“Where... where... “ the repetitive chanting was everywhere. There were Chinese men and women, all dressed in yellow. The men were topless. Many wore garlands of beads. Almost all had smeared ash on their foreheads and cheeks. They were all dripping wet. One of them, a large bald giant of a man, presumably the leader, was attending to another man.
“Where.... where....” It was deafening. The giant caught hold of the man’s cheeks and pierced the skewer through it. “Where.... where... “ everyone shouted.
Soon many of the men had skewers piercing their cheeks, and tongues and had hooks in their backs and chests. The women had tiny spears pierced through their foreheads and tongues. The onlookers watched fascinated. Many with cameras had a field day.
More shouts. This time “vale, vale.” A group of whites, also similarly dressed, were being pierced with tiny hooks on which dangled little pots of milk. There were Caucasian women too.
The whole area was filled with this activity. Thaipusam. A grand festival in Penang. So many Chinese, Europeans, Australians, Americans, Africans. You name it. All were devotees of Lord Murugan, and every year, they would all make a beeline for Penang to fulfill their vows. They were carrying kavadis.
Then among the chaos, a general shout went up. The photographers and the onlookers were moving hurriedly to a corner. Something unusual was happening. As they went nearer, looking over the heads and shoulders of the crowd, they saw a sight so one had seen for many years. An Indian carrying a kavadi.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Close Encounter ***
It was stifling. There was silence too, in spite of so many people being present. Kiran felt a warm whiff of air behind his ear; he turned to see the immense man, sweating profusely. The man was so close that Kiran’s nose almost touched his. Kiran recoiled in nausea. Just then, an ear splitting whooshing sound, from the other side. Kiran turned, expecting the worst. A bespectacled man in an ill fitting suit stood, close by. The man was smothering his face in an enormous purple handkerchief. Kiran looked up. A faint hum. Then suddenly he felt something at his groin. Kiran drew back instantly, and immediately felt a hard sharp object poking his ribs. Kiran looked down. A little boy. His face was covered with a chocolatey drool from the lollipop he had in his mouth. And the front part of Kiran’s trousers were streaked in a similar colour. The boy looked up at Kiran and smiled a toothless grin. Just then the sharp object poked Kiran again. This time in his armpit. He turned to see a lady, holding a folded umbrella. A subdued tinkle. Everyone looked up. Suddenly, a draught of cool air. Bright light flooded in. A mini stampede as everyone scrambled to get out. Soon, the tinkle again. The door closed. Kiran heaved a sigh of relief. He was alone in the elevator car now.
The Precision cut *****
It had to be done at just the right time. And LeClerc knew the time was now. He gingerly removed the ice cubes. Casting a sideling glance up and down the aisle, he bent forward and emptied the cold water into her shoe. The woman seemed not to notice. As LeClerc watched her, she turned slowly. “Show me your armpit,” it was a command. But no, he couldn’t do that. He got up and briskly walked to the door. In a single move he disarmed it and had it open. The air outside was frigid. As he looked out, he felt someone behind him. LeClerc turned around slowly. It was the carpenter.
“I have to get to Copenhagen. You have to help me.” He was pleading. LeClerc had to finish the macaroni. It was a matter of principle. The dawn was predestined. After all, Janet had two sets of twins. And both had been born in elevators. The bank went ahead with the debt restructuring.
It was a potent dilemma, complemented by an interlocutory function. Well, LeClerc decided that a vacation was what he needed. The child looked haggard. But she was wearing branded shoes. As he stepped off the staircase, the whooping sound came. A herd of bison. Chased by two cowboys on donkeys. The fluctuation made him dizzy. The intermission went quickly. LeClerc was thankful. Another night here, and he would go insane. He hung on to the parasail, gliding to the ground. McCann came out of the consulting room. He looked grave.
“Its confirmed, he has a headache,” he announced pompously. Grace sobbed silently. McCann stroked her head. And abruptly turned and sat on the floor. Grace stifled a laugh. She couldn’t suppress it. As she guffawed, Vivien flung open the doors. She walked out deliberately, clutching the sword. In one violent swing she beheaded McCann. Grace rolled on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. Vivien nodded to her, sheathed the sword and went back inside, closing the doors behind her. They tossed the coin. Trickling down his chin, it looked like a red scar. As soon as she left, Grace stood. Raising her arms, she prayed. Then she drew the 5-iron.
“Whack.” The ball flew over the hill, landing within inches of the chimney. The black soot looked so inviting. Cavernous rooms, eerie and foreboding. McCann smiled knowingly. He knew it. It was predestined. No one could have done it better. Superb precision.
“I have to get to Copenhagen. You have to help me.” He was pleading. LeClerc had to finish the macaroni. It was a matter of principle. The dawn was predestined. After all, Janet had two sets of twins. And both had been born in elevators. The bank went ahead with the debt restructuring.
It was a potent dilemma, complemented by an interlocutory function. Well, LeClerc decided that a vacation was what he needed. The child looked haggard. But she was wearing branded shoes. As he stepped off the staircase, the whooping sound came. A herd of bison. Chased by two cowboys on donkeys. The fluctuation made him dizzy. The intermission went quickly. LeClerc was thankful. Another night here, and he would go insane. He hung on to the parasail, gliding to the ground. McCann came out of the consulting room. He looked grave.
“Its confirmed, he has a headache,” he announced pompously. Grace sobbed silently. McCann stroked her head. And abruptly turned and sat on the floor. Grace stifled a laugh. She couldn’t suppress it. As she guffawed, Vivien flung open the doors. She walked out deliberately, clutching the sword. In one violent swing she beheaded McCann. Grace rolled on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. Vivien nodded to her, sheathed the sword and went back inside, closing the doors behind her. They tossed the coin. Trickling down his chin, it looked like a red scar. As soon as she left, Grace stood. Raising her arms, she prayed. Then she drew the 5-iron.
“Whack.” The ball flew over the hill, landing within inches of the chimney. The black soot looked so inviting. Cavernous rooms, eerie and foreboding. McCann smiled knowingly. He knew it. It was predestined. No one could have done it better. Superb precision.
Customer Delight ***
At precisely 12 noon I entered the bank. There were three counters. The queue ticket machine had a specific number for the document I was seeking – “Press 3 for JPJ Release letter”. So I did. As I surveyed the counters, I found that Counter 3 was specifically labeled “JPJ Release Letters”. Excellent.
My turn came in a few minutes. I approached the sullen faced girl at Counter 3. I explained what I had come for. “I need a JPJ release letter.”
The girl at the counter looked bewildered. She stared at the documents I presented. “What is a JPJ release letter ? I’ve never heard of it!”
No, she did not say that, but from the expression on her face, she could very well have been thinking that. She continued to stare at the documents for a while, as though hoping for inspiration. Then she got up and without a word, went through a door behind her. I stood and watched through a glass window as she moved around listlessly. I knew she was preparing the JPJ release letter, and would soon emerge, and with a triumphant smile hand me the document.
After what seemed an eternity, she emerged. For a while she ignored me completely, and attended to various other customers. When I persisted by pushing myself in front of her at the counter, she looked up, and seemed surprised that I was still there. “Please wait,” she commanded, sounding rather irritated.
I sat for a while. Then, just when I was beginning to feel desperate, I heard my name called. It was Miss Sullen Face. As I went up to the counter, she handed back the documents that I had given her. “Please come back in 5 days,” she said, as she proceeded to call the next customer. I was stunned. But she had made the mistake of pushing me a little too far. I gave her a piece of my mind. At the end of my tirade, she looked hurt. The she was thoughtful for a moment. Then she spoke softly. “We need 5 days to prepare the JPJ release letter. Please come back in 5 days.”
I decided to take a patient approach. The poor girl was probably a little weak in the mental department. “Listen., I have settled everything on the 14th, and it’s the 23rd today, more than 8 days. So you should have the release letter ready 3 days ago.”
“We need 5 days to prepare the JPJ release letter,” she countered.
I decided that it was time to appeal to higher powers. “Can I speak to your manager?”
“Please have a seat.” So I took a seat. The chap sitting next to me was a massive giant. He was puffing and heaving, and I was sure he was going to have a seizure anytime. Fortunately, the officer appeared in a minute or two, and I was summoned to the counter again.
I was not really expecting a display of spectacular managerial acumen. But what he said was disappointing. To say the least. “Sir, we need 5 days to prepare the JPJ release letter. Please come back in 5 days,” he informed me.
So I went away and came back in 5 days. This time, to my delight, the letter was ready.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Creation and Destruction ***
The deep blue sky was just lightening. The faint sliver of moon appeared almost directly overhead. Fluffy cotton wool clouds drifted ever so slowly across the horizon. Below, the green foliage was wet with dew. The wet ground gave off a sweet earthy smell. Insects chirped at regular intervals, punctuating the calm silence. A column of ants marched purposefully, oblivious to the surroundings. Small animals foraged between the trees.
As he watched, gazing at the serene scene, the eastern sky began to turn bright orange. The blue sky took on an almost extra-natural depth of colour. The trees and bushes swayed gently in the cool wind. Flocks of birds flew in perfect formation overhead, tweeting gaily.
He sat savouring the moment, eyes closed, in idle reverie. As the sun rose in the sky, he got up and began the slow descent. He passed the lush greenery, gurgling pristine rivulets and breathed deeply of the invigorating fresh air.
***
The noise had grown into a deafening cacophony. The heat too was overpowering, while the cocktail of odours suffocated him. He looked down, below the hill. The chaos was unfolding. The metal boxes looked tiny. They came in all shapes and sizes and colors. They whizzed along at mad speeds, criss-crossing at the distance. Jarring noises emanated from the pandemonium. And it was all enveloped in an all encompassing cloud of dust and smoke. As he drew closer, he looked within the metal boxes. Inside each were desolate looking figures. One, or two. Sometimes more. Most looked tired and drowsy. Some napped, eyes closed, cocooned in their climate controlled boxes. Some appeared anxious and tense. A few spoke in low tones, into gadgets affixed to their faces. He could not see a single smile. They just moved along, mostly silent and resigned. They headed to the distant angular horizon, made up of concrete monstrosities, spewing thick black plumes of smoke. It was eerie.
Then, behind the metal boxes, a rumbling truck. Soon several others followed behind, like a funeral procession. They carried large logs, freshly felled. The drivers sat in his sparse cabin. Each wore a worried look. Some coughed incessantly, as they drove through the smoke and heat and smog. Little did they realize their role in the destruction around them. Neither did any of the people rushing along in their metal boxes, heading to the concrete jungle on the horizon.
***
“If the planet is destroyed, human beings will die too. But if human beings are destroyed, the planet may be saved”
As he watched, gazing at the serene scene, the eastern sky began to turn bright orange. The blue sky took on an almost extra-natural depth of colour. The trees and bushes swayed gently in the cool wind. Flocks of birds flew in perfect formation overhead, tweeting gaily.
He sat savouring the moment, eyes closed, in idle reverie. As the sun rose in the sky, he got up and began the slow descent. He passed the lush greenery, gurgling pristine rivulets and breathed deeply of the invigorating fresh air.
***
The noise had grown into a deafening cacophony. The heat too was overpowering, while the cocktail of odours suffocated him. He looked down, below the hill. The chaos was unfolding. The metal boxes looked tiny. They came in all shapes and sizes and colors. They whizzed along at mad speeds, criss-crossing at the distance. Jarring noises emanated from the pandemonium. And it was all enveloped in an all encompassing cloud of dust and smoke. As he drew closer, he looked within the metal boxes. Inside each were desolate looking figures. One, or two. Sometimes more. Most looked tired and drowsy. Some napped, eyes closed, cocooned in their climate controlled boxes. Some appeared anxious and tense. A few spoke in low tones, into gadgets affixed to their faces. He could not see a single smile. They just moved along, mostly silent and resigned. They headed to the distant angular horizon, made up of concrete monstrosities, spewing thick black plumes of smoke. It was eerie.
Then, behind the metal boxes, a rumbling truck. Soon several others followed behind, like a funeral procession. They carried large logs, freshly felled. The drivers sat in his sparse cabin. Each wore a worried look. Some coughed incessantly, as they drove through the smoke and heat and smog. Little did they realize their role in the destruction around them. Neither did any of the people rushing along in their metal boxes, heading to the concrete jungle on the horizon.
***
“If the planet is destroyed, human beings will die too. But if human beings are destroyed, the planet may be saved”
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Leak ***
The CIA director stood on the carpet in front of the President. The President looked at him steadily. “How could you allow this kind of lapse. After all the trouble we took. You are plain incompetent,” he fumed.
“Sir, we had everything under tight wraps, I just can’t imagine.....”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. I want a solid response. I don’t care how you do it. This guy has somehow found out. He even knows why we did it. Control the damage. Now. Get Jim Cameron.”
“Yes Sir,” the director saluted and left.
The President looked down at the newspaper on his desk.
Mahathir: “9/11 was staged”
KUALA LUMPUR: There is strong evidence that the Sept 11 attacks on the United States that killed nearly 3,000 could have been “staged” as an excuse to mount attacks on the Muslim world, said Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad, former Malaysian Prime Minister.
“I am not sure now that Muslim terrorists carried out these attacks. There is evidence that the attacks were staged.
“If they can make Avatar, they can make anything,” the former prime minister told a press conference here yesterday.
He said killing innocent people to provide an excuse for war was not new to the US.
“But whether real or staged, the 9/11 attacks have served the United States and Western countries well. They have an excuse to mount attacks on the Muslim world,” he added.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Neither here nor there ***
“A great read”
“Unputdownable”
“A masterpiece”
“He has done it again”
Familiar reviews we often see on the back covers of books. But most of these turn out to be empty boasts , leading us to wonder if there are any shady under-the–table deals between the author/publisher and these raving reviewers.
But recently I got hold of a book which had a back page review that said it was “hugely funny (not snigger-snigger funny but great-big-belly-laugh-till-you-cry funny)”. And I took that with a great deal of salt.
But now that I have started reading it, and about halfway through, I realise that the aforementioned review could actually be an understatement. It is a great book, one of the best I have read in ages. And yes, it is hugely funny.
The book is “Neither here nor there” by Bill Bryson.
It touches home on two counts:
One: Bill does some interesting: impulsive traveling around Europe. This is something I have always wanted to do, but never got around to finding the time and gathering the courage to do so.
Second: Bill’s writing flair gets my creative juices flowing. I want to write like him.
“Unputdownable”
“A masterpiece”
“He has done it again”
Familiar reviews we often see on the back covers of books. But most of these turn out to be empty boasts , leading us to wonder if there are any shady under-the–table deals between the author/publisher and these raving reviewers.
But recently I got hold of a book which had a back page review that said it was “hugely funny (not snigger-snigger funny but great-big-belly-laugh-till-you-cry funny)”. And I took that with a great deal of salt.
But now that I have started reading it, and about halfway through, I realise that the aforementioned review could actually be an understatement. It is a great book, one of the best I have read in ages. And yes, it is hugely funny.
The book is “Neither here nor there” by Bill Bryson.
It touches home on two counts:
One: Bill does some interesting: impulsive traveling around Europe. This is something I have always wanted to do, but never got around to finding the time and gathering the courage to do so.
Second: Bill’s writing flair gets my creative juices flowing. I want to write like him.
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Singing Zero ***
I wonder how many readers noticed the advertorial entitled “The Unsung Hero” by the Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli, in the STAR of 5th Jan 2009. The whole piece was written in small print, in the style of the North Korean Government, and in atrociously poor English.
The piece went on and on about how much money has been allocated for this program and that. The not-so-subtle message was that this department was doing so much, but no one was appreciative. In fact no one was noticing. So someone decided to spend more money to take out a full page advertorial.
What irritates me most is that the orang asli are in pretty bad state still, often lacking basic facilities, in spite of all the claims in the advertorial. Even the STAR (6 Jan 2010) reported the case of the orang asli community in Temerloh whose place of worship had the power cut off because the land was not gazetted as orang asli reserve. And yet, some bureaucrat feels it is necessary to spend tax-payers money singing his own praise.
The piece is shameful, both for the poor language as for the content. One of the most ludicrous “areas of focus” of the Department as stated in this advertorial is to “highlight the various and unique cultures to tourists.” It goes on to claim shamelessly that the department used orang asli to help out in a tourism campaign in Bali.
I hope whoever is in charge will take steps to see that such foolhardy initiatives are not repeated. And please don’t publicise your foolishness through paid advertorials. Only the newspapers concerned benefit from this.
The piece went on and on about how much money has been allocated for this program and that. The not-so-subtle message was that this department was doing so much, but no one was appreciative. In fact no one was noticing. So someone decided to spend more money to take out a full page advertorial.
What irritates me most is that the orang asli are in pretty bad state still, often lacking basic facilities, in spite of all the claims in the advertorial. Even the STAR (6 Jan 2010) reported the case of the orang asli community in Temerloh whose place of worship had the power cut off because the land was not gazetted as orang asli reserve. And yet, some bureaucrat feels it is necessary to spend tax-payers money singing his own praise.
The piece is shameful, both for the poor language as for the content. One of the most ludicrous “areas of focus” of the Department as stated in this advertorial is to “highlight the various and unique cultures to tourists.” It goes on to claim shamelessly that the department used orang asli to help out in a tourism campaign in Bali.
I hope whoever is in charge will take steps to see that such foolhardy initiatives are not repeated. And please don’t publicise your foolishness through paid advertorials. Only the newspapers concerned benefit from this.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Organ donor is extra generous ***
CHINA PRESS reported today that a Businessman who was given a new lease of life after receiving a kidney transplant found out later that the donor was his wife’s lover. The man not only saved the businessman’s life, but ran away with his wife. So far things were looking up for Mr Businessman.
Then came the damper. The child whom he had regarded as his own was actually that of his wife’s lover.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Happy New Year ***
I had never liked the girl. All the time flirting playfully with the other boys there. She was barely a teenager. How could her parents let her be here in the predawn hours of the day, alone with these two teenage boys?
A sudden chill. Just at a specific location, just at the left ankle. And as soon as I dismissed it as another old age symptom, there it was again. This time it felt damp as well. I looked down. Yes, there was a wet spot right there. And soon the cause became apparent. Two bags of ice, dripping wet, held at the correct angle so that the drips fell right on my ankle. I looked up, to see this Chinese teenager. His face was full of pimples. He wore the shabbiest clothes, crumpled for better effect. But his watch was a Calvin Klein. Probably from Petaling Street, I thought. As he caught my stare, for a moment he looked puzzled. And then he realised that he had been soaking my sock with his ice bags. He moved back instantly.
“I am sorry, uncle. Sorry, Sorry...” he went on and on. I just stared on for a few moments before turning back to the girl at the counter. She was waiting expectantly. How stupid could one get. Here I was, buying a loaf of bread, which I had placed on the counter, together with the exact amount of RM2.10, and she was waiting for me To do what ? I looked at her, the irritation apparent on my face.
“Lagi 20 sen encik. Sekarang harga dah naik.”
The grave situation took a moment to register. The bread cost RM2.30 now. And I had brought exactly RM 2.10. The only option was to put the loaf back, go back home, and bring the correct amount.
As I was about to turn away, the girl said, “Tak bawa ke? Ta apa Encik. Kali ini ta apa.” I turned back to look at her again. How pretty she looked. And what a courteous smile she had. What a well brought up girl.
And just then, I heard the Chinese boy speak, “Uncle, here is 20 sen. No problem uncle. Have a nice day.” I turned around to see a bright faced boy, eager to be kind to a stranger, who had not moments ago fixed him with the fiercest of stares.
"Happy new year," they echoed. Yes, indeed.
A sudden chill. Just at a specific location, just at the left ankle. And as soon as I dismissed it as another old age symptom, there it was again. This time it felt damp as well. I looked down. Yes, there was a wet spot right there. And soon the cause became apparent. Two bags of ice, dripping wet, held at the correct angle so that the drips fell right on my ankle. I looked up, to see this Chinese teenager. His face was full of pimples. He wore the shabbiest clothes, crumpled for better effect. But his watch was a Calvin Klein. Probably from Petaling Street, I thought. As he caught my stare, for a moment he looked puzzled. And then he realised that he had been soaking my sock with his ice bags. He moved back instantly.
“I am sorry, uncle. Sorry, Sorry...” he went on and on. I just stared on for a few moments before turning back to the girl at the counter. She was waiting expectantly. How stupid could one get. Here I was, buying a loaf of bread, which I had placed on the counter, together with the exact amount of RM2.10, and she was waiting for me To do what ? I looked at her, the irritation apparent on my face.
“Lagi 20 sen encik. Sekarang harga dah naik.”
The grave situation took a moment to register. The bread cost RM2.30 now. And I had brought exactly RM 2.10. The only option was to put the loaf back, go back home, and bring the correct amount.
As I was about to turn away, the girl said, “Tak bawa ke? Ta apa Encik. Kali ini ta apa.” I turned back to look at her again. How pretty she looked. And what a courteous smile she had. What a well brought up girl.
And just then, I heard the Chinese boy speak, “Uncle, here is 20 sen. No problem uncle. Have a nice day.” I turned around to see a bright faced boy, eager to be kind to a stranger, who had not moments ago fixed him with the fiercest of stares.
"Happy new year," they echoed. Yes, indeed.
The Thunderbread Conspiracy ****
The radio crackled to life. Udayappan grabbed it urgently and flipped the switch. You have five minutes. Six at most. Start action now. “Ok, got it.” Udayappan sighed, as he flipped off the radio. He gestured urgently to Gobal, his assistant. They worked feverishly, moving everything inside, and pulling the shutters down. They stood behind the closed shutters, waiting for the signal. Gobal stood, his face pressed against the steel shutter. He looked through the tiny hole at the scene outside. For a while he saw nothing. Cars whooshing by. An occasional pedestrian sauntering along the corridor. Then he saw them. The car with four people in it. The car slowed. Four pairs of eyes watched the shop. Gobal had an eerie feeling that they could see him through the tiny hole. He quickly moved back. “They are here,” he whispered to Udayappan, as if worried that they could hear him. They stood silently, sweating and breathing softly. The urgent peal of the radio startled them. Udayappan picked it up. “OK, boss.” He put down the radio, and looked at Gobal. “OK, we can move.” They pulled open the shutters and moved the things back to the front.
As they were doing this, Karmegam was listening to the urgent radio call. The scene was repeated as Karmegam single handedly moved everything behind a wooden screen, and squatted out of sight. The car with the four people passed by without incident. Within minutes he had an all clear signal.
Seenivasan was idly watching the traffic go by when a shrill whistle went off behind him. He turned around and peered at the gadget. “You have 10 minutes,” the faint green display said. He sighed. It always happened just when he was feeling most complacent. He worked frantically. Until there was not a single tell-tale sign. He went over to the adjacent shop and slipped into the kitchen. He watched from the gap in the glass louvres. Soon the car cruised by, four people inside looking in his direction. Soon they were gone. But Seenivasan waited in his position for a while longer. Until the shrill whistle sounded again, with the all clear message.
Dharan watched in horror. The car had stopped near the corner. They had gotten to Kelappan before he could be warned.
***
Idi Aman sat immobile in his chair, leaning back to an almost horizontal position. Suddenly he sprung back to a sitting posture. “We failed again.” he thundered. They all sat on plastic stools, cowering in terror, seeing Idi Aman in this foul mood. But they all knew what had gone wrong. The intelligence had not been quick enough.
***
Everyone was famished. And everyone was surprisingly in a unanimous Idiappam mood. “Let’s go get idiappam.” We all bundled into the car, heading for Jelutong. As we neared the junction, it dawned on everyone almost at the same moment. The shop was closed. They stared at the desolate rusty shutter for a few moments of despair. “Let’s try Dato Keramat. That shop is usually open.” Everyone brightened again. We gunned the car to Dato Keramat, maneuvering though the throngs of the evening market at Perak Road. As we turned the corner, everyone was craning his/her neck anxiously. Disappointment and despair. Closed again. An inaudible sigh filled the car. “How about Kuantan Road?” A ray of hope flickered. Some mouths watered at the thought of the idiappam and thengapoo and brown sugar. An agonising drive back. After a sapping journey, we turn into the side road to see every other shop open. Except the One shop. The white plastic sign dangled and swayed in the wind. “PUTTUMAYAM” it said simply. By this time everyone was resigned to going back home for moru sadam. There were no more ideas. But as we turned back to the main road, a delightful sight ! An Idiappam vendor on his bicycle. Brown basket strapped to the carrier at the back. He was parked there, at the corner, the jovial uncle Kelappan, busy packing the delectable fare for a customer.
As they were doing this, Karmegam was listening to the urgent radio call. The scene was repeated as Karmegam single handedly moved everything behind a wooden screen, and squatted out of sight. The car with the four people passed by without incident. Within minutes he had an all clear signal.
Seenivasan was idly watching the traffic go by when a shrill whistle went off behind him. He turned around and peered at the gadget. “You have 10 minutes,” the faint green display said. He sighed. It always happened just when he was feeling most complacent. He worked frantically. Until there was not a single tell-tale sign. He went over to the adjacent shop and slipped into the kitchen. He watched from the gap in the glass louvres. Soon the car cruised by, four people inside looking in his direction. Soon they were gone. But Seenivasan waited in his position for a while longer. Until the shrill whistle sounded again, with the all clear message.
Dharan watched in horror. The car had stopped near the corner. They had gotten to Kelappan before he could be warned.
***
Idi Aman sat immobile in his chair, leaning back to an almost horizontal position. Suddenly he sprung back to a sitting posture. “We failed again.” he thundered. They all sat on plastic stools, cowering in terror, seeing Idi Aman in this foul mood. But they all knew what had gone wrong. The intelligence had not been quick enough.
***
Everyone was famished. And everyone was surprisingly in a unanimous Idiappam mood. “Let’s go get idiappam.” We all bundled into the car, heading for Jelutong. As we neared the junction, it dawned on everyone almost at the same moment. The shop was closed. They stared at the desolate rusty shutter for a few moments of despair. “Let’s try Dato Keramat. That shop is usually open.” Everyone brightened again. We gunned the car to Dato Keramat, maneuvering though the throngs of the evening market at Perak Road. As we turned the corner, everyone was craning his/her neck anxiously. Disappointment and despair. Closed again. An inaudible sigh filled the car. “How about Kuantan Road?” A ray of hope flickered. Some mouths watered at the thought of the idiappam and thengapoo and brown sugar. An agonising drive back. After a sapping journey, we turn into the side road to see every other shop open. Except the One shop. The white plastic sign dangled and swayed in the wind. “PUTTUMAYAM” it said simply. By this time everyone was resigned to going back home for moru sadam. There were no more ideas. But as we turned back to the main road, a delightful sight ! An Idiappam vendor on his bicycle. Brown basket strapped to the carrier at the back. He was parked there, at the corner, the jovial uncle Kelappan, busy packing the delectable fare for a customer.
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