Dyeing on the Job

Pompeo in the pic in Pyongyang fresh from a haircut and style on the plane jetting across. There was enough on top to comb over comfortably in this instance without the state-of-the-art glue and hidden threading whatnot of his Commander-in-Chief. The NK counterpart on the other hand appeared to have matched his colour with his favourite natty blue suit. Where Mike receives high marks too is for the canny dye—a foxy light ash that leaves some of the grey-white at the lower edges and the side-burns. (Pins and clasps deployed for the process.) Meanwhile, whatever critics might say of the political shenanigans here, the manipulation, trickery and hounding of opponents, the chief on the tropical island with pretensions to a Venetian inheritance does eschew colour. (The cut & styling might not be former First Lady of Malaysia, Rosmah Mansour’s $450 a go—which had included dyeing—but it was certainly accomplished.)

NB. A former federal opposition leader in Australia when he was found dead in a hotel room after a tryst with a call-girl attracted a headline in the Truth newspaper of the time: Billy Dies on the Job. Altogether a different kettle of fish.

Appetite

Finally a glimpse of one of the respectable and proper chappies caught frankly ogling, when really they ought not. No harsh criticism involved—Zahruddin the Wadi Manager can be named, here found at the edge of his hotplate doing the usual justice to his assigned role calling to the passing customer. Yes, hello…. Yes. Hello. (Standard among limited English speakers, heard hereabouts morning to night.) The trouble in this instance being—were moral crusaders hovering—between times the man was looking the tall Chinese woman she might have been in her shorts and singlet top standing before him, very much up and down; up and down. A full-bodied, mature and perhaps buxom woman in front. (An old friend in Melbourne, passed on now, would have said of a conquest of the same, Dje je goc uhvatis, zensko; Wherever you clasp, all woman.) One hand on the counter freely appraising while the lady scanned the display board; like a fish out of water our man Rudd opening and closing his mouth; opening and closing. Swallowing and perhaps gulping a little it did appear. Without mincing matters, salivating one could term it. (In Serbo-Croat “thirsting;” zedan.) One of the classical appetites of course, in Aristotle’s taxonomy.

Rainy Season (Dec25)

Shopping for breakfast 8am the tai chi ladies were found under Block 9 going through their routines, in that echo chamber the co-ordinated rifle cracks of their bright red fans amplified. Putting that acoustic together with the later image of the Indians sprawled across the same space a few hours later, the connection was inescapable. On the bus lunchtime on Guillemard corner further along, some of the Indian chaps without plastic sheeting had laid themselves down longways on the path, leaving the passage clear for any shoppers going to City Plaza. Within the room the early rain had been inaudible; it was only after emerging that the drips from the awnings could be heard and some gurgling in the drains. In JB once in the rainy season a croaking from a palm had one puzzled. It was an unearthly sound, a cry of pain that made you almost wince. A dying bird, perhaps, or some other afflicted animal. Within the sparse, wet branches above there was no sign. You stood there lost for long moments, looking around. Finally, a passing uncle was enquired, who solved the mystery with a quiet smile. No, there, pointing below at the corner of the path. The struggle was occurring even ten minutes after the last fall deep down in the drain.

Signal Lessons

Beefy denying tiredness, a good sleep under his belt, he maintained. Last night the Sec. pal down the road had a cash job and Beef had been seconded. This suited the man: a quiet corner, aircon laid on, favour for a pal. There was no monetary recompense; the chap provided tehs and ciggies The other didn’t know through the night Beef had switched off the lights, the man wasn’t so good with switches and buttons. Beef crossed his brow with his forefinger: chap a bit slow, ex-Con working without a certificate usually cleaning; muttered to himself and hands trembling, fingers like playing an instrument. Ex-User, a bit gone. Beef had not much patience with that sort of thing, became rather irritated by it. The Malays ought be better than that, he thought. Fellow didn’t know himself—Beefy unexpectedly using the old Appollonian dictum, a rough-house, unschooled lad like him. One needed to get back to the square. Back to the square, back to the square, Beef taught the mantra to those who wanted to listen, his favourite nephew among them. Atas; bawah. Up and down. It needed to be understood. In old Montenegro precisely the same principle had been elucidated: Gore visoko; dolje tvrdo. Up was high; below hard. There was no out. “Simple as that,” said Beef. The man granted he was taught the lesson inside at the end of Changi Road where the “square” might have been the cell too and also compound. Foundation years stretched further back again one would wager.

Exchange of News & Views

Another fella keen to unburden himself to anyone who would listen, any hapless victim would do just as well, an outsider never-mind. Mid morning at the Wadi table flipping the Saturday paper, as usual leaving the first teh for the Life section once what was supposedly the meaty two thirds had been covered. A minute or two after assuming a seat two over—respecting the spread of the mat salleh writer fellow—this chap only vaguely familiar starts in. You know your friend with the cap. Walks peg-leg. Talks with you here. You remember? Gone ready!... The dead needed to be cut loose admittedly. Pass the corpse to somebody else, anyone would do. Play Catchie. Here! Hide this someplace wouldya, there’s a good lad. Fifty-one year old Malay regular, lasted a month in hospital before he went. Leg cut off while back; the other not much good either with the diabetes. But is OK, never mind. No big deal, the chap begun with the follow-up bluff in the usual way. Handed you a dead weight like that, take it home and put it in the corner by the settee if you like, it’s OK, no charge. Ghrrr! What do you think I am Buster?... BANG! He was going to get his own back almost immediately just you wait. First though forced you to rack the brain trying to think who he meant. Who was this peg-leg guy? Didn’t have a chair, no. Nor a scooter. A regular. Always talkin to him…. But there was no known regular there with a timber fit, you would have remembered that. A chap stopping to talk in one of the gangs in Jogja had during the course knocked his wooden shaft like a salesman confirming good grade and lifted his trouser leg. None there in G. Serai had done anything like. As was almost invariably the case here, the latest victim, the chap most recently passed on from the crew, could not be recalled. A photograph would certainly have helped; but this was not the contingent of snappers, different gen. Couldn’t think who this could be. A fringe player. Two-three month old news made the passing during the trip up the Peninsular. Beaten. Retired. Just could not place a candidate. OK, you got me there, properly bushwhacked. Now then, though…. Ten minutes later some measure of revenge exacted. You hear about the neck-tie party over at Changi yesterday by any chance did you? Hand at the throat in order to ensure communication lines. Dawn yester. You must’ve heard, right?... What? Who? When?... Oh gosh. Not unexpected: not a whisper. Not the faintest. Nothing whatever…. Whatever was it for? Needle in the crook of the elbow. Understand? Fellow got it…. Ah, Singapore.... Well may you say, Ah Singapore my friend. There were two left swinging yesterday morning. And in case you didn’t know that made six this month of October, here down the road at Changi. (Changi Road began behind us there at the corner 25m. away.) Your President Halimah had declined clemency. A Minister in Malaysia and the family of the victim begged her—hands brought up to the forehead in supplication. Didn’t do it; no good. Halimah wrote back, No. One line. (Didn’t even consider the matter, the lawyer interviewed by ABC TV reported. The day prior Maslaysiakini had reported one hanging; singular. Out of the blue. By the morning that had doubled to two yesterday and another four earlier in the month of which there had not been the merest word. Suddenly six men were hung in the last twenty-six days of October of the current year.) Fellow didn’t see anything on TV. First he heard. Later when his older friend turned up, a regular Uncle, same thing. Nothing. Not the faintest…. Well, you know Singapore. She follow orders. Government say, she do…. Yeah right. Pliant, like the judiciary, as reported by the PM’s nephew last year, the chap holed up in the States avoiding defamation charges pending. Halimah did as she was told. A good woman by all and every report; just could not rise to the party in this particular matter…. We were all fair and square now. This chap could cart a pair of corpses around for a bit look for somewhere to stash, see how he likes it. Tell all his friends and share the passion…. The evening before there had been an Indian work crew there below the path just by this same table again now. Lorry pulled up, heavy bags of something dragged down with some trouble. On the ground the bags were easy enough to pull up from the roadway three-four men tugging on the straps. Even before the shovels were sighted the realisation came easy as pie, no need wonder. Of course. Naturally. There was a big do upcoming. There had been no word here too, but banners on Onan on the corner marked Nov. 3 – 4 signal days. Other Indian crews had been working a fortnight now erecting tenting out front of the new Wisma Geylang Community Centre, Cultural Centre, new Mall all-in-one four storey provided by the government for the locals. Initially we had guessed a pasar malam, night-market; they had them in all the Malaysian towns up the Peninsular. Then the banner unfurled and fluttering a bit. One never read those banners; such a lot to read always of announcements and proclamations, you needed to rest your eyes occasionally. Well, a proper opening over the road. What else would it be? Some minor kind of initial presentation had been offered earlier in the year during Ramadan when the place was still being tidied. Pretty clear now all the box and dice done. Eventually someone mentioned the PM. If the PM was coming to this corner it could only be to open the government’s gift to the local community; they had been bereft before. The Chinese had their community centres all over the place; couple of years ago the Indians were gifted their Campbell Road showpiece. Now the Malays were about to join the party. Therefore the PM and no doubt President Halimah who had declined mercy would cut ribbons and draw strings to unveil plaques here opposite Wadi next weekend. The PM would wear native dress; through the week he had been fitted out in Uncle wear for a HDB meeting it may have been, 1960s dowdy grey and blank. (Following all the malarkey up in Malaysia they were all of course especially careful now. Keep all jewels of any sort well and truly outta the picture. They were so daft up North parading like that.) But what’s all that got to do with where we started, the bag offa the back of a lorry in the Geylang night stopped on the roadway beside Wadi right there?... Well might one ask. This chap had been scared a bit by the tight-fitting neck-tie story. Unpleasant that. A bit gross. Hadn’t seen it coming at all and unfairly assaulted. It was different to a regular death that, diabetes, hospital, that was how death was supposed to go. One needed to give the devil a bit of relief now…. Well, my man, you recall there was no grass under those pavements trees there yesterday, right? Baked earth; not a blade of any description, not by a long shot. Now, will you just lookie there. What do you see, tell me? Some of the kampung brought to your neck of the woods here. By next week the strands of grass will have been tamped down properly and knitted. Looks nice don’t it, you haveta admit. Fits the bill. You remember before nothing?... Ah. Well. In fact, by jingoes, yea. Yes. Botak before. (Bald.) The man well recalled. For next weekend it would be much better, a good sight better, a picture.

Star_ucks Desperation (published NWW July20)

published in a longer sequence, titled Strange Fruit, by New World Writing, July 2020

Sheer desperation. Bus ride into Lil’ Ind. did not appeal. The uncles and aunties were perfectly alright of course, much preferable to the smartly polished on the trains. But as one slowly/not so slowly approached years of sere, you felt a little.… out of sorts among that company all the time. So, with the late hour following some extended labour on the pages, after a local lunch at the Haig, a café. This was the second in the last ten days. Since the return the third or fourth. There had not been a single café in three months on the Peninsular; a few in Jogja and Jakarta, so no more than three/four since old/new Melbourne town. The Starbs outlet here on Tanjong corner was renovated last year; enlarged after it overtook Superheroes next door. There had indeed been a noticeable downturn in the heroes on the street in recent times. It may have been almost a week Superman had not appeared; the Bat was holding up better, film treatment and related helping him retain some grip. Meanwhile Starbs had justified its investment in spades, weekends and evenings in particular chockers. Cheap wifi—and pretty rapido at that; aircon always precious; escaping the pigeon-holes of course. Eric at Wadi the other night had mentioned the enthusiasm for Starbs among all the young guys at his ad. agency. Starbs and only Starbs for that crew; they held all their meetings there, lounged and dated under the F&B golden arches equivalent. Window lounge chairs today all taken except close by the White guy up on the stool fixed on his top. Impossible to park one’s bottom in that vicinity. Two guys of an age, stubbled, oozing plenty cool between them, sitting adjacent would not be right. Dispirit the locals on the one hand, and inevitably dilute the brand on the other. No way. Worse still, another chap of the favoured race sat only ten metres distant hard against the window beneath a cheap, fake panama. Imagine that triangle had one stumbled blindly, switched off and witless. Over to the other side with you Buster well outta harm’s way, beside the escalators, good back-rest against the wall. Not prime viewing in that corner and sucked into the mall proper, but what to do? decision had been made. Almost immediately like a sprung trap the Malay girl from the cosmetic shop on the other corridor swanning past Helloing. Scarf and baju; a sweetie beneath all that assemblage. The layers were always laid on a bit thick by that gal. Occupational hazard maybe; but only maybe. The confession must not be withheld: today the lounge and blues re-masters actually hit the spot more or less at Starbs Tanjong corner. Satchmo, Billie and two or three other hoarse voices. Love is like a prophet (if that was right). As long as I have youuuu. I—love—you—madly. The dial down a bit. There had been no music many months now. It was possible even the notices of publications during the term on the Peninsular had not been celebrated with the usual Maria Call. and Jussi. Steely cold discipline had to give eventually. You make me feel so young / You make me feel Spring has sprung was not a favourite. What a strange, strange period it had been, that two or three years of Deano in his tuxe, Bob dropping his well-timed lines (and later learning he had in fact been such a dunderhead; all scripted and the man himself boring as batshit), the ladies in the flouncy dresses. Shaky B&W TV back then, songs, chat, dances, joke routines. Here they had never quite overcome the attraction. There had been no rebellion in the 60s or 70s here. We had all come full circle now of course across the globe, back to the future. But Sing’ had kept the home fires burning all the long while. They were hanging a man here in the morning; first light. There had been no news locally. Up on the Peninsular the family had received a letter from the prison on Monday advising them to make their arrangements. Friday tomorrow. Hangings here always took place Fridays; the powers found value in the designated marker day. Beefy had said 100gm was enough for the noose in Sin’pore. He showed the usual 300 pack about the size of two ciggie boxes; a bit larger. A third of that. In a comment on the Malaysiakini piece that delivered the news the writer had suggested that doubtless Sing’ Pharma would in short order be involved in the medicinal trade in this changing climate. Too late for the man tomorrow.

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-strange-fruit-singapore/

Wedding Bells (Mar26)

 

 

Some days before there had been news reports of the disturbances at the famous Sabarimala Temple in the Southern Indian state of Kerala. A recent ruling of the Indian Supreme Court had overturned the prohibition against menstruating women entering. Hard-line traditionalists were resisting the decree, numbers of local women among them. A stand-off had resulted, threats of violence one side and vows to persist the other.

In neighbouring Tamil Nadu the position of conservatives and reformers would be much the same. The Muslims too had a problem with menstruating women attending prayers at the mosque. There would be no easy resolution.

In the lead up to the wedding of the Komala cashier’s daughter, the news had struck.

Four or five months before when the mother of the bride had begun with arrangements, a consultation with an astrologer was mentioned. In fact, it emerged that before the wedding could be planned the astrologer was crucial. There was one bejewelled and marked old man always resplendent in finest starched dress who regularly lunched at the restaurant. Clearly he was some kind of holy man; it came as a surprise when it turned out the chap was in fact a professional astrologer.

In the Indian sectors in Malaysia the pavement fortune-tellers often consulted astrological charts that were spread on the ground in front of the customer. The man at KV had clearly found a much better paying clientele. Chap kept up an office perhaps, or else visited and conducted business at the temples.

Whenever this man took his lunch at Komala the waiters, customers and senior staff gave him particular attention. Likely the chap was not charged for meals.

Would a prospective Hindu bride’s menstrual cycle be factored into calculations for the date of a wedding? Even in the case of a professional young woman in Singapore, in this case marrying a Brisbane Queenslander?

Numerous questions in the long lead-up could not be put. At least not to the bride’s mother.

Though the prospect of a Hindu wedding appealed, there was some hesitation accepting the invitation. Had the KV cashier Auntie not given a number of reminders, there would almost certainly have been an avoidance. This lovely woman could not be denied. Having a fellow Australian in attendance from her side might have been thought fitting too for the new son-in-law.

For some strange reason, the wedding was scheduled for 7:30AM. Possibly the astrologer’s doing again. The Chinese bus driver didn’t know the temple by name, but there were two there off South Bridge Road. It would be one or the other, the man assured. Bells from the morning prayer indicated the way. The timing turned out perfect.

At the entry three or four dozen slippers spread around the gate. Inside the temple it took some while to realise that was not the place for the wedding proper. Guests might have stopped there for their morning prayers; the wedding itself would be held up in the adjacent hall on the left. One of the older worshippers indicated the stairs.

There had been no sign of the cashier Aunt, nor any other familiar face down by the altar.

The removing of the hat should have been anticipated. An old man obliged with the reminder. While waiting for familiar faces to appear, the morning prayer itself was interesting. Up in the inner sanctum the focus on the lingam was familiar from earlier temple visits. The fast-paced circuit in front, however, had not been seen previously. There was almost the look of a race about it, and one or two Chinese participating with what looked a competitive streak.

Four or five years ago a Tamil friend had said the Chinese often prayed in Hindu temples, hoping to improve their luck in the lotteries.

On entry upstairs the groom’s party were waiting to greet the guests, a freckled and ginger-haired dozen all in dhotis & saris. An inevitable sense of fancy dress almost led to a joke.

At the front of the room the priest was busy with his preparations, the groom hot-footing around the raised platform. A pair of musicians, drummer & horn, sat up front on the floor against the wall. At what seemed some irrelevant point, they abruptly started playing and would keep up for the duration, pretty much. One of them later introduced a hand bell.

In her colourful clothes and beneath her make-up and heavy kohl liner, the KV cashier auntie had been difficult to identify from ten metres off. In conversation with the priest, the lady’s head loll was visible from behind.

The take-away lady from the KV kitchen was similarly spectacular, and similarly unrecognisable.

Whenever the KV owner visited the restaurant, she was always dressed in that elaborate fashion. This woman arrived an hour late, but she was still in time to perform her role blessing the bride. It turned out the woman had overslept after news her younger daughter had given birth in the States.

The blessing of the bride was the highlight of the ceremony. Eventually the young woman entered, took her place on the floor up front before the settee, and soon one woman after another began attending on her in turn. First came the mother, passing two or three clay vessels around her daughter, standing on the girl’s right and starting at the near shoulder. From there she moved behind to the other shoulder and then around in front, where both knees were touched by the bowls & trays.

After the mother, it must have been the aunts come out from Chennai, two younger women in their own elaborate costumes. (Both a shade less outstanding compared to the local contingent.) During the acquaintance at the resto the cashier Aunt had returned to her birthplace two or three times for the weddings of nieces & nephews. Here her sisters were returning the favour, circling the young bride with the vessels like her mother.

The young woman bore up smilingly to all of it.

A bottle-brush moustachioed man standing to the side off the platform against the wall could only have been the father. None of the audience looked on as keenly as he, though for his part the man seemed to have nothing to do with formal proceedings. Certainly there was none of the Western giving away of the bride.

Bride and groom had been working and living in Myanmar the last couple years. The Australian connection had troubled the KV Aunt from the outset, the great distance giving concern.

There were no tears, no obvious emotion. After the two Chennai aunts were done it was the turn of the KV owner, a good friend of the cashier. The pair often sat together, both behind the register and at the tables over lunch. That the owner was a good sort had been proved over the years with her kindness and consideration for her workers, who were mostly poor fellow Tamils from the homeland, sometimes Muslims among them.

During the preparation of the bride with what looked like the sprinkling of turmeric, among other dressings, it had been the groom’s sister assuming the position beside her on the floor. The two women were formally confirmed, while the groom’s mother, who was also in attendance, was left out of proceedings. No doubt a Hindu mother-in-law came into her own in the time ahead. The father of the groom was not in attendance here.

Fertility rites were pretty clear. With the touches on the bride’s knees there also came various fruits on trays, young coconuts and other. Later the pair of brothers-in-laws took a turn on the platform, the bride’s brother grasping the other firmly by the wrist as they first began their move up the aisle. The blessing of this pair seemed less consequential.

Bride and groom would no doubt end on the settee together in the last phase, showered with flowers, or the like. Then photos with family & friends. The Malays sat their brides and grooms on thrones before the guests, kings and queens for a day, they said, the floor sometimes carpeted with money.

Taking the lead from the quiet Tamil waiter from the resto, in the end an envelope was improvised and a couple of tens inserted before departure. The waiter had left his offering with people sitting in the row in front.

In preparation for the event, the Sufi Zainuddin, who had attended a number of Hindu weddings in his time, had suggested a tenner was enough.

The last of the proceedings would be missed. It seemed best to withdraw. The ceremony was due to end at 9: 30 and the feast following.

Weeks later the KV Aunt a number of times expressed her disappointment that no food had been taken at her daughter’s wedding. By way of recompense, one or two lunchtimes she had attempted to pay for the meal.

 

 

NB. Subsequent information proved the guess-work correct: the menstrual cycle would indeed have factored in the astrologer’s calculations, along with date & time of birth. And the mother of the groom being a widow left no role for her in a Hindu ceremony.

 

 

 

                                                                                                                             Singapore 2011-26