by Gwee Li Sui
“Sudahlah. Biarkan mereka. Aku dah lapar ni.... Tempat biasa?” tanyanya sambil membuang pamflet di tangannya ke dalam tong sampah.
“Jom!” sambut rakannya ringkas.
Mereka beredar ke sebuah kafe di hujung Bussorah Street yang menawarkan makanan tempatan dan Turki. Pelayan kafe tersenyum melihat mereka.
“Macam biasa, bos?” tanya pelayan tersebut.
“Ya, minum macam biasa.... Kau nak makan apa?” tanyanya.
“Hari ini aku nak cuba masakan ‘fusion’,” sambut rakannya.
“Hahaha. Aku fikir kau tegar makan masakan Melayu saja?”
“Sekali sekala, aku cuba makanan lain pulalah. Makan yang sama setiap hari, jelak juga,” sambutnya sambil tertawa.
“Baiklah. Mi goreng untuk aku, dan untuk kau?”
“Shish kebab dengan sambal sate,” ujar otai.
“Minum sama, ya, bos?” tanya pelayan sekali lagi.
“Yalah, sama!” tukas otai dengan nada jengkel. Pelayan beralih ke dapur setelah disergah.
Suasana semakin kelam. Lampu mula dihidupkan di kedai-kedai. Kelihatan beberapa orang pemuda berkopiah dan wanita berjilbab keluar dari kedai buku Wardah lalu bergegas ke masjid. Sejurus kemudian azan maghrib bergema dengan sayu.
Pelayan tadi kembali membawa dulang berisi minuman yang dipesan. Dia menghampiri kedua-dua pelanggannya lalu meletakkan dua botol minuman di atas meja.
Otai mencapai botol yang telah dibuka penutupnya. Dia membelek-beleknya dengan penuh nafsu seperti sebilah keris istimewa. Sambil mengangkatnya, dengan ceria dia mengucapkan, “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” sambutnya juga sambil melagakan botolnya dengan botol yang dipegang otai. Buih melimpah dari muncung kedua-dua botol. Kemudian mereka meneguk bir berjenama Calsberg dengan sepuas-puasnya.
“Aaaah!” Azan terus bergema dari Masjid Sultan.
Otai
BY ISA KAMARI
Translated by Harry Aveling
He was feeling unsettled. The congregation were just leaving the courtyard of the Sultan Mosque when he arrived in Muscat Street. A few years ago, the street had been transformed by the erection of gateways, murals, and carvings, telling tourists of the history and influence of the Hadramaut community who had brought Islam to this region.
Kampung Glam used to be called Kampung Haji. Sighing, he tried to imagine the chaotic bargaining that must have taken place between the prospective pilgrims to Mecca and the merchants. Things would have been very lively at that time, although in a somewhat cautious way, because the main item on sale was the opportunity to fulfil one of the greatest commands of the Muslim religion. Now, there were only the worshippers, a few visitors including the tourists, and a row of motorcycles parked on the ornamental granite strips in the area outside the mosque.
Malays had lived and traded here ever since the arrival of Raffles. Other groups – Indians, Chinese, and Arabs – had prospered and enlivened the area as well. At the beginning of the 1990s, the government took over the area and transformed it in order to encourage tourism.
Bussorah Street had a religious bookshop called Wardah, a Malay art gallery, some souvenir shops, and restaurants selling local and foreign food. Around the corner in nearby Arab Street, merchants still sold mass-produced sarongs in various patterns. The shop houses in Haji Lane had been fitted out with pubs and various other forms of entertainment and art directed at young people. Kampung Glam was at its liveliest once the sun had set.
He sat on a granite bench and looked around. A young man in a white skullcap approached him, holding out a pamphlet.
“Help us please, brother,” the young man said.
He smiled. After the youth had left him, he flicked through the pamphlet. It was written in support of a proposal to free Kampung Glam from shops and the sale of alcoholic beverages.
For a moment, he was lost in thought. From where he sat, the mosque seemed to be falling over. He sighed. Then he looked at his watch and sighed again. He was waiting for a friend.
The friend had introduced him to the world of the keris, the Malay dagger. They had first met at the Malay Art Gallery. He had only intended to look around the handicraft shop. The young man was examining an old keris. He was attracted to the weapon as well. Unexpectedly, the young man handed him the dagger.
He was flustered. He had never held a keris before. From what he knew, the keris was a classical heirloom and full of magical power. One needed to treat it with great caution and respect. At first, he was reluctant to hold the weapon.
After the young man encouraged him a little, he finally plucked up courage and took the dagger by its finely carved handle.
“A tajong keris from Kelantan,” the young man said briefly.
For some reason, just holding the dagger made him feel brave and important.
“A keris fit for an aristocrat,” the youth continued.
He smiled. It wasn’t clear whether the young man was flattering him or whether he did look more authoritative. Whatever the case, he felt proud and somehow special.
Their friendship began after he had bought the keris.
“In the world of keris, we don’t ‘buy’ a keris,” the young man said seriously. “We ‘offer a dowry’ for it. It is a sign of respect for this national treasure.”
The more he came to know the young man, the more respect he felt for his friend’s knowledge of the world of the keris. The young man knew how to distinguish between a traditional keris and the many ornamental kerises offered for sale in the cyber world of eBay, Facebook, and the webpages of antique merchants. He owned ten well-made and valuable weapons. In the world of the keris, he was respectfully known as otai, a venerable expert.
Because he was a novice in this world, he had taken the opportunity to learn from the webpages of the Southeast Asian Archipelago Classical Keris Academy and Keris Collectors Online, with an open mind, so that he might know more. He gradually came to understand terms such as hulu (the hilt), bilah (the blade), luk (the curves on the blade), ganjar (the neck of the blade), puting (the piece of the blade which fits into the hilt), kerawang (the lace fretwork decorations), pamor (the damascene patterns on the blade), pendokok (the metal ring at the base of the hilt), pendok (the metal casing for the lower stem of the sheath), sampir (the cross piece of the sheath), serunai (the middle part of a wooden sheath), and so on. This was an exciting and attractive world. In fact, he started to accumulate kerises. Within six months, he had acquired nine kerises from various parts of the archipelago.
With his new knowledge, he was able to begin to know the different features of kerises from different areas. He had begun to know the difference between a new keris and a properly damascened keris. A damascened keris always required a higher dowry. There were many tricks to make a new keris appear like an antique damascened keris once it had been cast. He always consulted with an otai in such matters so that he had the best advice possible before seeking to marry a keris.
Apart from acquiring kerises, he had begun to gather other accessories such as headcloths, waist sashes, knee length sarongs, belts, and waist buckles, to complete the traditional Malay clothing he owned. He started learning about the history, philosophy, and aesthetics of keris manufacture so that his understanding went beyond merely technical details. His aim was to become a true Malay fit for a modern nation. The attempt to connect the modern and the traditional planted the seeds of discord between himself and otai.
“How can we defend our heritage if we are unfaithful to the ancient ways of making a keris?” the keris master demanded.
“But we are living in a modern world,” he replied. “We need to change the way we make a keris.”
“Many so-called developments have only one purpose: to attract customers and, in particular, tourists,” the otai added. “They don’t follow the old ways. They might seem beautiful, but they are only frivolous ornamentation.”
“Not all of these features are ornaments,” the man replied. “Some craftsmen have experimented with a combination of modern features
and other traditions from throughout the Malay world.”
“For example?”
“What is wrong with combining a Javanese blade with a Buginese sheath, in a way that recognises the latest fashions?”
“That’s impossible,” his colleague replied. “Each region has its own characteristic features. You can’t just add a contemporary touch. That sort of keris would be purely ornamental.”
“But our contemporary Malay identity is already a mixture of various ethnic identities. And we’ve absorbed some of the values of modern life as well. Why shouldn’t we do the same when we make kerises?”
“Only a newcomer to the world of kerises would think that way,” the master snapped. “He knows very little, yet he feels qualified to challenge those who have studied these matters deeply. It takes a qualified jeweller to appreciate a diamond.”
“That’s true,” the man replied with a sneer. “It takes a qualified jeweller to appreciate a diamond. The problem is that some jewellers only know about diamonds and nothing else.”
Once the discussion reached this point, they always left it hanging. Each had his own way of continuing without destroying their relationship. They had always done that. And they had come there that afternoon to deal with a similar problem.
They had decided to meet in order to discuss the Rangsang Rias Keris Festival that was soon to be staged in the renovated Kampung Glam palace. The annual programme was open to local and foreign enthusiasts as a means of promoting the keris and its world. There were displays of kerises, martial arts performances, ritual keris purification bathing ceremonies, and lectures about the weapon. The aim was to teach the public about the traditional heritage of the keris and those cultural aspects that were related to it.
As usual, his friend insisted that the various presentations should only focus on the traditional aspects of the keris world while he himself was in favour of the renewal of the old ways.
“Have you been waiting long?” The voice interrupted his musing. He stood up and shook hands with the keris master.
“I could wait forever for the world to change,” he replied impudently. The master responded to the remark with a loud laugh.
“Come on,” the otai invited, once he had stopped laughing, “Let’s go and have a drink.”
They turned and entered Bussorah Street. The street was lined with palm trees. Several men passed them, dressed in long gowns and turbans. The master stopped walking and watched the different groups as they entered the mosque grounds.
“Look at that!” he snarled. “They are Malays, but they’re dressed in gowns and turbans like Arabs. Obviously, they have no respect for their own culture. They call themselves Malays, but they’re not!”
“They’re dressed modestly, as religion requires,” the man replied.
“What is wrong with wearing Malay clothing? It is modest too, and it preserves our cultural heritage. Look at me.”
The man suddenly realised that his friend was dressed in a Malay-style shirt and sarong. Perhaps, because he was so used to the costume, he no longer appreciated its unique qualities. The master was wise to preserve his traditional Malay culture in this way. They may have disagreed on many other matters, but he respected the master’s absolute determination and sincerity in refusing to give a single inch in this particular struggle.
“All right,” he replied, throwing the pamphlet into a bin. “Who cares? I’m hungry… The usual place?”
“Let’s go!” his friend briefly replied.
They went to a café at the end of Bussorah Street that offered local and Turkish food. The waiter smiled when he saw them.
“The same as usual, boss?” asked the waiter.
“The same drinks as usual…” the man replied, turning to his friend. “What would you like to eat?”
“I’ll try fusion today,” the friend replied.
The man laughed. “I thought you only ate Malay food.”
“I like to try something else from time to time,” the master commented, laughing. “It’s boring eating the same thing every day.”
“Fine. I’ll have fried noodle. And you?”
“I’ll have shish kebab with satay sauce,” replied the master.
“The same as usual to drink, boss?” the waiter repeated.
“Of course, the same as usual!” the master replied, annoyed. The waiter retreated to the kitchen to protect himself from further attack.
It was becoming darker. The shops began switching on their lights. A few young men in skullcaps and women wearing veils left the Wardah bookshop and hurried towards the mosque. A few minutes later, the twilight call to prayer reverberated mournfully through the evening air.
The waiter returned carrying a tray loaded with the drinks the two men had ordered. He approached the two men and placed both bottles on the table.
The otai reached for the opened bottle and examined it eagerly, as if it were a special keris. As he raised his glass, he delightedly shouted “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” the man replied, clinking his mug against that of the master. The beer frothed in their glasses. Then they contentedly gulped down the Carlsberg. “Aaaah!”
The call to prayer continued to ring out from the Sultan Mosque.
Littoral
BY TOH HSIEN MIN
1
In the middle of a wakeful dream
of jousting with the tides,
I had become a philosopher
otherwise free as a song
tasked to answer a question
long held troublesome:
what is the length
of the coast of Singapore?
Men in their tailored shirts
with their laptop computers
gave disparate answers,
so armed with a tape measure
and a fading jotter book
I went to trace the shoreline.
From the slide-rule East Coast
to pretensions of reclamation,
I tried to find a single snaking line
to enclose the island,
but for a complex natural shape
dimension appears relative
to the smallness of the measure
and ends up fractional.
Time and tide aside,
the closer I look,
the more this line retreats from me,
becoming simulacra of itself
until its length is infinite
and I have failed to bring it to a close,
but I have now an answer
for how far I would go for my love:
my love is longer, roughly,
than the coast of Singapore;
which is like darkening the night
with the brightness of a pier,
absences dispelled by the plop
of a sinker cast into the dark.
Though sand under water is soft
and that beyond the sea’s grasp
sinks beneath my feet,
somewhere in between a compact ribbon
is hard enough
to stride on like a seeker
who with luck, in the dream,
might push off into flight
to see the ships beyond the strait
where the coastal shelf drops off
and colour unfolds into
a deeper shade, like land,
until distance recuperates
its spectral lightness
and the also-distant clouds
with no line to separate them
from the possibility of land
beyond veiling vapour
will rumble their answer in
the peninsular shape of clouds
that do not so much hide
as leave the fiction of a smoother shore.
2
How many people is enough people?
If it has an infinite length,
does an island have infinite area?
Can it claim the air and sea,
uncover hidden
corners
to house whole communities
brought by the monsoons
from north and northwest
and so far away it lacks direction,
all bearing merchandise?
Does an island with infinite length
need to lose count of its people?
Can it count on culture
to resurface as layers, not division?
Buildings high above the port
are forced to talk in open air
by feats of engineering
at the limits of the profession
to win renown as
intimately international landmarks
as long as the geology
is unmoved. Decisions made
as if current knowledge is rock
or takes too long to decay
may yet meet rewinding circumstance
floodlighting forecasts
in hindsight before they are ever
cut to cloth and held to account,
but, for now, I visualise
a dried-out pool on Yan Kit Road
emptied of its water
to make space for memories
until the silver lash of rain
dampens its yellowed tiles,
poking at past purpose.
I did not slip through broken chain-link
to see if puddles arose
during November monsoons,
mingling like lakes becoming sea,
but the healing property of water
is logged with water,
though every drop counts.
How much depth of water
does one need to drown?
The national servicemen who watched
one in their number
thrashing in training torture
until it stopped
know that the answer
is measured in inches
and ever since carry
a belief that umbrellas ward off rain,
just as today
the hillside grave has been filled in,
as though to say there can be
no change in the midst of change,
no residual fear
