Share - Mustafa (Oct25)

 

Regular lad handling the front tables over for the trade & hello together. ‘Twas decided few moments before that he would be called Siva today. Let him see how... Not a beat missed, Money, he answers. Money... Yeah. Right. (Fumbling.) What else?… Some rapid two-step, before he explained his pal over there was Siva, back corner. Tag personally owned was Moni, matter of fact. (Presuming the transliteration.) The full was long, he warned; he’d had trouble with it before. But, OK, lay it on then, dude. Manikandan. (Check.) If he said so. Not any kinda put-on or anything now, but man here was gonna get a little tale from just up the street here. Listen in. Well, there were four women eating at the Mustafa outdoor tables against the wall of the store back a bit just now. As he knew, a narrow aisle there, tables either side, busy, busy; lunchtimes especially. He knew. Cheap, simple, good fare. In fact the group in question now were employees, sky blue Musta gear. Every indication all, whole & entire gotten by Mani straight. Foursome were of an age, size, colour. Chief among perhaps kinda pretty, without proper survey just then. On the aisle, facing. Each of the gals had their lunch spread before them, the greaseproof papers, all x 4 it may have been. Chief chief actor: raised right hand. For anyone who knew these old cultures that fetched far, far back beyond the plumbed bathroom, the right was a certainty. On display. Now, same moment, or one directly after, same hand appeared again, anew, this time with a clutch of noodles between thumb, fore & middle fingers...Where was it to go, then? Ah? Herself, young lady, was full. Where?… Passing stride unbroken, the recipient, one of the other three who could squeeze, would remain unknown. Not really anything for the Man listening patiently. So? Yeah? The expression told. The only further here the polite question, indicating he had heard it all through. Indian? Yellah! That it was beautiful man agreed in a perfunctory way. Sure. Nice boy, father of one from Trichi. (That was long too in its fullness: Tiruchirappalli.) You gotta like how at Mubin the Hindu & Mussies chimed, superpower in the offing.

 

 

Publication news: Solo – New World Writing

 Hello everyone

I have another piece up at New World Writing now, first drafted about 10 years ago, from the early period of the acquaintance with Indonesia. A private little aid project in Central Java is presented here, at the town of the current outgoing President, Joko Wiwodo. Surakarta is also known as Solo.

Freely available again,—

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-solo/

All best wishes, 

late month I'm booked for another trip down to the Republic, wonderful Yogyakarta again.

Pavle

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-rad

Working For the Man

Not so simple if you are a foreign worker here. 

Lady at the local kopi shop was requested by her employer to up her hours to 6am - 11pm.  Seven days a week, two Sundays free monthly.

Found it a bit onerous and tried to explain she was no longer young: a mother of three children. 

Dismissed by the young boss on the spot.  Co-religionist, 4-5 years in the employ. There were plenty more where she came from.

Bum-wipe (Excuse the French) - Oct25

 

To call it a joke makes for a sour laugh. More of a grimace. It’s no different the world over; perhaps only a smidgeon more ghastly in Sin’pore. The Sunday newspaper. Having noticed the morning tea table by the pavement on what must have been furtive passes, the housemate IT guy Rony wondered why you would bother. But his point was more the ready online option available. Was it the tactility? Ron further wondered. Ah, yeah. Something like in-person, as opposed to screen / zoom / rubber whatever. Even disgust was worth your while better apprising the position. You were in the thick of it, right? Canna hide. Know the enemy; &etc. Travel porn naturally (today there was a typical SG complaint about a scuzzy Sicilian beach); the pol. wrap to be sure, both local & internat; the puffing of pygmy notables of one sort or another; culture usually on a Sunday. Oh! Long piece on personality tests. Lady concerned here shared much in common with the big O, lover of Michelle. (In the heading. Don’t for a minute imagine this tosh was read, Rony!) Food, nostalgia, young locals making good in the big world after stints at US Ivy Leagues was a regular, again particularly Sundays. (Wellesley, with a family Taj Mahal pic accompanying.) Re-locating to a place where there was no local English language newspaper would be a loss. (The Jak Post was the best in the Malay world, for when one was in the capital there, or even one of the other cities.) This morning one positive was a brief review of Rachel Cusk, useful for a practitioner.

The Amulet June26

 

Ten wives Othman’s father had taken over his lifetime, couple days ago the fact had been revealed. This afternoon was added that in his own case, despite numerous opportunities, the son, Othman, after his marriage had never taken a lover; never cheated on his wife. Over the 10-11 year acquaintance, quite the contrary impression had been conveyed. However, that was mistaken; never once taken a lover. Othman’s sincerity was easy to credit. There had never been thought of a second wife, either. Clearly Othman had never countenanced the thought; the hurt of early youth when he and his mother had been abandoned remained in mature years. In the photo Othman showed the mother was every bit as beautiful as the son suggested. A Minangkabau, No. 3 wife to the short, unprepossessing and quite poor Boyanese father. Yet the man managed exceptionally well with the ladies, including one very pretty eighteen year old, who may have been number 5 or 6. By that time Othman was teaching and this stepmother was his junior. Othman met 4 or 5 of the wives. Indeed, with the last, No. 10, some closeness had developed, which extended to a step-brother. With Othman’s own mother, the beautiful Minangkabau, there was a younger brother too. Othman knew nothing of any further siblings with the remainder. It was unclear if some of the wives were simultaneous, or all divorced. The hint in the father’s uncanny history was the small island from which he hailed, a couple hundred kilometres north of Surabaya. The Boyanese were well represented in Singapore. And among the Malays, respected and rather feared for their black magic. Othman’s father was a good example. Many came to him for potions and amulets: those seeking a partner, the ill & afflicted, the ambitious. In upper primary, not long after the father left No. 3 wife, Othman’s mother, the man presented his son with an amulet that would protect him for the remainder of his life, and also win him the chief beauty of Jurong district, Singapore. A cable car disaster that resulted in a number of deaths, a six car pile-up in  Malaysia, a scorpion planted in the newlywed’s kitchen by a jealous rival, all had left Othman completely unscathed. Every day of his life Othman kept on his person the little bundle given him by his father, either in his wallet, or else a little Strepsils tin that over time had rusted and became difficult to prise open. Over sixty-five years the charm was kept. A pair of twigs no more than an inch & half long, separated from a third by a little flat stone that fitted neatly between, all wrapped in aluminium foil. The father had securely bound the pieces with bright yellow thread, which over the years Othman had further secured with the same colour. In teen years there had been resentment and anger at the father, before this was later overcome. There had been concern too over the amulet itself. Othman had approached a number of ustad for opinion. As long as there was nothing Satanic, nothing of devil worship, it was OK. As long as Allah remained primary. The amulet was an aid to courage, as Othman conceived it. Nothing wrong or contradictory. Othman preferred the amulet not be photographed. Better not, he decided, after a couple moments’ reflection.

 

   Geylang Serai, Singapore

Trapeze

It was just not possible to weep for this Courts man. The pool of tears was simply insufficient; surplus could not be found. Certainly not with the fare day after day in the newspapers. One could only look and listen. The department where he worked couldn’t be recalled; there may have been mention of whitegoods. 2AM last night crashing through the wrought iron screen door. Bang! The inner behind him, making the glass panel rattle. CRASH. Helen down there must have started from her sleep. Ah! The Courts drunkard getting back. What time was it?… Five or six years ago there were plans to retire to Vietnam. The companion was a sweetie; not too young; nicely presented. Sing dollar could go far over there, the man said. There must be a tidy sum in his CPF. Something upended that applecart. There had been much less of the beer and ciggies back then. The pair would regularly take late brekkies over at the Haig, man proud of his lady, you could tell. Did her patience give out? Was the CPF too difficult to withdraw before he was 60? Impossible to meet the eye; loud helloes without stopping and immediately swinging onward. When Wahyu moved out he claimed his room with the balcony. No more need hang out the window. Still dyed regularly, never letting the grey through. Boyish physique retained. Whatever he was doing for emergency love there were no ladies brought back. (Even the Toyota man has desisted there.) 11AM brekkies up until recently, when his shift seemed to have altered. Coming back from the morning paper there were no more sightings on his bike. Often he fell asleep with the light on in his room. (Unexpectedly, all the chaps had accepted the turning off of the main pair of lights overnight in the anteroom.) Siblings, parents, friends—none in evidence. There had never been a brekkie companion apart from the Viet. Shocking coughs & splutters; terrible stink in the toilet. You wondered whether he could look himself in the mirror (shaving was hardly necessary for Chinese like him). Nothing for it; only watching. How much longer could he stick? Trapeze act. Easy to underestimate the inner fortitude.

 

Big Kool Biz

Chinese cool exports soar: key items 25%, 22% & 19% increases. Not the earlier Brit, Jap & Korean cool lines. These new are far more unique and groundbreaking: respectively, refrigerators, fans and aircon units. Going gangbusters and the only way is stratospherically up and up. If surveillance chips can be secretly embedded the region and the world might be saved from the great Setan.

On another matter this morning amidst the teh & newspaper, the sweet old Chinese-Malay nene stops to cast over the journal. You stay here? there? Fingering without words. Needed to make clear over there was not above at the hotel. Not one of the well-heeled foreign talent, Grannie. No. Oh! Oh! And… Here she indicated something with her thumbs as if over a console or screen of some sort. Kids sending texts often used their thumbs rather in that fashion. Hammering a little both sides, Gran. Pint sized, reaching about the same level where her interlocutor sat. Thumbs busy… Well, we had hit a roadblock; no passage. But, just a sec, there was a table of Malays behind. The older chap carried a series of scars just beneath his chin, on the left side. Nasty motorbike more than likely, older style helmet responsible that stopped short beneath... Took a little while getting it himself. Oh! Oh! Lady wondered where was your wife… Understandably. Regulation question. Wives gave good tickle in these parts, you could be assured. Oh! Oh! The answer finally became irrelevant.