I.

The Thin Man

The thin wiry man, tanned brown by sixty years under the Singapore sun. Back then she went by the name of Temasek, Singapura, and during the time of the Japanese Occupation, she was Syonan-to, the “Radiant South”.

Perhaps he was a coolie, as were many in his generation, unloading sacks of rice, flour and spices from the ships docked at the harbour, or, going by his slight frame and the grey top hat standing proudly tall upon his head, perhaps he was a waiter once at a Hainanese restaurant or café, serving the British soldiers and colonial masters.

However many hats he used to wear in his first youth, he now wears only one. The grey top hat which contrasts starkly with his thin cotton singlet shirt, but yet strangely, finds a partner in the matching grey office trousers that he wears daily. I can imagine him in his younger days, married perhaps, taking his wife out for the occasional dinner at the little stall underneath their rented shophouse perhaps, separating his earnings with careful fingers (one pile to be sent back home, to the village in China, and the other to be stashed safely in the Milo tin in the cupboard), raising children perhaps, trying to understand their homework perhaps...perhaps.

Today, he rides a bicycle shaped much like himself, thin and wiry, not much to look at, but made to go the distance. He collects cardboard, empty drink cans, and stubbornly ties old computers down to the back of his bicycle. I look in wonder as he rides down the main road, with that computer monitor strapped to the back like a fat child. The top hat sits snugly on his head, like a crown of sorts.

There is a certain dignity in the way he conducts his affairs, a certain stubbornness that makes me take my proverbial hat off in respect – Singapore has no kings, but if we had to choose, I think his entire generation deserve to be venerated. Regardless of what some may say, they are the ones who truly built Singapore’s foundations.

II.

The Lady in the Sari

I am on my way home, standing on the bus. The bus stops, and a little old Indian lady wrapped in a festive orange and gold sari, accompanied by a younger lady in a more subdued purple and red sari, climbs slowly onto the bus. She sits.

Our bus comes to a stop again, outside a large Indian temple covered with carvings of the Hindu gods.

Nothing on the bus changes, not really – except that the little old Indian lady’s hands are moving in prayer, opening and closing and opening again.

III.

The sky darkens. I peer into the distance, try to see if bus seventy-seven is coming. Instead, what catches my eye is a mist that seems to be descending on the road up ahead, swallowing up the distant cars and the traffic lights.

I blink as this strange shimmering army advances forward, slowly.

Then, the first fat drops of rain start to fall at my bus-stop, drumming on the bus shelter and the mist moves, changes, charges and a wave of rain washes over the world.

(Dear me, I haven't updated in quite awhile, I know. This is an attempt at writing again. I don't think it's very good but I shall put these images down here before I forget I ever saw them. - wolfstone)

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