Changes On the Ground (Parrot Man) ✅Nov24

It was time to get to the bottom of the matter at the newly established Al-Azhar. Al Wadi had closed four months ago, before the departure. The new eatery had been announced well in advance: another Indian Muslim operation that had outlets at upscale Bukit Timah (Tin Hill) and Tampines. The food would be better under the new operators, old Hussein the Wadi boss had frankly admitted. What Hussein had failed to mention, what the man might not have known, was the accompanying decline of the teas that was coming. After almost four months away one was hesitant to pass judgment prematurely. Was the halia indeed nothing like the former? Could these dubious taste buds be trusted? Well, time to ask Mu. Who better than the grand tea-master himself. Muttalib the Tamil was one of the handful of former Wadi crew who had been retained by the new outfit. Likely the Al-Azhar chiefs had observed the man operating. Not only quick and efficient at his own task, fluent in Malay and with adequate English, but Mu also knew how to supervise his off-siders preparing the ices and sweets and collecting the cash. Eric the ad man had made the same observation during his patronage. Excellent competence and efficiency. Well then, what say you, Mu? This halia ain’t the same, is it? We are a way from that former rich brew, right? The suspicion was the new guys had descended to packeted ginger most likely. The dry, desiccated product was not a patch on the fresh article. Owning up immediately the little honest Tamil, Mu. Right you were; it was not the same. But, no, not packets. It was a different company now providing; different product involved. Unlike former days, none of the tea-houses in Sing diced their own ginger any longer. For that delectation one needed to cross the Causeway and trip up a couple of kilometres into Johor proper. Almost a drug the tangy syrup blending condensed milk, tea and fresh ginger, bubbly with a head on it like beer when stretched from a height—tarik. Across the way beneath the market the re-positioned Mr Teh Tarik was not a whole lot better. ABC on Changi Road likewise conformed to type. As a last resort perhaps the new Al Falah Baraka—mystifyingly translated by Google as “It has a living”—ought be sampled. (The former Har Yasin run by the old ogre Hanifa had donned new livery for some reason best known to themselves.)

Another absence too now of a different kind. A more plangent note here. The Parrot Man, the noseless old curmudgeon who had presumably slipped down the remission rungs during these months of absence, was gone from the neighbourhood. No more in life. The bird had outlived the man. There had been an item in the newspaper, Ahmad reported that same morning Mu was quizzed about the tea. The run-ins with officialdom had earned the Parrot Man a certain profile in the Republic, a certain level of notoriety. Of course the man cut a memorable figure. Ahmad had not been a fan of the Parrot. Once again mention was made by Ahmad of the chap’s abrupt, challenging manner in the course of his tissue-selling. Cruising the tables at the eateries—the upper level at Geylang Serai Pasar in particular—the chap was wont to slap packs on the tables and then presumptuously circle back for his collection of the money. This was in addition to going about with the hole in his face uncovered, the red raw wound naked and gaping at you. A more self-possessed and dignified beggar/tissue-seller would never have stooped to such pitiful pleading, Ahmad thought. So far as the man’s religion went too, he had been all over the shop. Dressed pretentiously in the Muslim attire while doing his rounds at Geylang Serai, Parrot was nonetheless known to attend Buddhist Temples, churches and Hindu places of worship. Unlike the other jumpers from the towers, it seems Parrot Man had resolved to do the deed at his own block at Geylang Bahru, over behind Kallang. Mid-year the jumper at the Haig here had traveled from his own neighbourhood to the hawker centre in front of Block 11, where he had bought a little plastic stool in order to enable him to get over the balustrade. At his own block by the Kallang River, the Parrot Man must have used his own from home.

Publication news: Buddhist Xmas - Storgy

Hallo all

A timely publication to announce.
A London lit & art magazine called Storgy has published a flash of mine titled “Buddhist Christmas”—set in Singapore of course, on the edge of my neighbourhood in Geylang Serai.
Digital & freely available on their site—

https://storgy.com/2019/12/05/day-5-buddhist-christmas-by-pavle-radonic/

Cheers & happy/merry
P

Whale of a Cloud (July26)

Nearing 6 when the Buddhist teahouse was left. Strangest of ghostly rainstorms. Down the lorong people were scuttling along trying to make cover before it started. The bus stop, the motor car, the covered five-foot-way desperately sought. Skipping across Geylang Road the segments ahead needed to be measured up until the Chinese Cyber, if it was indeed still operating. Three crossing in all. In Jogja a single crossing of no more than five metres between verandas had once needed an ojek payung to prevent thorough dousing. This rain here would be nothing like, but still—a new tee, new trousers. The panama, the second in the almost eight years, was near the end of its service. Badly discoloured and the peak torn after an accident in Melbourne with a truck’s side mirror. The straw would provide welcome cover. Locals in the Tropics knew what they were about covering the tops of their heads in the slightest of showers. G. Road effortlessly skipped. Couple Viets they may have been near the corner—new imports to the red zone they looked—needed to be ignored. The older hand escorting the slightly younger and prettier who had called her up on the phone a minute before had brought along a shield they shared. Big drops on the first crossing, bounding over with an elastic stride in case the girls might be looking. Peds in flight, bums up & heads down. In the puddles the drops appeared low calibre gun-fire—a shoot-out had been narrowly avoided. No. 2 lorong passed: every prospect reaching the goal with only minor spattering. Glancing over to the other side of the four lane road toward Sims Avenue, from where one had started, uncannily vivid blue now in a wide band somehow. The ugly, portentous black cloud had indeed hung easterly on this other side. Looming. Whale-shaped. Possibly at the outset it had been more like an inanimate form, such as a promontory, a peninsular, or half peninsular. (Not a camel, certainly.) The Balkans perhaps, including Greece, Albania, Serbia, Montenegro and perhaps portions of Croatia & Hungary. One was heading into its heart; the guts of the darkly hovering beast. A beast which had seemingly shifted its position in the interim, moved to the other side of the shop-row. Some soap would have been handy in order to save the $8 coconut-based shaving soap from FOE. (Friends of the Earth.) Brought along in the hand luggage. Onward—we were under cover after all. What awaited further up was a question. (Certainly City Plaza, 500 or 600 metres on, was a bridge too far.) One Indian place, the regular Bangla and another Indian that may have been Chinese, produced precisely nada—only manufactured supermarket product. The single “homemade” cake in wrinkled plastic appeared dubious. Perhaps a shower here could be omitted that evening. In the Spring cool of Melbourne 3-4 day intervals had been possible between showerings. Strange. There did not seem to be a breath of wind. What with the cloud? Ladies continued with their brolleys raised, but wherefore? Without reason. Clear, bright skies through & through. Plain sailing as far as the eye could see. At the third crossing a look over to the East confirmed: nothing but delectable, scrumptious blue, wide-stretched such as was rare in the Tropics, athwart the Equator at least. Luscious tone reminiscent of scooped ice cream in a tub. The movement of currents here remained a mystery eight years on. On the flight back two days before the captain had forecast some rockiness in the last portion of the journey, for which on landing he had unnecessarily apologised. The usual Tropical “turbulence,” did he say? Could have fooled me. Ground level certainly there was anything but on the Equator. The Canadian panama trader around in Joo Chiat, a long-term resident himself, had made the point during the purchase of the No. 2: Windlessness guaranteed, no need fear the straw blown away in a sudden gust. Down in Carlisle Street, St. Kilda (Melbourne), the sought-after classic Ecuadorean had been nowhere to be found.

Hunting Party Sept25

Santa’s COMING for us!… Jazzed up number like stumbling over a cliff when you weren’t watching your step, first morning of the return. The shopping district in Melbourne top of Bourke Street was still lagging behind the best part of a month out…Was it only, Santa’s on his way? No, indeed. COMING. Watch out for your neck if the deer by the bend on the river catch you out! Thus far there were only hung boxed installations holding doves, one that had emerged from its cage swinging more freely than the confined. Otherwise discs in three or four colours & plastic vine. The white elongated cages had adopted the popular local form, all properly secured hopefully, unlike the wall that had collapsed on the young Bangla worker out at the site by the Anglo Chinese School. Fourth workplace casualty this month—which made November the worst for the year. In the last week before departure a chap had been battling manfully in his front yard attempting to anchor his inflatable Santa in Severn Street. Rocking on his black boots, the old guy’s jollity was a little excessive. Formerly nondescript Severn now made a row of neatly painted and maintained dwellings the entire stretch, almost not a single case of shabbiness. Passing through just a couple weeks before there had been the Halloween motifs sprung up, every second dwelling decorated with the crepe, skulls, masks and bones over the yards, across the windows and along the driveways. Halloween in the land of surf & sun, like the straight right the heavyweight champ had delivered the Cuban challenger in Vegas recently.

                                                                                                              Kinex, Geylang Road, SG, 28 Nov 2019

Conflagration (Sept26)

S-L-O-W, slow, slow turning of the pedals on Nicholson Street in particular this afternoon, coming out for lunch. At the top of Leeds lifting sand and gravel from the desert garden along the rail-line. It would be disastrous in the bushland up in the north. There had been some modelling on ABC for the expected winds in South Australia, where more fires had started. Coming through Seddon Bab had been recalled again, this time on the subject of wind, - the wild gusts suddenly out of nowhere, like someone had let it out of a bag. (Up in the Montenegrin high country it had been a Homeric life, the language fitting.) Palms & gums bending, plastic bags like our own birds of augury, carried on high full sail. A bearded ped. who had emerged from between the cars attempting to cross Nicholson had swung to an unexpected halt at the galant on his white Mojo, nose down and bum up, edging along like some kinda strange insect. How the Firies were coping lord only knew. In parts of NSW there was no water available for them. Only today the restrictions had come into force for car washing and garden watering in Sydney, where catchments stood under 60%. The toughest restrictions in ten years. The recently elected conservative federal government the while looking the other way, seeking to smooth the environmental processes for major projects. The DPM had been caught on radio talking about the multi-billion dollar coal industry and the government’s responsible oversight. In the accompanying photograph and tone of voice, the man was not so many degrees removed from the Commander in Chief in the great Northern Republic. In the green urban centre here, the fires were as distant and remote as the war zones of Afghanistan & Syria; it was exceedingly difficult to get any kind of adequate impression. At the supermarket on Paisley homeward bound, a mother had called her young boy back from indoors in order to point out for him the chocolate-orange tinted clouds blown over. There. See that. That’s from those fires, she informed the little champ, who may have had questions from the evening news.

Gauguin Again - published Orca Lit Journal

Gauguin Again

The Best Way To Pick-up Vocab.

Love letters of course. Especially those addressed to oneself. Could anything else come close?

         The woman had used the term a week or so earlier for the first time; never heard before. A good number of marvellous Indo lovers and never once.

         Suddenly she delivers "rindu."

         You guess the rough contours immediately. She has “missed” you many times before, but this development tickled.

         "Rindu you P...."

         And in the second example yesterday, "Okay... Rindu you P...really..."

         She was serious maybe. Thirteen and more months without meeting. She was back home and you back Downunder.

         One of the most fevered, immodest lovers you have ever had the good fortune to hold in your arms was more than missing you. She was rindu you. Longing. Yearning. Really.

         You kept the mail, the five word tweet, at the head of your Inbox where it refreshed every time you flicked the screen. Supercharged. Enflamed. Others kept a lock of hair, or used to.

         The earlier one had been filed in the folder. This one would remain at the head of the Inbox for some while. Perhaps until we meet, when it could be filed again.

                                    Melbourne, Australia

Electra in Java

A recent fantasy gnawing away at the edges in Jogja won't let go. (Blushingly it must be recorded.) At the upcoming reunion Nia on her knees clasping the legs of her lover, holding tight and imploring quietly in the sea-shell voice she managed sometimes on the phone particularly. You are my father now Pee.... Barely loud enough to hear. Cavernous voice like the priestesses of the old temples might have used. And Ni perhaps going on to add, The only one I have.... Remarkable. Riveting. Both on the phone and at one’s side Ni’s accent and mangled English often made her incomprehensible; then on other occasions perfect sense and often even sharp point. Holding fast as if to a mast; no tears and firm equally in grip and utterance. Nia would speak and act with such ease and simplicity there would be no room for awkwardness. (The only useful fantasies are those that have the realistic potential for fulfilment.) Erotic reaction inevitably, which Ni either intuits, or else independently moves in the same direction herself. One of our signal moments unfolded with this last as part of an earlier reunion, it might have been after the three months in Malaysia. By the doorway of the narrow room as usual Ni was received in the pink floral sarong, clasped close and squeezed tight. Another girl might have ignored the prod at her side for the moment. Ni's father had "fast away", she had texted earlier in the month. (As usual the phone had been switched off, messages of any kind left for a time of one's choosing and at leisure.) One or two nights before Ni had heard her father's voice. She had not spoken to him, but heard him playing with his grandson, the son of Nia's brother, while Ni spoke to her own daughter in the same room. That was the last Nia would hear of her father's utterance, a man of good, simple life, she reported again by text a day or two later. She would of course miss the funeral. In the days afterward the daughter, an adopted young girl of eight, asked her mother, What is this life? ..... (So-and-so) dying like that and now kakek. (Earlier in the year an uncle, husband of Nia's older sister, had passed away after a brief illness.) In the figure on the floor clutching the legs of her lover there was housed too, like another Russian doll, the semblance of Anita, another lover, a wild, impulsive and reckless woman. Neet was the one who would more likely be granted her wish in this regard, if only she could be brought round. Neet had lost her father long ago; at one point in the bloom of the relationship Neet had said she needed a husband who could lead her through life. (A virtual relationship with an ustad, religious teacher had ended badly when the man married one of her friends. No Second Wife position for her—unlike Nia, who had volunteered the concession unasked.) Eighteen months before after some difficulties we had landed in a terrible muddle; now almost certainly there was no hope with Neet. The image of the girl on the floor worked for an Indon woman. In Java a man could reasonably fantasize about such devotion. With lovely Indon women a lucky chap's hand could be taken for greeting or farewell and brought to the forehead, before being imprinted with an appreciative kiss. Ohya!... From the same historical novel as the other. One would like to line up all the Western male readers one could find and walk down the aisle slowly turning to them with patient explanation, an immeasurable sea of figures like in the culmination of the Sokurov Hermitage film. Gentlemen, no writerly fantasy this of which you have read, let me assure you. Please understand and make no mistake. Truly, such is our poverty.

                                    Yogyakarta, Indonesia

 Overcome

The condemned are extended a last meal of their choosing. In the days prior a wish had been expressed for a masala thosai from Mr. Teh Tarik to be brought to the room. At the bottom end of Geylang the Eateries stopped serving the cheap Indian roti dishes at noon in order to promote their more expensive fare for the lunch hour. Har Yassin, Mr. T. T., Kampung Cafe all the same. Taking away the thosai and eating it cold was not really a good option either. Told all this Nia picked up a food packet from the Haig Road stalls, nasi with sambal, sotong (squid) and vegetables. Brown grease-proof paper bound with an elastic band. The foreign workers often took their food this way; sitting high at table among the locals spoilt their appetite.
         From the swivel desk-chair Nia spooned to her resistant lover on the bed. After a late breakfast he had taken a light lunch not long before.
         — Faster P. Faster.
         Nia insisted. A motherly, nurturing instinct that could not be denied. Heaped spoons that lost some of their freight on the short trip across the gap needed a cupped hand beneath.

         Nia had taken an adopted daughter to satisfy her mother; thus far she had not had her own child. In the intermediate future she was hopeful for one. The fine house in the kampung had long been built; the plan was now to reach her savings target, which would finance a small warung in Bali where the culinary expertise learned in Singapore would provide a living.
         — Faster Peeee....
         (Ni had been mock-warned not to use the elongated form. The play was irresistible to her.)
         An excellent cook like Nia knew which stall to choose for Take-out. A wonderful meal, rich and succulent, most of the sea-food passed across because of the lover’s known preference. (The avoidance of the starched white rice was also known.)
         — What you want to say to me? when the meal was done and Nia moved to the bed.
         There was some apprehension at the forewarning. Some little, insufficient concern.
         — .... You going back to Australia....
         Tears came quickly. Quiet, soundless weeping turned aside. Not a word or sound uttered. Still as if there was no breath. Turned aside and unresponsive to caresses.

         An energetic, strong and passionate love-affair was over. There had been little slow-tempo before in the eighteen months.
         — You will marry her. Nia immediately leapt to the worst.
         For many months despite all, she had hoped for marriage. Her father could not condone a boy-friend; the kampung disallowed anything of the sort, under any circumstances.
         No words of reproach of any kind throughout the more than two hours. None. That came in an email the next day and was quickly retracted with apologies.
         — It's OK.
         — It's nothing.
         — ... Nothing compared to daughter...
         — Please let me go. At the end when she was making off to the bathroom before departure.
         As hoped, there had been good, fitting words found for the difficult task. There could be no real rehearsal; a couple of little points framed. Friendship would remain; should there be any need for help, there would be someone to call on, Nia was assured. Any problem at work, the internet, map assistance, whatever. (A day or two previously Ni had needed the nearest MRT to Yishun. The app for Maps she had not been able to download for some reason. Nia had been a fast learner on the web; there must have been some particular problem.) The future with the new girl was impossible to guess. She had been met five or six months ago; in the last four or five weeks the intimacy suddenly blossomed. (Clearly after the last meeting with Nia.) It had happened unexpectedly. In two or three months the outcome would be known; there was no way of knowing anything at present. Nia should know too, should not forget, her lover had no-one; no father, mother, wife or child.

         There was no protest of any kind, not a single word. It had been impossible to guess how this may have went.
         During lunch at the corner of the window Nia had been lectured about the interest charge she was intending to exact on a loan to a neighbor from Bandung. Lending $600 and due $800 over four months of repayment. This was doing the friend a service; otherwise the Maid Agency would charge the usual outrageous sum. 
         But it was haram Nia. And for a neighbor too.
         Nia had accepted the rebuke. She had tried to counter the arguments, but at bottom knew the truth of the matter. Usury was haram for a Muslim, and this was steep too.
         Perfectly quiet, totally inaudible tears turned away in a three-quarter foetal position. Lucien Freud's paintings irritatingly came to mind.

         The tears were only noticed at the corner of the eyes peering from close behind holding the woman. It was standing tears for a long time, no attempt at wiping and no running. Without any sobbing or whimper.

         After an hour a tissue was sought. A couple of months earlier Nia had brought a large pack of tissues together with the lunch cooked at home, the fruit and nut dessert and drinks.

         After an hour Ni began wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, with her knuckles and then fingers digging out tears. Lastly the tissue.
         Six months previously there had been a dalliance of some kind with a Malaysian-Chinese Security Guard who showed Nia his $40k savings in his bank account. Once, and then a second time, Nia had broken appointments to meet the serious suitor. In her first divulging of the matter Nia  had made the point she would be frank and open; there would be nothing under-hand; simple honesty was best.

         Now when she was reminded of the matter Nia finally stirred a little from her torpidity.
         No! No!... Shivering…. Nothing. Never….Quietly voiced and adamant.
         Half-jokingly Nia had been told she couldn't really be trusted from that time on. Almost certainly there had been nothing with the other; it seemed clear.
         — Actually I also don't want to cry, Nia declared when she had been asked to desist.
         It was understandable if Nia had used the Security Guard as a lever and prod. She had explained she had not sought the attention. Numerous times she had brushed off the chap. He must have been employed at the condominium where she stayed at Kovan. Nia was a girl who could not choose, she had explained in message or email in later pleading. Whatever Allah decided Nia would accept.

         There had been a six or seven month rupture before Ni's quiet, careful and persistent messages could no longer be ignored. Passionate loving like Nia’s could not easily be dismissed.
         — Playing huh? Playing.
         No!... There had been no playing Ni. Nothing of the sort.
         Through a wan smile and strands of falling hair that had been the closest Nia had come to reproach. Again, quietly voiced, without harshness and undeveloped.
         Consolatory love-making was declined. There came a short period of tenderness that was soon broken off. Again a kind of reflexive courtesy seemed involved; an appropriate and judicious restraint.
         — Bye. I go. Bye.
         Ni would need to plan again; re-think. In the new employment she had negotiated after Ramadan Nia would have carte blanche for staying out with her boy-friend. The new employer knew Nia to be responsible and trustworthy. (She had been poached from her old employer with a number of inducements.) Now there was no benefit in that arrangement. Nia needed to think again, plan again.
         She was OK. This was nothing compared to the daughter, even one adopted and loved from afar.

         The obvious lame joke about the shabby comparison had been cruel.

   

                                                                                                                          Geylang Serai, Singapore

https://orcalit.com/issue-1-spring-2019/?amp

Compass Needle (Philippe V. Again)

Boy of eight tall for his age crosses the tamped earth floor of the house in Western Bosnia not far from the Croatian border between the legs of his 2.1m tall granddad Stojan. The French-speaking, Algerian-born mother who had fled the war in the 60s had taken her sons to meet the family of her husband. Without Serbo-Croat the visitors would rely on other forms of communication and understanding. The boys learned fast in their new environment, where from what she had seen in the first two weeks the mother had the confidence to leave her children three months. Three months of learning animal husbandry, water-fetching from the spring, tending the vegetable plots and the standing hills all round. Old Stojan had another son named Milan, dear one; (the boy’s father was Slobodan; verb, adjective and talisman for free). After having escaped the country illegally in the late 50s in a commandeered school bus that he and a group of teenage companions drove to the Austrian border, from where they walked to Switzerland, were apprehended by the authorities, transported and dumped at the Red Cross Centre in Marseille, France, the boy’s father could not return home to Mali Dubovik. (Five hours the interview lasted for the mother and her two boys at Belgrade Airport on first landing in Yugoslavia, French interpreter officiating.) The whole of autumn in the small forest of oaks that gave Mali Dubovik its name—due south of Zagreb; Bihac 100kms west. The earlier visit to the mother’s side of the family in central France had been a useful preparation: tamped earthen floor again, animals sharing the house together with the peasants and the well indoors there. A thicker, forbidding you would have thought forest behind the French village (a neighbouring local boy of the same age steered well clear). After the early morning tending of the herd, collection of kindling, eggs from beneath the chickens and assorted other tasks, the dark stand here became a powerful draw for the new tall, older boy. Late afternoons hearing the bells of the returning herd was time to go back home, where no one asked the lad where have you been, what have you seen. The grandmother on the maternal side had been born on Malta and spoke Arabic; Corsican the buccaneering grandfather, on whose island there was a secluded cove perfect for requirements. (The dots were not difficult to join here: on a clear day the coast of Sardinia across the water enticed, and Malta not far distant.) The family still regularly gathered on the French/Italo island. Friday coming the man that was the tall boy would depart for Hobart, Tasmania; following on the 13th of the month begin across the lagoon into the wilderness west of Cockle Creek; a fortnight’s trek through the forest on the other side of the water, where a mountain awaited. Rain was expected and forecast throughout. On the last meeting Philippe took from his pack the Daygo waterproof trousers speckled with reds, blues and greens that were for evening celebrations at the camps. It was impossible to share such a trek; it could only be undertaken alone.