similar in the case of the heavyweight fight in London it must have been, where the former champ was battered to the canvas numerous times in five rounds. Human figures battered by life—the war zones, floods, quakes, refugees. Coming out for supper the helpers were escorting the elders battered by their load of years. Some who had the day off were slowly returning to their cloisters, finishing their calls back home. Many employers disallowed phone use within the house. A number with their pitiful charges could manage on the go. Pushing a gramps in his chair, one rested her phone on the handle behind, scrolling as she went. Shrieking bursts echoing over the estate could not be placed at first. Was it coming from behind, or in front? Somewhere the other side of the carpark possibly. On the Void beneath Block 7 a pair of maids sat with the ahma between them. A frail figure like that in her chair seemed incapable of such piercing screams, even these short ones. Approaching closer the associated shaking and quivering of arms & legs became visible. They would have a short respite upstairs while the girls took their charge out for airing.

Camp D

Mat salleh footing past wearing a faded black tee bearing on the shoulder-blades the still faintly legible slogan: Camp David.

You'd think he would be ashamed, esp in this quarter.

Perhaps he had blundered over blindly.

20:18

NB. WhatsApp screen shot wouldn’t repro. Gotta look out for the guy in the days ahead.

Stumped

 

Ain't seen this guy's stump around here ever before. Pointed out somehow that brought to mind the cowboys who sometimes shot from the hip or waist. The cut was either just above or just below the knee. In either case the kneecap was no more, of no use after such amputations. It was possible the man could raise the stump like that, making it twitch for his appeals. Single crutch; little plastic bucket that could be shaken in place of words. Five or six offerings came from the front half rows at Sarah, only a single coin among the notes. Myanmar cit was a wild, spontaneous guess, because of the outsider he looked, and the long-drawn out hostilities in the newspapers. After a little confusion, Singapore Chinese, he answered, with awkward English and what seemed embarrassment.

Earthed

There you were right on the spot, paused in stride, looking out to the side. Indian road crew, yellow hard hat & water cooler; a horizontal hoe. Couple of squares of ground. The first was gotten by without a proper whiff, only faintly rising. Second was more distinct, carrying the familiar tang from the past. Turned ground; orange-brown soil that had been levelled and flattened smooth. Unique, notable aroma the stuff of humanity. In almost two months since the return had there been anything of the kind? The old dignified Tamil at the Haig with hardly a word of English, kindly disposed, seemed to have comprehend the question the other morning. You like the grass too? Crossing back to the blocks from Carpmael, the lady ignored the concrete paths and chose the soft earth beneath the trees. Smiling when she gave the English assent. This was the woman one wanted to point out to some of the younger girls who struggled under the male gaze, struggled in the public space. That effortless ease and surety could be managed with right mind; there was a way. Living examples conveyed a great deal more than talk. This lady knew all the sides of it; knew the male too. In her day she had created wonderful pleasure when she had a mind. And for the grandad upstairs into the present time too, no doubt.

 

Matrimonial (Israeli pagers)

Coming across to the courthouse Rupe Murd looked a picture pretty much; certainly his new Ruski wife did. Having her by his side would help with the dynastic doldrums. Not out of the question either he could have consummated the marriage; there was some very good product going round. Little tubby Jumaat—Friday—had come over to the table the other day boasting about his own new wife. Only forty, still menstruating, and looking quite a bit younger. Jum was convincing in his report of the nuptials. With this particular item he had found, only some few dollars, a man could keep up his side of the bargain a full three days. No bluffing, Jum maintained. The way he told it you could believe. Some time ago Othman, who was at the same table, had listed the 4 or 5 resorts that the old guys thereabout used. This one now seemed an advance on the previous. In the pics Jum and his lady did indeed come up roses. Jumaat had prepared with a facial in Batam and might have dieted in advance, by the evidence of the shots. Since he had settled back into the former barrel. An electrician by trade, and, as it happened, wedding photographer on the side. Eight years he had cared for his bedridden wife, or at least his domestic helper had done. Now in his early 70s, man had spread his wings. On the same subject, Ali at the tea-stall last night gave the history of the girl at the Fries. That woman had been working at the stand there 4 - 5 years, a former looker, easy to tell. Lady with an excellent fashion sense. Without real spends, she wrapped those beautiful scarves just so and keeping in trim her blouses and jeans always made fine lines. Four - five years she had avoided the eyes at every single pass, without exception. Exceedingly circumspect. Either a devoted wife, or else the victim of some roaring steam-train, it had been concluded. As time went on there was growing sense of the latter; that maintained strictness was too much. Sure enough, a bad smash-up. More than bad. A father of five, though hardly forty, Ali understood the enquiry and accepted the simple curiosity. A human story; something to tell there, as it proved. Three times married the lady had been. Three times divorced. May still have been shy of full thirty-five. In almost ten years in that community there was nonesuch previously encountered. An exceedingly rough circumstance in that culture. After a fair acquaintance now over the term, the thought immediately leapt up. Not talaq, surely? Don't tell me, Ali!… Sure enough, the same; the epitome, in fact. Thrice the woman had suffered the indignity. Ali gave it straight. Years past Ali had taken stints in the Fries on the corner. All these years there had been only decent, comradely relations among all the many workers who had passed through in the various iterations. Never ructions of any kind. Ali told how the lady's regular absences had left him wondering. Court cases. More court cases. Again and again. Finally Ali asked and the lady told her woe. The fair-minded considered the talaq an outrage; quite disgraceful. Nothing more than for a man who had a mind to once, twice and then a third time forswear his wife. That did it—annulment on the spot. There was no come-back; no appeal. Finished and cast out the lady. It was horridly inhumane, especially in the earlier time. Now the courts intervened, at least as far as child support was concerned; how well enforced in practice was another matter. And there was a property settlement. Men in Sing complained the lure of a wife collecting a man’s CPF, or at least a good portion of it, was leading to the dissolution of marriages. (Recently a regular at the tables put down his own divorce after forty-two years to precisely that.) But talaq was looked upon as completely unfair. The numbers of cuts suffered by the Fries woman spoke clearly of the matter. Nine times she must have had it uttered to her. There were three children, one to each of the men, too, Ali informed. To date the details of custody and arrangements were unknown.

 

NB. As expected, the Israeli exploding pagers in Lebanon gripped attention this morning, prompting a couple of early WhatsApp messages. Understandable too if in the reactions there was some marvelling at the ingenuity involved. 2,000 victims, was it? Nine or ten fatalities. Hundreds hospitalised. Perfectly measured (“counter”)-terror. How far away can be a “dirty” bomb landing at the nuclear facility, or similar? 

 

Ali Kutty, the moniker signalling his Indian heritage. Southern Kerala in his case, like the current operators on the corner.

Zonked on the Void

Two zonked on the Void by the lift at Block 9 just now, the one provided with the eight or nine iron benches arranged across the tiling. A third chap might have drifted off too, while the last seemed to be holding up; it was not entirely clear from the profiles. Elderly men as usual; women sat less often in that Void, apart from the domestic helpers Sundays. There might have been some breeze tunnelling through the blocks in front; mounted fans would need to be checked later, though they were not likely. The noonday heat was overwhelming of course, but equally the confinement upstairs needed escaping. Women coped better in the pigeon holes; likely they had a lesser horror of being found dead in a corner up there. The National Heritage Board suggested the feature was a uniquely Singaporean one; the space in fact had been planned by the authorities, the urban planners, as a recreational, gathering locus. Funerals were regularly held on the Voids (not on the foreshortened like the one today); weddings less so. Trysts were taken on the Voids, for well-established couples, presumably. (The newspaper crime files commonly mentioned the other kind up on the landings of high stairwells.) Games like chess and checkers were sometimes played on the Void Decks, either on the concrete stumps, or else tables brought down from upstairs. Cats were fed and admired on the Voids, lunches & dinners sometimes taken. Foreign and local workers often spread their cardboard by the pillars on the concrete, the look of a splatter set or bomb blast invariably evoked. More often however the Void Decks stood unfilled, ghostly, slightly unnerving. For a number of years the thought had been flood concern at the bottom of the towers, or else a parking option for some future time of car ownership. The government literature, however, mentioned nothing of that. The space was a dedicated community provision, a planned and articulated amenity. It was impossible to photograph the Voids, the dimension, the scope of the emptiness, eluded the camera. In the case of the condos, their airconned communal hubs, flower beds, BBQ pits, the lighted tennis courts & pools, delivered other plans and constructions for the denizens to fit their lives. Again, it was difficult to capture the outcomes there and apprise the inspiration.

 

 

Admissions (more or less frank)

Yan was sent off chortling yesterday lunchtime. Clearly. Little doubt it takes it outta the man more, especially longer tooth. (All those complaints even of young guys nodding off immediately after.) The old Buddhists knew what they were talking about in the spilling of seed. Marvellous squeeze nonetheless the 12-15 minutes. As before, exceedingly precious the extraction of admissions from the girl, like pulling teeth pretty much for her kind. Sweet. You ready now, Yan?… We wait sikit?… Wan suck breasts? Only answer in this instance came without verbals—direct straddling of her victim. Spoke volumes. Empty no good, right? No one like kosong… It had been 10 days? two weeks?… Former according to Yan, who always kept proper count. Empty. Might have been a first the explicit answer here. No, that was no good; not in anybody’s language. In a court of law the judge would have required the witness raise her voice, answer more clearly for the gentlemen of the jury to properly hear. So, the merry-go-round set going, squeaky tune cranking up. Filling the void; empty nullity. Little up-tempo was allowed on this occasion and not pressed by the lass. Only the one half-hearted spurt and soon desisted; almost as soon as begun. Ah! That was better, small steps in the slow dance. Sharpening. How long it had taken, how many years to comprehend Bosnian Stojan’s cheeky term? How obtuse could a literary man be. Plenty of tongue finally given by the gal too. There was little doubt, these particular darlings had been warned by their grannies about dangers. Easy to lose a good chunk of the tongue in those dangerous passages, beware! A check later showed how many messages had been exchanged in the full hour & one half while we sized up the possibility. 11:33 – 13:05. Finally, on the 26th missive, firmly decided: Ok coming up. When in fact she had been spied from the window above already turned at the near corner, in her black dress beneath the red umbrella. Some of the early birds were making for Khalid for the Friday service; on departure more returning to their flats for lunch. Utmost discretion was required. Along the walkway toward the bus stop young Nizam the Dayak (converted) with his three young sons, who were slowly being inducted into the proper path.