“Siao ah li?” the bus driver shrieked in Hokkien, which translated into “Are you crazy?”
Hashwini held up Kaustubh’s mobile phone like it was a badge and shouted, “Police!” Almost immediately, the impropriety struck her, so she added, “The police are coming. I am doing a search on this bus. Kill the engine!”
The bus driver was intimidated by Hashwini’s forceful command and took it that she was an undercover police officer. He broke out into a cold sweat when he suddenly remembered he was driving his cousin’s bus and that the latter sometimes conducted clandestine operations smuggling in untaxed cartons of cigarettes from neighbouring Johor state. What if there were still a load of contraband in the secret compartment adjoining the engine? He meekly obeyed the undercover police officer when she ordered him to switch on the overhead lights to facilitate her manhunt.
Hashwini was momentarily stunned when the lights flooded the cabin and forty pairs of eyes stared back at her. But the entire busload of migrant workers had heard her shout “Police!” a moment ago and everyone watched her with unease and trepidation. Hashwini could smell the fear in the air. Emboldened, she marched down the aisle and inspected the faces with unlicenced authority. Every single man looked fearful, if not downright guilty. Hashwini fed on their collective uncertainty and felt like she towered over these men, even with her lack of height. She practically shouted with triumph when she spotted her quarry cowering in the second to last row.
“You! Stay right there!”
The entire busload of migrant workers erupted into hushed discussions as they strained their necks to identify the apprehended felon among their dormitory mates. They watched intently as the policewoman whipped out her mobile phone and called for reinforcements. This was the most exciting thing to happen since they had come to work in Singapore. A handful who owned smartphones switched on the video function to record the scene. They did so stealthily; it would not do for the policewoman to notice them and confiscate their phones.
To their shock and delight, the bus driver suddenly jumped into action. He raced down the aisle shouting with urgency. They could not understand his words, for he was shouting in Hokkien, but they could tell that he wanted the policewoman and the felon off the bus. A heated argument ensued. Those seated near the front could not hear properly for the two buses in the queue behind them had begun to blast their horns impatiently. The smartphone owners now stood up and filmed the action blatantly. These would be priceless clips they could share with their friends and family back in India and Bangladesh.
At one point, the bus driver grabbed the scrawny felon by his arm and forcefully dragged him towards the front exit. Enraged, the felon’s bunkmate in the adjacent seat tried to stop him but the aisle was narrow and the undercover policewoman was in the way. The entire busload scrambled to the left side and watched through the window as the four of them tussled and stumbled out of the bus. It became apparent that the bus driver wanted to leave the felon and his bunkmate behind and drive off. The felon’s bunkmate started a heated argument, adamant that the two of them should not be abandoned. The bus driver insisted that he had the right to boot the troublemakers from his bus and turned to board the vehicle himself. When the bunkmate attempted to shove his friend up the steps, the bus driver swivelled around, lifted his leg and aimed a hard kick at the scrawny felon’s chest that sent him tottering backwards. The entire bus gasped. A collective rage surged as someone shouted in indignant protest, “This is intolerable!”
The bus driver fired up the engine and locked the front door, unaware that he had incurred the migrant workers’ wrath. When he inched his vehicle forward at an angle to circumvent the toppled rubbish bin, he saw the felon’s bunkmate spring into his path to block his advance. Cursing, he slammed his palm onto the vehicular horn and held it there, adding another layer of ear-piercing honking to the cacophony from the buses stalled behind. Glaringly illuminated by the headlights, the stubborn troublemaker held his ground and refused to move.
The bus driver was contemplating if he should cut diagonally across the grass patch to get onto the main road when he heard the siren. From the far end of Serangoon Road, the flashing lights of a police patrol car could be seen advancing in their direction. Overcome with panic, the bus driver went into reverse gear and jammed on the accelerator. The bus jerked back abruptly and smashed into the stationary bus behind. The migrant workers seated at the back suddenly began to shriek, some of them banging on the windowpane to get his attention. Through the rear view mirror, the bus driver saw several of them pushing their way to the front, gesticulating wildly and yelling in indecipherable Tamil. He could not understand them but he could sense their irascibility. He could also tell that things had somehow gotten out of hand.
Hashwini could not hear herself screaming amidst the uproar. The buses were honking, the migrant workers were shouting and the ear-piercing police siren was advancing towards the car park. A moment ago, when the bunkmate hopped in front of the bus to stop it from exiting, she had moved in to grab Sanmugan by his sleeves. Determined to hold on to him till the police arrived, Hashwini found herself in a tug of war as her quarry strained to get away. At one point, he tilted his head and bit into her arm. Hashwini yelped and let go, more out of surprise than actual pain. Sanmugan stumbled away towards the second bus as though he wanted to take the alternative transport. When Hashwini caught up and tried to grab him again, Sanmugan swung his arm at her and sidestepped. And then it happened, right in front of her eyes. The first bus suddenly jerked backwards, ramming into the second bus and pinning Sanmugan in between. That was the moment Hashwini started screaming.
As the second bus reversed out of the way, the flaccid body of her quarry slumped onto the tarmac. The eyes protruded out of their sockets with a wild glint, registering his final moment of pain and shock. Blood streamed out of his nostrils and his gaping mouth. Even as Hashwini continued to scream in horror, she noticed that the fallen body was neither convulsing nor choking for air.
The bedlam unfolded quickly. The migrant workers descending from the bus to investigate stood stunned at the spectacle. The gathering crowd swelled as word spread and the curious came forward to find out more. They identified witnesses from the bus and pried them for details. What actually happened? Several accusatory fingers pointed at the reckless bus driver, who had been dragged down from the bus by a handful of angry migrant workers. He was the one who had literally kicked the victim out of the vehicle and then rammed into him. He was the murderer!
The two police officers emerging from the patrol car were initially confused by the pandemonium. Some of the witnesses were eager to update them but neither of the two understood Tamil. And then they spotted the mob justice. A Chinese man was being held hostage by a group of irate migrant workers, some of whom were hammering him with their fists. Both the officers froze. Never in their line of duty had they been confronted by such a scenario. It was a group of ten or more enacting violence against the Chinese man, but there must be over a hundred onlookers. The immediate realisation of the two officers was that they were outnumbered, not only as police officers by rowdy migrant workers, but also as Chinese by Indians. As much as they hated to admit it even to themselves, they felt unsafe.
Of the two officers, the corporal was the first to recover from the shock. He announced that he would call for reinforcements, and quickly slipped back into the vehicle to reach for the police radio. The sergeant was left with no choice but to take on the angry mob alone. He drew out his baton and shouted for the group to halt the attack, but nobody heard him. It was all too noisy and confusing. The sergeant pulled out his whistle and blew hard. This time, everyone heard it. Three of the migrant workers rushed towards him with the intention of reporting that there was an injured man who needed an ambulance. But the sergeant thought that the mob was breaking out to attack him and in panicked reflex lashed out with his baton. His first strike caught one of the migrant workers on the left arm, and the poor man shrieked in pain
. There was a suspended moment when the crowd stared at the sergeant in bewilderment. The bus driver took the opportunity to struggle free and raced towards the patrol car, shouting for help. As some of the migrant workers approached the sergeant to explain the event, the jittery sergeant again lashed out at them with his baton. That was the moment the crowd began to jeer. The police was here to protect the culprit. They would never be on their side.
Hashwini watched in horror as the bedlam escalated. She saw the sergeant and the bus driver retreat into the patrol car. The corporal tried to back the vehicle onto the main road but the migrant workers encircled the patrol car and blocked its exit. Someone picked up the toppled rubbish bin and hurled it at the windshield. That act of rebellion excited the mob and brought on cheers. The bold among them laid their hands on the patrol car and began to rock it, eliciting more cheers from the onlookers. For a moment, it looked as though the mob might pry open the doors, drag the hostages out of the car and shred them to pieces. But a shot suddenly rang out and the crowd fell over one another to back away.
It was the sergeant who had fired his pistol out of the window. He got out of the patrol car looking pallid, and motioned to the corporal and the bus driver to follow suit. Holding his pistol above his head, pointing it straight up, he fired another warning shot into the air before signalling his companions to retreat from the mob on foot. The crowd jeered loudly as the three scrambled across the road. Someone shouted a command, upon which the mob reconvened around the patrol car and worked together to upturn it. Once the vehicle flipped over, a celebratory hooting erupted. Within minutes, the vehicle was set on fire. The mob pranced around the burning effigy until someone goaded them to move onto the main road. The celebration ought to be spread and shared.
Although Hashwini felt shaken by the sudden, senseless death she had witnessed a moment ago, she could not deny the buzz of excitement under her skin as she watched the upturned police patrol car burn like a torch less than 30 metres away. This was not something she was watching on television. This was happening, in real time, and she was a part of it. In fact, she was the one who had started this madness, for crying out loud!
Hashwini turned when she felt a tug on her sleeve. It was Kaustubh.
“Can I have my phone back?”
Hashwini extracted the mobile phone from her pocket and handed it over wordlessly. But a flash of inspiration struck her and she snatched it back.
“Just a minute.”
She held it up high, angled it to capture the flaming police vehicle in the background, and contorted her face to look appropriately alarmed before taking a selfie.
Chapter 2
Truth be told, Jessica was of the opinion that honesty was overrated.
Were she honest, she would turn to her friend seated next to her on the dragon boat and break the latter’s heart with the truth—that the hunky team captain working the drums with majestic fervour up ahead was not in the least bit interested in her.
But why break poor Andreae’s heart? The dear girl was plunging her paddles valiantly into the waters, puncturing each exertion with a screeching yelp, no doubt designed to draw the team captain’s attention to herself.
“Did you not notice how he always stays back after practice to chat with us?” Andreae had more than once repeated her observation.
“He chats with everyone. It’s his role as the team captain to build the team spirit.” Jessica felt it her duty to douse the poor girl’s misdirected ardency.
“That is so not true. You must be blind not to see that he is interested in us.”
That, in a nutshell, was Andreae’s problem, Jessica mused.
The two had met in junior college and Andreae had clung onto her like a parasitic clump of mistletoe onto a full-grown, flowering eucalyptus. Over the past four years, Andreae had copied her hairstyle, her make-up and her clothes. It never struck the poor girl that she did not have Jessica’s height, skin or contours to carry it off. She always ended up looking like a smudged, off-colour carbon copy of the real deal. Some of the mean girls on campus called her “Fake Prada”, but Andreae either did not know or pretended not to.
Jessica hadn’t minded Andreae’s clinginess. But it unnerved Jessica whenever Andreae fused their separate identities as a singular “us”. It was as though Andreae actually believed that she could feed on Jessica’s attributes like a mistletoe would its host eucalyptus.
Both girls were rinsing off after dragon boat practice ended when Andreae suddenly declared, “Maybe he’s too shy to ask us out. Maybe we should ask him out instead.”
Jessica secretly sighed. She hadn’t the heart to tell Andreae that the team captain had in fact asked her out on a date once before and had been somewhat embarrassed when she told him she had a steady boyfriend.
“You can always try.” Jessica shrugged.
“Yes, I should.” Andreae decided happily, now that her best friend had endorsed the idea. She rinsed off the shampoo suds and raced off without even drying her hair. It took her all of five minutes to return triumphant.
“He said yes.”
“He did?” Jessica had to admit that caught her by surprise.
“We are going to the soup kitchen after this.”
“Is that some fancy new place I haven’t heard about?”
“It’s a soup kitchen run by some NGO to feed the migrant workers. He says he will bring us.”
“Why are we eating at some soup kitchen that gives free meals to migrant workers?” Jessica asked, mystified.
“Because he has already signed up for volunteer duties, so I told him that we will be happy to help out,” Andreae said cheerily.
Jessica rolled her eyes. Of all the relaxing or fun things she could do on a Sunday night, Andreae had to sign her up for soup kitchen duty.
The team captain, Krison, was waiting for them outside the changing room.
“I am so glad you are coming.” He looked at Jessica, genuinely pleased.
“We’re happy to help,” Andreae chirped. “Are we sharing a taxi?”
“I have a motorbike. I’ll meet you there,” Krison said. “The venue is called Lucky Tongue. You can locate it using Google Maps.”
Jessica rolled her eyes again. She was pretty certain he would not be paying their taxi fare.
It turned out that the NGO ran a soup kitchen in a coffeeshop that was not open on Sundays. Krison waved them over as they entered. He was seated at a corner table with a lady who looked to be in her forties. The latter stood and shook their hands warmly. “So nice of you to join us, ladies. We can always do with more volunteers. I’m Omala. I am the director of Migrant Workers Count Too.”
“We are glad to be here,” Andreae said. “Do you need us in the kitchen?”
“We have enough manpower in the kitchen tonight. You can help us serve at the counter when people start coming at six. We are catering for 250 people.”
Jessica was pleased. She was meeting her boyfriend after dinner. They had something exciting planned and she didn’t want to turn up smelling like a simmering pot of mutton curry; she could tell from the distinctive aroma emanating from the kitchen that that was what was for dinner.
Krison slipped into the kitchen and returned with four plates of white rice topped with servings of fish moolie, curry mutton cubes and sayur lodeh. Omala urged them to take their time. The place would not get busy for another half an hour.
“The soup kitchen is a such sweet idea. I am sure the migrant workers are very grateful,” Andreae muttered while she chewed on the mutton cubes, mangling her words and making “sweet” sound like “swee”, which meant “pretty” in Hokkien. She added, looking at Omala, “You are such a sweet lady.”
“I am neither a sweet nor ‘swee’ lady,” Omala said, tickled. “If anything, I am an enraged and indignant woman.”
“Why?” Andreae exclaimed, but she dragged her syllables too long and came across sounding like an enraged and indignant cat screeching.
Omala pointed at a
table behind the girls. “You see those two Bangladeshis? Their names are Majumder and Bhimul. I will tell you their stories.”
Jessica and Andreae turned to get a good look. Both men donned striped polo shirts and faded jeans, and looked nondescript. But they shared an aura of dispiritedness, their eyes downcast and their shoulders slumped.
“Majumder started work for a construction company in May. To date, he has not received a full month’s pay. He has a family of seven back in Bangladesh going hungry, while he is stuck in Singapore jobless and homeless, awaiting a financial settlement between the Ministry of Manpower and his employer.”
“How is that possible?” Jessica hissed in disbelief. “Why would he continue to work for free all these months?”
“Every time he broaches the subject, his boss will hand him $50 or $100, and make him sign for those. It’s a rather common deflect-and-defer strategy,” Omala explained. “Majumder had to pay $5,000 in agent’s fees to fly over. He was already waist-deep in debt before he started work. That was the reason he hesitated for so long before he approached the authorities. He didn’t want to risk antagonising his boss, who can easily cook up an excuse to repatriate him.”
“And guess what happened after he made the report?” Krison interjected. “The boss changed the locks to the dormitory and confiscated his belongings, leaving him instantly homeless and jobless.”
Jessica felt, beyond the shock and horror, a deep sense of betrayal. She had grown up believing she lived in a country that practised justice and equality. Singapore was well known for being corruption-free. It was inconceivable that the system would allow this injustice to go unpunished.
“It’s a matter of time before MOM sets things right. He just has to be patient,” Jessica opined.
Omala and Krison both shook their heads, a pair of identical wry smiles on their lips.
The Riot Act Page 2
