Chair (published by NWW)

published in a longer piece titled Recusant, by New World Writing, July 2020

Chap standing behind in the passage at Al Wadi unnerved somewhat. Immediately behind standing there and not budging. Two minutes, five minutes and more. Indian or Bangla. (Turned out the latter). A member of a local Islamic community might have been listening to radicalized muftis in a number of locations across the globe, from any number of sources. Taking a head on the street like that—perhaps an accomplice filming from the corner—would make a large statement of protest and revenge for all his people had been enduring.… Pretended to be watching the EPL on the screen, at that distance. The Indians were less entranced by that particular game.… Surprised and hesitating at the offer of a seat…. Ah. Well, OK then. Thank you, sir. Many of the construction sites and industrial quarters had closed down early for NY, the engineers and managers needing some respite. (In fact two days off and then the weekend in the present instance.) Endless replays on the screen last few days unseen by this fan. Big Centre-Back Ivanovic for the blue team the dill penalized for handball, hanging his head, teammate half-heartedly protesting. The kicker stuttering in his approach, but in the end ramming past the hapless goalie and running into the corner with a celebratory sign to the delighted supporters. It had been played, played and played again on the screen at Al Wadi the last number of nights when there was no new sporting action for replacement. Stiff shit big Branislav, you screwed up! A classic Serb looking a lot like neighbor Rade back in Melbourne, up-scale lump here in this case.… Ya, of course. Taking a seat as a non-customer made a chap nervous, naturally. Foreign worker using the facilities, soaking up the comfort and entertainment. Ninety cent tea converting to Bangladeshi taka was a pretty penny.… A few minutes previous while still on his feet the man had noticed the photograph of his co-religionist refugees catching rainwater in their hands at their make-shift camp in Myanmar that was carried by the Straits Times in a photo survey of the year past. After commiserating with the Bengali it was more or less possible to put the man at some kind of ease.

Geylang Serai, Singapore Dec 2015

True Fan (Indian Cricket)

Lunch crowd thinning quickly at K.V. First few spoonfuls of the rasam surveying the tables one was about to say a chap always felt warm in that place! Such has been the delightful cool of recent days here on the equator. With only short bursts of rain not much evidence of the nor‘westly monsoon. A couple of days ago a bold and brilliantly illumined moon low in the east and slow-rising. A boy at the Haig bus-stop the other night must have sighted it a day or two before, because he was drawing mummy's attention to a corner of the sky where he was hoping for re-appearance. Rather touching: there were at least two of us on the island taking note. With some opportunity in the respite, Shanmugam rounded for a couple of chats. Lad had noticed the absence last few days and well-knew the reason. Sly smiles. Thankfully the white collared Colorado shirt had been donned for lunch. At Al Wadi in the morning there had been close scrutiny from Zaharuddin at the counter. A passing look in the mirror preparing for the second outing provided a shock when the loose collar of the KL Islamic Museum tee showed big-toothed Ni's marks of passion from the day before. Odd for Zaharuddin, a father of four young children, to see on a professional Westerner and an intellectual of sorts. (In younger years Zaharuddin had studied Arabic seven years in Syria and then one more year in Egypt. We were fixing for a meeting and chat.) Cricket it was again with Shanmugam; other subject matter quickly ran dry. The New Zealand lad Guptill had made a quick-fire half century the day before, almost in world record time: a mention on ABC online. Fellow didn't know how close he was till the last few balls, Mugam knew. Pity. Record gone begging. Wasn't the lad an all-rounder?... Yes, earlier in his career. Now solely a batsman. Not a Tamil by any chance?... Brought head-lolling assent. What, Tamil? Guptill a Tamil?... Ah. Born in India was he?... No, parents or grandparents; immigrated. In earlier conversations Shanmugam had bemoaned the kind of deracination that occurred with immigration. Often enough at Komala a Chindian entered who would have no idea of his heritage. With Shanmugam's assistance one was slowly beginning to discern. Shanmugam twisted his head like a pony in those instances. So Guptill almost a world record. The performance would have made it into Tabla on the Friday, had it been realized, whether or not young Guptill acknowledged his ancestry. Another thing too on Guptill was it? Shanmugam's heavily chewed English could not be comprehended immediately. When Mug bent close to deliver one was often surprised by the level of vocab. It was only pronunciation that continued to snag. Twice incomprehensible here brought Mugam around the table into the narrow passage in order to show his sandalled foot... Oh. Oh. Young Guptill missing one or more toes from one of his feet? Really?... Well golly. It had not stopped the young champ's progress; almost a world record. Claimed by the people from the land of his forebears, however young Guptill might conceive of himself. Bright Tamil star. Shanmugam was a proper aficionado. Australia v. West Indies meanwhile at the G? Last time Mugam looked Windies were seven down second innings. Not much of interest there, though there was more than one Indian name in that line-up too.

Somebody - Nobody (Nov25)

Us And Them 

cursive gold on black carried by the beefy lad at the phone & accessories store on the walk-through for the aircon at City Plaza. Cheap items even in the higher design range, small businessmen can don a new, crisp and unfaded with tight collar once a week. 

         The scribe too tired to record a number of others introduced into the neighbourhood that month. 

         Second language composers up in HK or the studios across the Pearl delta, one guesses, magpie pickings in the exploration of the master culture/foreign tongue. 

      Urban Groove New York 

a variation on the commonplace theme borne by a mainland lass getting on the bus at upper Geylang.   

      Vandal Is Going To Destroy The World 

black gothic represented by a younger local still trying to find his feet in hipsterdom, and of course struggling in the strangulating environment. (This lad wants to offer his girl advice on some recent trouble in either her friendship, or work group.) 

         Quite absent at any of the Komala Vilas tables half hour later. Interestingly, one finds the Indians far less prone to such faltering billboard tees; whether locals or the imported labour. Garish colour and thrown-together patterning take the fancy of this cohort. 

         It is the local Chins, and then to lesser extent the foreign talent from the region—not the labourers—striving for the Euro-Ameri leg-up to somewhere / anywhere. The locals, once Chinese, in the steamy hot air now feeling for something other. Straining. Identity, precious commodity not automatically conferred, even with money and other top-shelf signifiers. Casting around, marooned on this castaway island. I AM SOMEBODY they wanna declare; assert. A tee often presses the case that cannot be made otherwise. 

      FULL OF HIDDEN TALENTS 

Tick behind prison bars white on black said a lot—young fella at the Guillemard stop opposite Versailles condo, in the triangle with Waterina & Sunny Views returning… 

         Somehow the ol’ fave here had unaccountably slipped from memory: NOBODY IS PERFECT / I AM NOBODY, mostly proclaimed by dowdy dads and prematurely aged teens foot-dragging along the pavements and through the malls. 

         Painful enough to make a feeling observer well and truly wince. 

       Luck Is Where PREPARATION Meets Opportunity 

Weekend wear on a clean-cut, fresh-faced local aspirant, no-one will believe of course. Purchased with his own money and carried hopefully. 

         The success of the Sing’ model thirty years flat-out in the making, leaving only the final riddle unanswered: Who/What are we? / Aren’t we somebody too? 

         Government PR sleeves rolled-up working overtime as usual.

Necessary Counters

Two greetings of the season offered this morning, both at the Cheers shop at the Haig picking up the newspaper. Only one guy in this neighbourhood dutifully, compulsively reads all the passing tees for all they can offer of clues to identity. The KL Islamic Museum blue /white of ancient Arabic script in large font would have told even only the functionally literate this morning with a merest glance. Surely…. (Sad to report, thus far only the single first letter has been mastered—alif. Currently, Brighton U.K. Blogger Graham Askey, met in Jogja the year before, was understandably struggling with the acquisition at a study centre in Alexandria.) In Melbourne the Jews and the Greeks—before the latter switched to the Gregorian calendar for Chrissy, while still retaining the Julian for Easter! — always provided good, much needed cover on the 25th. Firm, steadfast allies. Here of course the Mussies and later down the road in Middle Geylang it will be the Mainland Chin foreign workers. (These mostly Maoists from the construction sites with their ways of ages past continue to delight wherever they are found, regardless of language barrier.) All highly necessary counters to what has been made of this putative birthday of Christ the Scourge and Redeemer. Odd and exceedingly strange—no one had remarked upon the matter thus far— this year in fact the occasion closely coinciding with that of the Prophet’s own birthday too, here at least on the Equator: among the local Malays marked as the 24th. (Elsewhere in the Muslim world various other calendric markings in this instance too.) An auspicious, uncommon unity one would guess—completely ignored. Beautifully rhythmic supplications again last night flowing across the lane from the madrasa behind the hotel through the opened bathroom window, reminiscent once more of nothing as much as the Ashkenazi choristers down in Melbourne. Further unity again! The final maulid prayers proper had been the night before.

NB. “Christmas Chic” was the feature in the Life! segment of the Straits Times today. Colouful decorations erected in the higher end bungalows and condos by the domestic helpers, the report fails to note.

NB. 2 Christmas in most of the Orthodox world occurs on January 7 of the modern calendar.

Untouchable Feb25

No need get your nose outta joint here; not at all. Far worse earlier in the afternoon the pimp down at Fei Du blaring gruffly, ordering his two young Viets around, the woman serving and his partner in crime / procurer too, who spoke the girls’ language. Filling out the caricature, at one point the man actually trumpeted a porcine HONK-HONK without prompting. The momentary surprise shortly after at the Arab cosmetic place at Tanjong Katong Complex was in the fact that it was another woman serving that day—younger, unmade-up, heavier and taller. Lady in this instance got around the problem there in her own particular way. Soaps, shampoos, creams; &etc. A small $1.20 goats’ milk rich lather proved excellent for shaving. (Likely also valued for whitening.) The older, made-up woman with the tattooed eye-brows when she received the cash would tell you, Put there. The last time seemingly pointing at the sloping register keys—rather awkward for coin. The woman today perhaps sixty; sister-in-law if not second wife, possibly. Though she could not be recalled, for the transaction at the register she seemed to be prepared, knowing the price of the article without checking. From her left a clean, unused, plastic curry container, the dish with the inner grooves that many of the Indian places used for condiments. Directions were unnecessary as the kaffir regular was likely well recalled.

Maulid (Prophet's Birthday)

Truly good listening here currently, Gabby, this crew really getting somewheres. Get yrself some of it in the next day/two, a ML specialist like yerself has a gap in the acquaintance if you don have this in yr knowing. Plenty sincere, strong voices. Lucky people, they'll all come away the better for it tonight and sleep well. Only thing I can compare it to is the male yeshiva boys evenings in St. Kilda, Melbourne, more raucous in that case. This has a finer lilt. Bathroom window open on the lane, reckon they're indoors somewhere and the prayer & song of praise passing through the numerous walls, descending from one of the upper storeys, it sounds like. Gee, it's good. Women would be proud of their men watching & listening. All male that one can hear (they tell me women add their voices from the side). How do they keep it up so long? Choir must be sectioned. Reckon it's to the effect, God/Allah raise him up... Or maybe, Our dear Allah, thy will prevails, light our ways, show the path LALA LUUHHLUU.... Might be some clapping or feet stomping at the end too. Yes, they've wound down. The Ashkenazis would stomp energetically as part of their performance. Lovely. Cars have filled the lorong. On the corner at the eatery the poor old Chins will be bent over their beer & pork crackers. Lifted the spirits of this listener opposite; how much more the participants themselves! Half eleven. Made themselves thirsty and hungry. There they are now quietly milling in the girls' outdoor lunch area in their white tunics and caps, soundless from behind the glass and I'll warrant down on the ground too. They're spent, pleasurably exhausted, mix of young and older men, making off to their cars and buses. A certain inevitable envy.

NB. In the approach to the Prophet's birthday Muslims gather for these recitals, often in school halls and community centres rather than mosques. In this case Thursday night a girls' madrasa in Geylang.

Puppies For Sale

Story in the paper last couple of days concerning a case before the courts of an Orchard business couple starving their Filipina maid over a number of years. When they went on holidays and ate at restaurants for the maid they took along her usual fare of Maggi instant noodles. Striding off for the fruit after the newspaper and morning teh the corner agency again stabbing at the brain as it has done the last year since it opened. Familiar scene observed on numerous occasions. One side the girl was on her knees outside cleaning the front window; given some occupation during downtime. At the adjacent agency woman behind the desk was occupied with a prospective couple in the market, while opposite three or four girls, one well into her thirties, were on the floor cleaning the Lego pieces from the toy-box. Working smartly the crew, lifting each individual lolly-coloured piece and RubRubRubADubDub like they were taught in training. Colours made to gleam. (They would need to keep a sharp eye-out for infants playing with that kind of hazard.) All in readiness then for the young royals whenever a chance visit occurred. The pair at the counter seemed to be still uncertain, but judging from what they could observe behind their flat would be spanking clean were they to choose any of these willing workers. On the weekend Zainuddin had come to the table from that side fuming after what he had witnessed in passing. According to Zainuddin the operator, the scarved middle-aged thin woman who ran the corner maid agency, had just returned and on entry the girls within had suddenly leapt to their feet and stood at attention. Not a prospective employer: Zainuddin knew the principal there, he had passed often enough. Man outraged. A co-religionist creating such abhorrent mastery over underlings. How many times had Din told of the Prophet's great care and kindness over his servants? Hadn't Mohammed freed one of his man-servants as an example to his followers? With her colourful scarf and whatnot clearly the business-woman knew nothing whatever of Islam. At Orchard and Katong there were reportedly scores of such agencies where the uniformed girls sit waiting in the windows like puppies for sale.