Campanology

Gone 7pm by the time all the paperwork was put aside. Coming up toward Nilla the temple bell opposite was ringing in the usual way that time of evening; pretty much the same as maghrib at the quarter hour. Dusk. The moon high again earlier in the evening. The two or three day moon had been first noticed up above the Paki mosque at one of the naan suppers at Reaz. Later that particular evening of the sighting Sameer the Kashmiri had Whatsapped an unsatisfactory photograph of the same he was viewing from our usual place at G. Serai. Some weeks before Sam had had his attention directed to a moon sailing above us. On that occasion it was suggested to the young man that we were failing in our weeks of talk at the table never once mentioning the moon there. The engineer seemed to have been nettled by the remark, or at least it had set him thinking. Moons presented a negligible spectacle on the equator. Here the bell of Rajamariammam delivered much the stronger impression. The nearest Hindu temple in Geylang Serai was too far from the market to be audible. After checking the veg. counter at Nilla and finding the cupboard bare the decision was made for the smaller iteration around the corner on Jl. Trus. Up the slight slope by the fortune-tellers either side. The old green parrot lady had evidently shut up shop for the night, or gone for her supper. That morning she had started early, well before the youngsters. Having paced up a few metres toward the corner it soon became apparent the evening had been transformed somehow. It was something like a ship changing course when there had been no command issued. Subtle in the first impression; soon the sense was strong enough first to cause a slowing of pace, and then a complete stop midstream. The chiming was not the same as before; the street was not being carried as just a minute ago by the ringing bell reaching up toward the crescent above. Having come to a halt the temple across the road again drew attention, its steepled yellow tower standing tall. On the way over a few minutes before a man had been fishing with a long pole at the banner strung between the pillars at the entrance to the grounds. The long plastic sheet advertising an event had become tangled in the wind, chap attempting to right it with his rod. To that point there had been no breath of wind. Watching the man prod at the banner the alert was received. Twenty feet off the ground the wind had some kind of strength. The banner had been twisted upon itself and upwind closer to Trus corner the peeling of the bell had been significantly muted; indeed rather twisted a little itself too. Caught in the wind, it was quite a different tune one was hearing now, a music as much for the heavens as for worshippers below. A shredded pealing like that would have little drawing power for souls lost in darkness in the surrounding streets. During lulls in business at Maccas in City Square here the staff used a little hand bell that rang out in the echoing void. A White turning in front of the counter there could not help feeling the weight of expectation in his passes.

 

                                                                                                                       Johor Bahru, Malaysia

Stylist Sept25

 

 

Earlier the short, regular waiter at Reaz greeted from across the road. Seated outside the barbershop, man as if he was sunning himself. (Mooning more like, were there moons of substance on the equator.) Shortly after the fellow withdrew indoors, where he was later spied on tippy toes stretching for the top of a customer’s crown in the chair. Between times a chap footed up the incline in an ugly NYC tee. (Prized in Pakistan no doubt, the same as on the Montenegrin coast.) Two minutes later out the first comes with the waiter who had served the “uncle” a short while before, the man who bringing the naan after the vegetable & dahl had encouraged, Makan, Eat. (Not the first time such short courtesy had been offered in these parts; known from other cultures too.) Difficult to find an example of a cooler, more commanding manner than possessed by this chap. Guys like this waiter had lured Western seekers to faraway Eastern ways from way, way back. Perfect ease, nonchalance, tightrope steadiness. There were no great voids or hollows in this man’s ambit; no such thing. Going down the incline in front of Reaz a few metres in company with the NYC, the latter had stroked his beard twice—thrice—and on more. A bad itch one may mistakenly have thought. The ten circuitous metres to the door opposite the pair wound over the broken pavement. (Roadworks had displaced Reaz from its original site, though the barbershop had remained on the bend.) In they proceeded at the door, the Cool Daddy first, as the other had pulled the wrong slider. It was understandable; none could give a better cut and trim. NYC had gone to fetch the man especially. Cutthroat at the neck, turning the guy’s head left and right like a faucet. Masterful barbers had long been a fascination—the old masters, not the poncey new. (Though the waiter/barber was still only in his middle thirties, he had the old ways of deserts, oases, steep mountain scree.) A short while after another was in the chair, needing a buzz this, razor for straightening lines. Following there came a spray from a tall green bottle with the look of dishwashing detergent, then oil in cupped hands. A scalp massage often held interest. In the case of this young master old before his time, the pressing, kneading and fluttering of hands were captivating to behold. As always, variation was the key, the butterfly dalliance at the temples and frontal lobe a ballet of puppet form.

 

 

NB. When he first came down here from India old patriarch Mohammad Reaz, weighing in currently at something like 120kgs, had set up with plastic comb and scissors.

 

 

 

Rat Alley For Real - published by Midway Journal, Oct2020

After a short circuit round the block and being put off for further by the dark clouds, one of the girls pointed the way up the lane. You could get through there, yeah, she indicated. Back onto Jalan Trus, Straight Road. In broad daylight there was nothing to fear. (A newspaper report relayed to little Lia in Puchong, KL, had detailed the slashing death of a woman in the same suburb. Found by her car, you had to think robbery-gone-wrong. Li had been working illegally in Puchong so many years now and had herself been cut in a snatch-and-grab.) Groups of girls in the brilliantly coloured Indian dress lined the lane, though at least a couple might have been Indos like Lia. Again, the same as a year ago in the drab corner of Klang, the port up at KL, these painted ladies in their finery suggested the remarkable release offered the labourers, the construction and industrial workers in their harsh, dismal circumstances. Amid the broken paving, the dust and grime and grey, crumbling buildings, startling birds of paradise waited. In the age of affluence elsewhere there was nothing to compare; no possible costuming able to provide anything like the same contrast. Fantastically mesmerizing bright colours, the clasps for the hair, the flash of cheap glitter. Broken concrete, bits of garbage and streams of dirty water marked the wider lane where the first of the girls loitered. Younger girls there still in their twenties; around on Trus near the methadone clinic cheaper older women stood in the entryways of the blocks without any of this finery. Pretty and fresh young girls some of them in the lower end of the lane, some with smooth, clear skin; not all “used up,” as used to be said for working girls. In the clasp of those arms wonderfully soft comfort. On the other side the alley proper, once it was entered, was every bit as wondrous. Single file only up along there; if someone had started before you in the opposite direction you needed to wait your turn. Two or three rats darted under the treacherous concrete steps; handrails were unnecessary with the rearing walls so close. Any coddled boy would climb wide-eyed and flabbergasted; gritty noir movies could never hope to capture the scene. You would like to run the old corrupt former PM here up through there with a cracking whip behind him; he and his grotesque wife with her fondness for handbags. In the capital the pair was currently undergoing numerous trials, defended by expensive lawyers drawing out the legal process every which way.

NB. Since published by Midway Journal (US), #14/No.4 Oct 2020

https://midwayjournal.com/johor-bahru-old-town/

Literary Community feature - Digging Through the Fat

Hello all

A US literary magazine called Digging Through the Fat is currently highlighting a couple of my recent publications on its site.

“Buddhist Christmas” was published by UK Storgy Lit. Mag. late last year. It was first drafted in the run up to Christmas 2016.

“Game On” presents an afternoon of dam/checkers in Geylang Serai, first written in 2013. Published by Paragon Press late last year.

Both pieces appeared in an earlier form on the blog.

Here is the link for both at Digging.

https://diggingpress.com/category/community/

Community Archives • Digging Through The Fat Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. diggingpress.com

Cheers & Pozdravs 

Pavle

The Heat Is On

Experimenting with the noon day sun at the City Plaza bus stop going out for lunch. Nearing 1PM in fact, the last quarter. Leaning against the bollard without touching the surface with the hands. The bollards kept us safe from any careering vehicles—nutters, sleepy-heads and terrorist  alike. In order to see the oncoming buses you needed to lean out a little. Leaning, swaying, rocking a little. Through the course of the play, at some point it became apparent the radiant sun was in fact grazing the left ear. Radiant sun, mark you; not direct rays. Minute gradations of heat the further you lent out, was it really? Hmm….Some part past the zenith, up on high the torch was difficult to locate at first. There it was alright, seemingly out of place holding eastward. Sometimes the first drops of rain had one similarly doubtful on the equator. Testing. Testing with a series of swaying motions that must have had the guy on the bench behind wondering. The shadow line of the bus shelter lay only one foot out from the gutter. It did indeed seem to be the case: putting the ear toward the roadway like at a door for eavesdropping, a nice old flame-thrown singe palpably received. Checked and double checked. More than a feather touch that; concentrated. There was no tomfoolery involved. Getting some sun on you was supposed to be good against the virus. In the yard of the Carpmael house yesterday Richard the tour guide had sat sunbaking, if anyone can believe. When the winter in the north began to slip off we were a better chance in the fight, they said. (Rather similar to the position down in OZ vis-a-vis fire & rain.) The scorching power of the great flaming star in the sky here. Leaving a tad earlier, the No. 21 was good enough to get us where we wanted to go. Jeepers! The odour of ammonia along the walkway on Serangoon Road! Over the tiles it seemed. Protection against the germ wriggling up from the soles of the sandals. So far as reassurance for the passersby went, the potential customers, mighty good strategy; you could look over the items in those places with complete confidence. Returning the other way after lunch on the opposite side of the road the gold places had retained the burning of their lemon grass. Locally the hotels were down to 50% occupancy, after almost 100% prior to CNY. On the Mainland where 48 cities & eight provinces were in lock-down, not surprisingly the figure was a miserable 7%. The threat of recession here mooted last week by the retiring PM. A US scientist had forecast 50m worst case mortality globally. (Not difficult to imagine the man’s lab pinned with postcards and pics of wife & kids.) SG was vying with HK for highest infections outside the Mainland. All the prejudice against the latter was in full force in both corners of the diaspora. There had been a reported run on rasam at the Indian eateries across the republic—piles of Chinese at tables sitting before cups of the spicy yellow soup. That was late last week. Today at KV again only about half the tables were occupied: people alternated herd instinct and seclusion. Earlier staple food items & durables had disappeared from the shelves of the supermarkets; a quota on rice, noodles and toilet paper instituted. Masks of course. Matters had become so disturbing a Nominated MP had rashly used the “disgraceful” tag on a F-book posting overnight ala Donnie. Certain to be cautioned by the higher-ups as we speak.

Throne & Stanchion Sept25

 

 

Cardboard wrapped tight TIARA pan & cistern delivered at one of the bathroom supplies in Middle Geylang, where the people confused thrones & crowns. Earlier toward the Kallang Bridge an old uncle struggling in the heat had already crossed the unsheltered section and in prospect faced another 100m stretch until the tree cover. Taking the shade hard against a tall lamppost, cringing a little at being observed, before a big breath and swinging on down.

 

 

 

Lionel, Mooko & Pompom (Nov25)

After the ABC lunch and sec. duties bill-paying &etc, a long walk was in order. In the end it turned into a respectable fifty minute circuit. Seven or eight years now there had been not a single venture into the Joo Chiat area, nothing further than the bakery a little past Masjid Khalid. Sticking close to Geylang Serai it was easy to forget that quarter. One had left Melbourne in order to escape those kinda bars, cafes & restaurants. The prolonged sits at the eateries and the desk had done damage already; walking and the exercise regime was fight back. Down along the strip on J.C. Road to East Coast, with some ill-at-ease under the panama, the red scarf and girly black sunglasses, as Auntie Helen had called them. It was a surprise Chinese shopkeepers didn’t call out greetings to the generic John passing by. In the mid-afternoon many of the places were empty, if not closed down. Then there was Katong further on after a similar period of absence. The place with the lacquered wine barrels out front was still operating, though at that time of day no tattooed Westerners could be found nursing their long glasses of beer, dogs curled at their feet. The Katong Mall was the oldest in Singapore. Inside there were perhaps twenty maid agencies; perhaps even thirty. All like pet shops with the young girls sitting in the window. The southerly end of Haig Road had never been walked previously. Tall condo towers and handsome bungalows all along. Even the shabby examples of the latter would fetch a couple mil. (Next morning someone mentioned a bungalow there on a larger allotment reaching $8m.) Numerous Indian work gangs in the gardens and on the roads. Back in the room it was straight onto the exercise mat, the sweat evaporating slowly under the a/c. (With the love-making of the day before, the exercises had been skipped with a good conscience; a hungry gal like Ni was more than enough exertion for one day.) Neck either side, then back & forward; toe-touching and finally the gut-busting pushes. Recently the pushes were in fact proving not so arduous. The tummy-tightener had been dropped before the return to Melbourne. Being concerned about her weight, her gastric and some constipation, Auntie Helen had been recommended the tummy-tightener. Flat on the back hands behind head, heels lifted a few centimetres and holding 10-15 seconds was  enough for beginners. Helen’s squats feeding her cats were some benefit, though more was needed. That evening Helen had been caught out front after her duties. As usual she was found zelna price, desirous of talk. Some local politics, neighbourhood gossip, the latest on the virus; updates on the mogs of course. Helen also had no TV. For the evening there were perhaps bible readings and the day’s verses to review. Young Wanling, or Maureen from further down Carpmael, might call in later, their voices ringing through the party wall. Through the night Helen’s sleep always sounded deep and contented. I want to tell you…Helen often began a conversational item she had stored. It was never difficult keeping patience with Helen. None of Helen’s ill temper or abruptness could be taken amiss. Recently there was another kidney problem among the Carpmael litter. Mr Chan, the feed merchant who lived in a condo and also kept numerous strays, got mention. There was Maureen’s uncommunicative older sister, who had recently given Wanling the cold shoulder on a visit—not so fond of cats that lady. The snooty Sikh madam on the corner was complaining about the feeding adjacent her property. It was not always easy following developments with the mousers. ID-ing the different ones, correctly fixing gender, recalling behavioural characteristics was all tricky. At some point among the rest that evening it emerged that Helen did not like to give the tabs human names. Wanling was the one who gave those. Lionel for example was WL’s choice for the grey that often gave our Mooko a hard time—the grey with the pale discolouration on its lower back; not to be confused with Mooko and the other grey, the green-eyed one. Helen sometimes referred to Lionel as Wanling’s son, because the little boy came from a litter adopted by young WL. For some reason that fellow had been introduced into the Carpmael circle, for special attention it may have been—kidney problems again, possibly. Before this it had been assumed that Lionel had been named after the nice Chinaman with the younger Filipina wife formerly staying downstairs. Lately Wanling had been taking Auntie’s advice, christening a recent addition to their circle Pompom. Telling of the case it was clear Auntie H. approved. Rather chuffed she was at the inventiveness too.