EXCERPTS
The Old Hindu
On the opposite side of Bukit Tima Street, three slender palm trees
shoot skyward, their heads touching as if they were engrossed in a
conference. Behind them is a lot covered with freshly grown green grass.
Not long ago there stood a small hut, filthy with black rot, where a
tiny bent-over Chinese woman used to live in her perennial black
trousers and black top and carrying her ever-present black umbrella, her
white hair trailing down her back in a ponytail. One day the old man
observed a coffin being carried into the hut; the day after that, a
bulldozer came and leveled it. Then the lot was dug up and sowed with
grass seed. The result was that within a month the lot was covered with
thick grass. As one of the few witnesses of this transformation, the old
Hindu must have asked himself, “Is this, what human life is all about?”
The old man sits opposite the three palm trees on the edge of the
sidewalk, gesticulating as if in deep conversation with himself. “Come
on home!” Kathy says to him, but the old man doesn’t understand. “Vittuk vanga!”
she repeats, the only two words she knows in Tamil. She’d learned it
the other day from a delivery boy working next door to the Tamil shop.
She asked the boy for these two Tamil words when she saw that gang of
street urchins teasing him. When she told them to stop, they even
started throwing pebbles at him. “Vittuk vanga!”
Kathy repeats, at which point the old man, startled, looks at her and
gets on his feet as if waiting for something. Kathy knows that she ought
to do something. She takes out a dollar bill and hands it to the old
man. He in turn puts the money between his two palms and raises them to
his forehead as if in prayer. He remains frozen in this stance for
seconds before taking a deep bow. When he straightens up, they head for
the compound, Kathy in front, he following her two or three steps
behind.
Palm Branch and Typhoon
The
bougainvillea covered fence runs into a high wall studded with white
tiles. The upper portion is decorated with a gold pattern. This touches
the back of a most luxurious home owned by Mr. Chau, who happens to be
the owner of the Hong Kong Bus Company.
Mr.
Chau commutes in an old gold-colored Rolls Royce, driven by an Indian
chauffeur whose uniform is exactly the same color as the Rolls.
According to Dr. Tattlow, Mr. Chau certainly cannot be accused of being a
superstitious man not only for having built his luxury home right next
to the haunted headquarters of the Japanese occupiers, but also because
he uses a strange license plate on his Rolls Royce that reads 444.
“What does that mean?” I enquired.
“Well, the Chinese consider 444 a very suspicious number, because
even the single digit ‘4,’ when pronounced, reminds them of the word for
‘death.’ Mr. Chau is seen as flouting fate.
“Maybe this is why he doesn’t employ Chinese in his home, right? All I can see are Hindus.”
Clean, Cleaner, Cleanest, An Interview on Hirasaki
“The sun always shines powerfully above the clouds, and it is a
special feeling to look down upon the earth from high up there.
Everything looks so tiny and innocent. Knowing what you were about to
do, didn’t you feel the least bit of a shudder?”
“Look you here, I
am a member of the air force, and I wasn’t sent up there in my flying
fortress to indulge in Sunday school sentimentality. Otherwise the
visibility was one hundred percent clear, which caused no special
surprise. The three weather-detecting planes sent ahead reached Hirasaki
before we did. They advised us in advance about the cloud formations,
the temperature, and the wind velocity. It was imperative that we make
use of the good weather; this was one of the main reasons why we started
out today. Enemy ships were swarming in the harbor. They were
self-confident, with no idea what sort of a message I’ll be sending down
to greet them pretty soon.”
“What war can do to us! I am thinking of a sunlit beautiful morning, as the day starts and the kids are heading for school.”
“Come on now! Let’s be clear about one thing, shall we? Who started
the whole goddamn thing? The Japs did not knock on the door at Pearly
Port with their polite little bows! And as long as we’re talking about
this, don’t you think at all about our own kids?”
“But of course. I do. This is not what I am debating, but this new weapon.”
