The Hougang killing in the morning’s newspaper could be shared with the plate-collector, Mr Lim. There had been an In-brief on the front page and fuller treatment within, including pics showing the victim in a zipped bag & the Chinese assailant cuffed within the store, where the murder occurred.
The man quickly comprehended:
– bullying in a shop—young of old; and then the reverse once the ages were clarified
– working in the same shop, likely employer and employee
– knife readily on hand in a hardware store.
One, two. The lady done for.
The ages were written out. Malay Gender—perempuan & laki laki.
Shop was universal.
Hardware, however, presented a problem.
Hammer, for nails. Nails & screws. Hammering & tightening. Saw, sawing. Drilling & screwing in similar motions.
The signing was effective. Ya, understood. Fixing, Mr Lim summarised. A shop for fixing.
Later as Mr L stood close by the table it was unclear whether the orange & blue-grey beads on his wrist were being spun in the rapid fingering. It didn’t look like. Looked more like swiping.
The device Mr Lim’s manager son, of whom he was very proud, had provided his father earlier in the year had not been sighted the last 2-3 months. Back then on his passes by the table the recorded chanting could be faintly heard from beneath the tees & polos.
Every morning around dawn the Hokkien Mr Lim, paced his local basketball court for his chanting. Knowing his ceaseless activity at work it was clear he could not sit on a meditation mat. Much of his wage from Mr T. T. was given to charity: old folks’ homes, the temple & other needy. Seventeen years Mr L had worked for Mr T. T., over the street first on Onan corner. Having learnt to drive in the army, earlier he had been a delivery man, union organiser, it sounded like.
The tall, bent Tamil tissue seller, who did his morning rounds from the Haig to the market, had seemingly been able to filch big bucks outta Mr Lim. The sum was not $41. Neither was it $410, nor even $4,100. By all indications, the figure tallied fully forty-one thousand dollars. Mr Lim had written it out on a slip of paper, which he brought along one morning with other slips of record.
It was not forty-one million, as Mr Lim once or twice suggested in his faltering English.
I no go school. Cannot talk.
Still, we managed.
How many years had Mr Lim waited for the return of the loan?! How much interest alone might he have earned on the sum over the years?! Ah?…
Not that Mr Lim sought such a thing as interest. Like for the Muslims, this seemed in Mr L’s eyes against the code for a Buddhist.
It appeared the old, bent & bearded Tamil, a Hindu, had kept returning with loan shark stories. Should he fail to return such & such sum, the tissue-seller would be hammered and even worse by the loan shark. Imminently, it was always.
The dreadful loan shark was a common figure in the culture; a real life fire-breather. Once it seems the Shark himself made an appearance at Mr L’s workplace in order to corroborate the story. Serious menaces. Hell to pay failing.
The old wily tissue-seller, in his early 70s, salt & pepper beard, was 8-9 years older than Mr Lim. Taller, more able-bodied, more shrewd.
The man was something of a card. Mornings passing through the tables he would mimic the Buddhist chants of Mr Lim, the plate-collector; his benefactor and saviour.
Namo oni tofu. Over the years it had become familiar.
Mani payi omhh.
A third was, Mami orhh orhing kekjo.
The Tamil spelt each out carefully and corrected errors.
For a long time it was unclear how easy target was Mr Lim. All the indications were a fine spiritual being, one with a humanity at his core. Some years before when Mr. T. T. had been on the Onan corner Mr Lim had spoken against discrimination, against this person over that, class or race distinction. For all the limited English, the sense was clear.
All were same; all one. Common humanity; deserving of respect.
Once talking about community and inclusion, Mr L referred to his union days and his activism. Something was wrong back then, something needed attention; man called a meeting. Here was the case—such and such and so on… What use was it one good man in the know, on the path, when all around him were lost?
Ah? Hmm.
None of which matter had been learned in schooling, it seemed perfectly clear. Yet in Mr. Lim’s articulation the phrasing carried scholarly echoes.
All in broken, highly limited English. Perfectly intelligible.
On the other side, the promises and assurances the Tamil offered day after day. Last week after Mr. Lim produced the slip of paper with the figures for the Tamil, there came a short exchange by the Fries stand and some particular words from the Tamil. Following which the matter was covered over once more. That was that.
A short while Mr Lim had grouched about it.
How can like that?…
And not young either, the Tamil, Mr. Lim added. Old ready... How can?
But that was all.
Money actually caused illness, attacking the internal organs, Mr Lim had indicated a number of times over the years, with a washing machine motion on his trunk. Mr Lim dispensed quickly with money, letting it go. To the aged care, the temple, orphans. (The last took some while.)
Still, he would like his money returned by the Tamil, without any great hope of it happening.
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