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.
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