Its Own Reward updated Oct23

Difficult to credit. Hard to believe your eyes. A young teen pacing along at the Haig in front of the shoe store, with her mother couple of steps before it may have been. There may have come a sour mouth flash of disapproval at the gaze. (If only the lady could credit; if she could know the brief.) Thirteen or fourteen, no more. Chinese, simple cut, glasses; the holidays offering an opportunity for a short outing. There had been a market visit earlier; no maid by the looks. Modesty of attire like that indicated a tight budget. There was still modesty of various kinds to be found on this island, in this republic; even among that particular age cohort. It was still reasonably common, though rarely flagged quite in this style. Black bold caps on white, in an arc high across her chest. (Well above the girl’s ripening breasts.) Never the like seen previously in eight years of eyes keenly peeled. VERY GOOD. Can you imagine those of you on the other side; in your distant lands?

Macedonians, Dalmatians, Slovenes, Montenegrins & Bengalis

In the mix overnight Dragi Jovanovski had somehow put in an appearance, emerged from the scrum of foreign workers here no doubt, who shared so many of the features of our own crowd from that earlier era of the 60s down on the Great Southern Land. This morning at the kitchen sink the little Bangla lad through the window was sweeping the Void beneath Block 9. Wielding a brush-broom and swinging into his improvised shovel (from a 20l. oil can), the earpiece he was wearing delivering tunes or news from home no doubt. At one point the elderly man on the iron bench facing the carpark seemed to lift his legs in the time-honoured way in order to give access beneath. Down in Spotswood Dragi—“Dear” literally—enjoyed Engelbert Humperdinck and Tom Jones on his little trannie in the room at the end of the hallway. When he finally returned to Macedonia to bring out his wife and son Dragi left a suitcase with us for safekeeping and cried out back before departure. Tall, dark, chain-smoking Dragi, quiet, cheerful and respectful, with his cans of Spam and jars of chili. Once over the choice of a TV channel after Bab had finally relented and bought the box, a young teenage scream had told Dragi where to get off. Like Godfather Luka, Dragi made a frightful sight in the hospital at his premature end, unfit to be seen by youngsters. Frane the Dalmatian—or Islander, he liked to correct, being from Pag in the Adriatic—with his wife Ana the Slovene, took Bab out to the hospital. The look of the group on return made you wonder about the other side of the screen.

Dumbshow (updated Oct23)

Crossing in front of Darul Aqam a greeting from the side. It happened often enough, you were dreaming sauntering along with the morning newspaper under your arm. No kind of surprise. Who was this, then? On the right a metre off, there low to the ground and almost past, it turned out the showman Deaf in fact, bright and chirpy as usual, giving his signature salute. The call had emerged very close to the standard in these parts, a touch rough around the edges, but by no means incomprehensible. Perfectly intelligible and immediately understood. It had been a first with that kind of crystal clear enunciation from that particular quarter; certainly neither of the other two Deaf were capable of anything of the sort. Once or twice in recent time this man had been met, if not in fact bested, in the ceremony of greeting there by the market. Sprung out from the side suddenly directly in the middle of the path, first of all there was an abrupt plonking of the feet as if for bracing, Sumo style. Slow-slow-slow unwinding of hand from behind that forced the man to stand back, as if observing a bird taking flight. Iceberg drift imperceptibly circling in a wide, impossibly high arc. Hold your breath! Steady on and patient. CLAP the cymbals. Thumb-rub or pinkies and thumbs both together. Ha! How. About. That! A day or two prior the chap had been sighted on the other side of the concourse at the Haig passing the first row of tables at the head of a little posse of Batam girls. Lasses from the neighbouring isle were following almost in single file in their newly laundered attire, behind the finger the Deaf held out high before him. In the deplorable old flicks the Cavalry had charged on a sudden raid behind precisely such a sign from the leader on the horse out front.

Don’t Let ‘em Get the Wrong Idea (Nov25)

Common story of daughters, mothers & maids, re-told many a time here. Children who have been cared for by loving maids—or nannies in other parts—when they reach adulthood will call the latter in order to share their burden, relieve their anxieties, announce triumphs and happiness. (Often the maid rather than mother or father, indeed.) When they marry they will insist on the former maid attending the wedding, no expense spared flying them over. A maid will have the password to the house wifi disclosed secretly by the children. BUT don’t tell Mummy, Auntie. Don’t! Ni couple days ago was gifted a new phone by her employer’s daughter. She had explained to the young woman, a piano teacher, that she would be unable to reply to her messages from “outside,” not by text at least, as that function had become inoperable on her old Oppo. Oh! Oh!... The young woman saw the problem; the button on the side was missing and the cursor would not land. OK. OK. She would try to get Ni a new one. Some kind of old substitute, Ni had thought. Next day, lo and behold! a new Redmi 8A still in its box and wrapping. Wah allah! Nice. Just what the doctor ordered. How much, Cathy? Perhaps the young woman would allow her to pay back in instalments. Merry Christmas, Auntie. (To the tune of $US100/6,499 Indian rupee. Not top of the range, but not bad either.) But golly, don’t tell Mummy. DON’T TELL! In this particular case Ni had only been with that family couple of months.

Careening Volunteering ✅Nov24

Bright bubbly volunteer in pink fluro, lanyard and plastic covered clipboard. Ruby lippy, subtle scent and simple, straight cut. Hello sir, sorry to disturb you. I am actually…. Crueled by the rain. A wad of tens stretched longways was clipped to the top of the board, the red note bearing the familiar first Malay President of the Republic: Yousef Somebody. (It recalled the old dodge of Slavisa’s supporting his harmonica-playing pal Uros up on stage: spitting on a $50 and slapping it on the musician’s forehead, in order to indicate the rate for requests.) What impressed above all here was the end of the forefinger indicating a paragraph on the board to which the lass wanted to draw attention. WOW-WEE. Indeed & forever! That didn’t look like false tack-on. Might have been all original cuticle, 25mm at a pinch and possibly 30 from the quick. Tapered here what was more, almost arrowhead form. Softer tone than either the polo or lips. The gal had planned ahead at the salon for this gig. The Us here commonly followed the model in the States, including a compulsory social service unit to the courses in aid of community, assisting the needy, fostering public spirit; &etc. The industrial strength hardener here was difficult to conceive.

Murder at the Haig - published by Open: Journal of Art & Letters

The link on OJAL's site, below, is now functioning it seems. But here is the piece:



Murder at the Haig

Glimpsed in passing feeding the pigeons and only once upon the lady did the realisation strike. You could not stop and stare. Possibly the woman had made a more certain ID herself immediately. A couple of weeks before she had been met in the yard out front of the house. A rather awkward meeting in fact. This is her, Helen had announced proudly with some kind of winner’s smile. The pair had been chatting by the greenery while two or three cats weaved between their feet. The English had surprised, together with the visage the woman presented. You assumed an old Chinese battle-axe, surly and sharp. On the contrary, once again here was an altogether classic soft Balkan Babushka—they were legion around the place. First word of the notorious lady had emerged about a month before: there was a convicted murderer living up at the Haig blocks, someone reported. It would turn out the deed had been done right there at the Haig—a woman who had killed her husband by her own hand. Ten or twelve towers of so many storeys, it stood to reason; the odds were perfectly in order. Hmm…. Interesting of course. Had one on the scent a little; casually, lazily. The fruiterer Mr Lim was asked, making conversation more or less one morning over the purchase. Yes, knew the lady. Quiet type; a little screwy. People kept away from her; a bit batty. What had happened? Why? How? None could bring themselves to ask, Mr Lim answered. More or less same again with Helen: gabbing one evening when she was feeding the cats on the near corner opposite the house. Here though, in this case, Helen unexpectedly declared she was in fact intimate with the party. I know the lady, answered Helen with her usual judicial air. The story went she and her husband had looked after the elderly ahma, the grannie; hubbie’s mum. Of course the work all fell on the daughter-in-law. Hubbie/son had been a bit aged himself by that stage, doddery and weak on his pins. In time god took back the old soul; they had done their best. Afterward the usual scramble for the cash. Those who had been absent before, visitors of their mother earlier at elder brother’s place, gathered now for the spoils. And promptly. Words exchanged; recriminations. How to grab the loot quick and get away? (They were lucky not to have the flat sold from under their feet.) Over that term of money-grabbing, the old, doddery hubbie had begun to echo some of the criticisms of his siblings. Blah blah blah. The wife had not done this or that right. Blah blah blah. One night continuing by the kitchen sink where the daughter-in-law/wife was busy preparing dinner. No, not dicing veggies the tired housewife; pounding chilli it must have been. In hand the mortar and pestle. Pounding. The old guy unrelenting. One word too many tipped the boiling bucket. POW! Crack! Like a lubenica, watermelon, they say in Serbia. One strike was enough; dead pretty much on the spot the old jawbones. Lady did five or seven years of her sentence; early release; temp. insanity whatnot. Here she was back at her former dwelling, returned to the neighbourhood. Auntie Helen lacked no gumption; a JW with lots of firm spirit; one who had done her own time over a matter of principle. Helen got it straight from the source. All the feeders in the neighbourhood naturally knew each other. There were alliances, as well as animosities and demarcations. Fed more than just birds this lady. (Helen herself had recently begun adding the crows that gathered on the near corner.) The sweet, redemptive part came at the end a few years later; few years back. The son, one of the children of the victim and of the killer, must have been a Buddhist. One advanced some good way in his studies and devotions. With enlightenment attained after proper reflection, the chap, the son, comes up to Mum one day in order to announce: Mother dear, when I come back, I want you to be my mother again.

                                                                                                  Haig Road, Singapore

https://ojalart.com/radonic-prose-poem/

Eunoia

Kwan Inn tasty laksa. The uncle at the next table somehow stirring his tea with the uncanny sound of a phone ring-tone, from memory based on a bird call. A few doors down at Tzuchi, the Taiwanese Buddhist teahouse, the old aunties attending in their white blouses and navy blue aprons, imbued with the kind of “sincerity” which was highlighted in the books in the window. Bringing the pot and cup on the black lacquered tray, the woman today had angled the landing on the crowded table-top in three or four separate motions, smiling the while without raising of eyes. Head bowed, cheekbones prominent, strands of grey through the dye on the crown. Chat with the head who usually worked on his computer at one of the tables brought mention of Tzuchi’s larger centre out at Yishun, recommended especially for contemplative types, sited as it was beside a pond with greenery. There was lots of natural wood in the interior and screened from the road no cars were visible. None of the photographs the head displayed on his phone showed any of the old aunties attending; (buffet arrangement possibly there). The romanised eunoia was the term Aristotle had used for the benevolence and goodwill of the woman of a household, which the philosopher asserted ultimately formed the basis of human ethics and civilisation. The aunties at the Sims Avenue Tzuchi provided the quality in spades. Johnny K., the local non-practising architect/graphic artist, who enjoyed Kwan Inn’s vegetarian fare, had once entered Tzuchi, he recalled, without being able to take a seat. The pretentiousness of the setting had been too much, the knockabout lad reported. No doubt Johnny’s eyes had fallen on the decor and furnishings and he had not hung around for the old aunties’ performance. Understandably, a Chinaman in his own element could easily take that feature for granted. Even in back corners of Singapore, the Aristotelian touchstone was losing meaning.

 

 

 

                                                                                                     Paya Lebar, Singapore