Pendulum Papers Archive

 Three pieces in the Pendulum Papers archive, an Australian literary magazine:

Sequestered

On the Horn

Visiting the Zen Man Al

https://www.pendulumpapers.com/archive/search/?query=Pavle&btn=

Hujan & One-Half (Dec25)

Originally written Oct 2016, re-posted now in the wake of this most recent flooding in Sumatra, Thailand & Sri Lanka. The wading through the water here mentioned in fact later resulted in a skin infection that eventually good Doctor Thanni around in Wong Ah Fook relieved. Serious medical problems can be expected now in the North.

The rains had been falling on the other side of the world too recently. Up in the hills of Montenegro it had been preventing some of the works of mid-autumn. A few days ago Zoran, who worked up in the village where he was born full-time now, driving up daily from the coast, reported it. When there was a break in the weather they were harvesting the potato on Uble. Photos emailed from a friend in Australia showing a political rally of the ruling socialists had been forwarded to Zoran, with an enquiry how the long-time president of the republic was faring. Djukanovic was not one to let slip his hold on the throne, Zoran answered, like his father, not a fan of the left. There was a suggestion of thievery too, as in the time of Tito. Zoran was a supporter of the union with Serbia; opposed to the separation. In Johor, southernmost Malaysia, two days of big bash downpour—hujan besar. Streets flooded, drains unable to cope, bedraggled orang passing under the walkways. Some of the hard-bitten kampung toughs could be found defiantly stomping through the middle of the downpour, in one case a chap standing gazing up the canal, as if taunting the thunder gods. Two nights ago the dark had closed in well before 6 and a boat had been ordered at reception for the supper table. As usual the event had not been visible for a good while, only telltale sound & the flashes. Looking down from the fourth floor window onto a patch of concrete outside an awning, there it was alright, machine-gun strafing the narrow little square. For some reason best known to itself, a pigeon had the not very bright idea to peel off from under the roof of the hotel for somewhere across the way. Good luck to you little birdie! Beating wings, beating; making heavy weather of it. Crossing a couple of lanes later the trouser cuffs were rolled & paddle/waddle gingerly over to the far bank. The working gals around the front were keeping under the walkway, on this dark night a lesser crowd gathered. Come up? Honey.. The full range of the spectrum between the genders was available. Reminded one of a central Java gal down in the south, who believed love-making was the perfect response to a deluge. Barnstorming rain on the one hand, and on the other the smoky mountains nearby bursting with hot rock, encouraged amorousness where that girl hailed from. Habitually living with the past, these big rains often brought the question how in the old days the shepherds had coped up on the mountain sides. Over at Crkvice, not far from Village Uble, they had the second highest rainfall in Europe. The deluge on the Equator was in fact not dissimilar. One could shelter in the lee of a hill, beneath a rocky outcrop, or in one of the many caves of the karst. The sheep and goats themselves knew the terrain; they would find their own shelter. On occasion mother had said brainless sheep would simply hunker down in a tight flock, pretending they were stone, and patiently wait out the heavenly hammer.

Carried Away

 

Hivis orange (faded) lads in their mid/late 50s if not older, one hobbling, huddled under cover by the stairs. They were permitted to escape their labour in such weather, even only steady drizzle now. Electric bikes with mounted milkcrates carried the tools of their trade. Garden maintenance, keeping the forest and jungle from our urban amenity; roadside verges in their case. Another one of their number was greatly surprised couple weeks back being slipped a two returning to the digs after supper. A forested area out near Jurong was due to be cleared shortly for an extension of an industrial complex, the newspaper reported this morning, noting that the habitat was a breeding ground or home to a particular butterfly and would not be easily replicated. (Deft soft pedal for devastation, always cannily delivered here.) The other night the retired engineer Mr Cha couldn’t decide whether the beneficiary of the two working on the grassy fringe below was Chinese, or Malay. Definitely hailing from Malaysia, said Mr Cha. Nearing ninety now, Mr Cha had come down as a babe in arms with his parents from Fujian, on the Mainland. The rhetoric of the new Japanese “lady” was of more concern to Mr C. Could the Americans press the Japanese into conflict in those parts? would that finangling be the best way to fix their trade imbalance? Over two hours without cease – and two & one half steady fall. Era had lost ten family members in NW Sumatra last couple days; 1,200 across the region had perished. Mr Lim the plate-collector, whose Bahasa was good, did not know banjir, the term for flood. In his almost seventy years Lim had never left the island and did not watch television – never watched, it seemed. Likely he was illiterate in any language and on some kind of medication too. (There had been a couple sudden verbal outbursts.) Yet it had come down to the man that swi chai could indeed be highly serious, carrying all before it. Decades ago it must have been when it first filtered down to the young Lim, the oldies remembering.

NB. A week later the count of casualties is 1,600, with more rain forecast.

Publication news: A Spot of Window-shopping - Hindsight Journal

Another flash of mine has recently been published, by a Colorado lit. journal called Hindsight, where they have a climate change focus as one of their specific concerns.

It's a locally well-known shopping paradise in Singapore — another take on the phenomenon in this piece (260 words).

On their YouTube platform at present is a reading of the work by myself (in something less than a polished performance). Digital now also up & print due shortly.

https://share.google/9oJ4eXKYaXHTQnGdk

https://www.hindsightjournal.org/spot-of-window-shopping

Cheers,

Pavle

Favourite Indian (published by Literary Yard, April 2016)

From the files

Favourite Indian

Hard to believe, but precisely on the point of seating the famous old Hindi song from the mid-seventies over the speakers. Remarkable coincidence. Did the look-out pass the wink to the lads in back for the switch to be flicked? Could it truly have been complete freak coincidence?

            Mein Shay’Ar TO Na’Hiii…. Mein Shay’Ar TO Na’Hiii….          

            The catchy refrain that gave the song its title carried a fluttering lilt.

            Da DaaR DA DaDiii…. Da DaaR DA DaDiii…. Magic.

          On Youtube there were numerous film clips from the period with smooth moustachioed leading men sending Beauties spinning over palatial ballrooms under the spell of the wolf call. Cut to green fields, sports convertible with passenger door flung open after the lass had taken flight. Cavorting thereafter and a chase that wasn’t through lush, flowering garden splendour belonging presumably to the Tata Empire. (Formerly the estate of one of the British nabobs).

            Light skin tones, bright eyes and slender waists, the vocalist never a patch on the naiad.
            Here on Buffalo Street last week the wrong waiter had been chosen for the enquiry.

          Closer observation would have noticed the sliver bracelet on the hand. Fellow was too young for another thing. Plenty of the younger Sikhs working here dispensed with the turbans.
         The older Tamil enlisted for help knew the thing straight off easy as pie. Who didn’t know Mein Shayar for goodness sake? A short little pantomime ensuing in the passage before the table.

            You dolt! Hand clap to the forehead. What good are you? Out. Out I say…. The whole bag of potatoes right this instant…. High Nazi salute. (The swastika had originated in Hindu India after all.) Marching orders in the direction of the kitchen.
            One fears the reno job cannot be too far off at Komala Vilas, now in the third generation here. The old founder is still venerated enough to maintain his place in the frame hung above the register. A couple of times a year the elderly daughter comes out for a review from Chennai. Even in these few months new furniture has been introduced—metal-framed chairs shrieking across the tiles. As the various heirs have gone their own way, there are now numerous Komala Vilas in Singapore, Buffalo Street opposite Tekka Market holding the line as much as possible.

2

K. V. two long weeks later according to the Chief. (Magnificent smiling gallantry from the time equivalent to the Troubadours.) Gone quart past three on another hot afternoon, busted sandal strap making it hotter. Thiru a couple of days ago reported back after a first visit, commenting on the typical middle-class South Indian form. The kind of place where the money-making imperative was not ruling and absolute; not entirely. The speechless head-loll of the waiters taking orders without any pen or paper was noted. (Better class places in India with those aids invariably got the order wrong, Thiru said.) It was something of a surprise to hear the characterization. Occasionally one found working boys there from the construction industry; a couple of foremen had been struck, and oil-industry men. The gold, rings and watches ought to have indicated the matter more clearly. Eating with the fingers, the manner and behavior across the floor, had masked the reality. In Singapore the construction workers cooked in the dorms or their illegal shelters—heavy 25 kg. sacks of rice and tins of cooking oil lugged in the gutters of Geylang Road nightly. Even S$3.50 meals and S$1.80 masala chai definitely pitched the place into the middle bracket, no two ways about it. One recalled Yanasagaran complaining about the latter and abashed at being treated the former. Still, places like Woodlands around in Upper Dickson and Aravinds behind the temple were something else with their epic wall paintings, cuckoo clocks and place mats. Butter-milk just the shot here against the heat—the Chief had once complimented on the wise choice one other hot afternoon. (Who would have thought green chilli and coriander leaf?) Dark balding fellow opposite with dyed goatee and mullet very much the aspect of one of our Aboriginal ex-football stars dispensed with the physical regime. A definite worker, as confirmed by the Ang Moh Kio Council tee when he went to wash his hands. Some of the older sari-wrapped widows and spoilt kids ought to have made the matter abundantly clear, together with the whitening creams. Almost entirely full-house, four vacant chairs in total. Numerous hopefuls had turned on their heels after an initial survey from the corner.

3

Lunch crowd thinning quickly. First few spoonfuls of the rasam surveying the tables one was about to say a chap always felt warm in that place! Such has been the delightful cool of recent days here on the equator. With only short bursts of rain not much evidence of the Nor ‘westerly monsoon. A couple of days ago a bold and brilliantly illumined moon low in the east and slow-rising. A boy at the Haig bus-stop the other night must have sighted it a day or two before because he was drawing mummy’s attention to a corner of the sky where he was hoping for re-appearance. Rather touching: there were at least two of us on the island taking note. With some opportunity in the respite Shanmugam rounded for a couple of chats. Lad had noticed the absence last few days and well-knew the reason. Sly smiles. Thankfully the white collared Colorado shirt had been donned for lunch. At Al Wadi in the morning there had been close scrutiny from Zaharuddin at the counter. A passing look in the mirror preparing for the second outing provided a shock when the loose collar of the tee showed big-toothed Ni’s marks of passion from the day before. Odd for Zaharuddin, a father of four young children, to see on a professional Westerner and an intellectual of sorts. (In younger years Zaharuddin had studied Arabic seven years in Syria and then one more year in Egypt. We were fixing for a meeting and chat.) Cricket it was again with Shanmugam; other subject matter quickly ran dry. The New Zealand lad Guptill had made a quick-fire half century the day before almost in world record time: a mention on ABConline. Fellow didn’t know how close he was till the last few balls, Mugam knew. Pity. Record gone begging. Wasn’t the lad an all-rounder?… Yes, earlier in his career. Now solely a batsman. Not a Tamil by any chance?… Brought head-lolling assent. What, Tamil? Guptill a Tamil?… Ah. Born in India was he?… No, parents or grandparents; immigrated. In earlier conversations Shanmugam had bemoaned the kind of deracination that occurred with immigration. Often enough at Komalaa Chindian entered who would have no idea of his heritage. With Shanmugam’s assistance one was slowly beginning to discern. Shanmugam twisted his head like a pony in those instances. So Guptill almost a world record. The performance would have made it into Tablaon the Friday had it been realized, whether or not young Guptill acknowledged his ancestry. Another thing too on Guptill was it?… Shanmugam’s heavily chewed English could not be comprehended immediately. When Mug bent close to deliver one was often surprised by the level of vocab; it was only pronunciation that continued to snag. Twice incomprehensible now brought Mugam around the table into the narrow passage in order to show his sandaled foot…. Oh. Oh. Young Guptill missing one or more toes from one of his feet? Really?… Well golly. It had not stopped the young champ’s progress; almost a world record. Claimed by the people from the land of his forebears however young Guptill might conceive of himself. Bright Tamil star. Shanmugam was a proper aficionado. Australia v. West Indies meanwhile at the G? Last time Mugam looked Windies seven down second innings. Not much of interest here, though there was more than one Indian name in that line-up too.

                                                                                                                                         Singapore 2011 - 25

https://literaryyard.com/2016/04/17/favourite-indian/

Beauty At A Premium

 

Into the Modern: Impressionism From The Museum Of Fine Arts, Boston. 

Perfect for the era of the chandelier in the re-modelled White House loo. The age of the Gentle Woman brand. Drill baby drill. The projected new Mediterranean beachside development. 

$15 for Singaporeans & Residents, $25 tourists.

(A new Udon Shin opening on Orchard as we speak; the Impressionists tomorrow.)

Bummer

 

Numerous bum-cheeks were on offer now every side, proliferating. The shorts and dresses were measured and cut just right, though the reveal always did depend on posture, movement, various factors. Daily average might be over a handful, so to speak. Lessening the impulse of the trigger-happy vouyers; clear the backlog of cases in the courts. The escalator / stair / upper window prospect was a far lesser necessity nowadays. Guy could just go along to his neighbourhood mall, take a seat by the fountain with an icecream and happy gandering. Cornucopia. Young Tufail the Kashmiri when he first landed here and was still acclimatising during the first weeks sent a puzzling emoji in one exchange. At first the illustration looked like a boomerang, which produced puzzlement. Ahmm? For his new Aussie mate, something from home?... But apropos of what exactly; it was far from clear. Or perhaps it was signifying homesickness. It was never easy in a new country with new ways; we had spoken about the estrangement. An intention to purchase a ticket back? lad just unable to hack it more? In fact, no. This was not a gripe exactly. Adjustment. Acclimatising. Still finding his bearings. Legs, the young man was forced to come out with it. These were a row of legs pictured, crooked at the knee. The preponderance of them on the streets was taking some getting used to here. Good Muslim boy; no mention of this particular hardship earlier from Tuf. On the weekend during a downpour the cavalier had risen from our table to escort an Indo gal across the street to the market. First time girl under my umbrella, the lad gloated shyly. Their preponderance. Traffic, malls, heat, the punishing work regime. Nakedly exposed legs topped all as the supreme challenge; test of a lad's mettle. (Young twenties bachelor at the time. Fixed up later by his father, Tuf, with a girl from Srinagar.) The cheeks emoji must still be in the works; on last checking it had not appeared among all the others.