The Riot Act

by Sebastian Sim

  “No, he did not.” Omala shook her finger. “But he changed the rule of the game. My principal made it compulsory for all students to submit their questions for vetting before they could be selected for the next ministerial dialogue.”

  The crowd booed again. This time, Omala did not stop them.

  “This is what scares me; that structures are erected and procedures implemented to protect the powerful from people who question their motives and actions. It happened when I was in secondary school and it is happening again today. Three months ago, a riot erupted in Little India. We were told by the police that all 122 of the rioters have been apprehended. The first among these rioters will be sentenced next week. If all you read is The Straits Times, you will come away grateful for the efficiency of the government and confident that the crisis has been resolved.”

  Someone shouted at the top of his voice, “The Straits Times is nothing but the government’s propaganda. I use it as toilet paper!”

  Amidst the howling laughter, Omala Subramaniam pushed on.

  “I lead an NGO called Migrant Workers Count Too. We conducted many interviews with migrant workers after the riot. We know that there are some among the 122 who have been wrongfully arrested. We have tried to share this information with the police but they chose to stonewall us. So I leveraged my personal blog called The Tornado to amplify these alternative narratives. My postings have been shared thousands of times because my readers believe in me and want to spread the truth. And guess what? The MDA has responded by making it compulsory for The Tornado and 27 other blogs and websites to put up $50,000 performance bonds. This is yet another blatant attempt to protect the powerful from people who question them.”

  “We will crowdfund the $50,000 for you!” someone shouted.

  “That will not solve the problem,” Omala shook her head. “They will confiscate the money every time The Tornado or any political website reports an inconvenient truth. In the long run, they will wear us out. We do not have the money to fight them and we shouldn’t have to. Our media in Singapore was ranked 149 out of 179 countries in the World Press Freedom Index last year, a drop from 135 the year before. We have to call all Singaporeans to action. We have to make everyone take ownership of this fight. Anyone who chooses to be apathetic and non-participatory is as guilty as the oppressors who are trying to silence us. This protest is just the beginning. I want all Singaporeans to sign a petition to make it known that we will not allow the government to seal our mouths with duct tape and plug our ears into headphones that play only messages sanctioned by the authorities. We must resist!”

  As the crowd roared, Hashwini felt a peculiar swell in her chest. Omala’s delivery was not half as polished as that of the earlier speaker, but her passion was ten times more intense. Everyone could sense it. Hashwini found inspiration in the fact that this tiny little lady, probably no taller than herself, had the power to move and galvanise a congregation of mixed races. She could aim to do the same with her writing!

  “Look over there.” Euu Ki nudged Hashwini. “Something is happening.”

  Euu Ki was right. There appeared to be a commotion of sorts at the drinking fountain to the left of the stage. A group of migrant workers were gesticulating with excitement and pointing at the crowd gathered in front of the stage. There were two men who looked like they were trying to calm them down and push them back. Hashwini recognised both. One was the hunky pamphlet distributor called Krison. The other was the lawyer-cum-gay rights activist called Kuan Eng.

  “This looks exciting!” Euu Ki extracted his mobile phone from his bag. “Let me film this. We can use it for Teen RV.”

  Omala Subramaniam decided to halt her speech when she realised that many in her audience were being distracted by the commotion. She tilted her head and spoke into the microphone, “Kuan Eng, can you please request that these gentlemen move out of the park? Ask them to report to Migrant Workers Count Too this afternoon. We will be there to help them. Explain to them that we are conducting a protest with a different theme and that their issues do not belong to this platform.”

  As the crowd watched, Kuan Eng broke away from the commotion and approached them. But instead of ascending the steps to the stage, he inserted himself into the crowd and wriggled till he was standing face to face with Hashwini.

  “Hello, madam, I have spoken with the group of migrant workers. It appears that one of them recognises you from the Little India riot. I am not sure if they have the right person, but I believe they have called the investigation officer handling the riot case. As the police permit for this protest does not allow foreigners to participate, it will complicate matters for us if the group of migrant workers insists on hanging around. Can I therefore respectfully request that you consider leaving Hong Lim Park before the police arrive?”

  Hashwini turned pallid. She wanted to seek advice from Euu Ki but that insufferable moron was still filming the exchange on his mobile phone. Everyone in the crowd was staring at her now.

  “I can walk you to the MRT station,” Kuan Eng offered. “I will ensure that no harm comes to you.”

  Hashwini nodded. She needed to get out of the park. As the two cut diagonally across the field, they could hear the murmur of hushed discussions among the crowd. Everyone must be wondering about this strange interlude. They had almost reached the edge of the park when Euu Ki caught up with them.

  “What is going on? Why are the migrant workers chasing us?”

  Hashwini swivelled around to find herself confronted by the terrifying spectacle of a dozen migrant workers galloping across the field towards her. She stood rooted to the ground, paralysed with fear. Euu Ki had once again tapped on the video mode to record the humiliating scene.

  “I don’t think you should take the MRT,” Kuan Eng decided. “Let’s hail you a taxi.”

  Hashwini nodded, but she couldn’t make herself move. Her knees were so weak she feared they might buckle as the group of migrant workers caught up with them. One of the migrant workers began to gesticulate at Kuan Eng angrily. “Why are you bringing her away? I thought you were going to help us?”

  “You need to calm down, Thiru,” Kuan Eng said. “This lady is free to come and go as she pleases. Nobody here has the right to detain her. Not me, not you.”

  “She is wanted by the police!” Thiru shouted angrily. “She has to wait here till the police arrive.”

  A second migrant worker spoke to Thiru in rapid Tamil in an attempt to calm him down but the man would not be mollified. He retorted heatedly and the exchange soon escalated into an argument. Hashwini caught Kuan Eng’s surreptitious jerk of the head and understood he was urging her to get away, but she simply could not move. She turned to Euu Ki for help but the latter was focused on filming the fracas. It was just as well. She would need video evidence if the gang of angry men decided to turn violent and tear her apart.

  “It looks like the police are here,” Kuan Eng remarked, pointing at a team of four uniformed officers approaching them from where they had parked the police patrol cars. “You’ll be safe now.”

  Hashwini felt conflicted. As much as she was glad she was no more in danger of physical harm, the prospect of being interrogated by the police for her role in the Little India riot was not too pleasant a thought either. It looked like her days of being a fugitive on the run was finally over.

  “I am Inspector Toh Boon Hwee,” the leader of the team introduced himself as they descended upon the gathered group. “We are responding to a call that came in ten minutes ago.”

  “I am the one who called.” Thiru stepped forward. “Remember when you took my statement after the Little India riot and I told you there was a policewoman on the bus? You didn’t believe me then. Here she is! She is the one who stopped the bus to do a security sweep!”

  Everyone turned to glare at Hashwini. Inspector Toh Boon Hwee raised his brows in silent query.

  “It’s complicated,” Hashwini sighed.

  “Then perhaps you should follow us back
to the police station to record a statement, madam.”

  Thirty minutes later, Hashwini found herself seated in an interview room awaiting Inspector Toh’s return with his files. In addition to the two CCTV cameras on the wall, the police had set up a recording device on a tripod. She wished they had placed her in one of those interrogation rooms that had an adjoining viewing gallery with a one-way mirror; she wanted to check if her hair was messy. Although it had crossed her mind to ask to use the toilet to freshen up, she refrained. She ought to save that excuse for later in case the inspector threw her a difficult question and she needed to buy time to ruminate.

  “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the Little India riot, which occurred shortly after 9pm on 8 December 2013?” That was Inspector Toh Boon Hwee’s opening question.

  “I was on the bus, the one that ran over the migrant worker and triggered the riot.”

  Hashwini had mentally worked out her chances of getting away with a set of lies. They were, in all likelihood, as slim as the thinnest sanitary pad available on the market. Not only had the police confiscated the CCTV tapes in Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop, they probably had access to mobile phone recordings taken on the bus itself. Her best bet was to come clean with the truth and plead temporary insanity for posing as an undercover policewoman.

  “What were you doing on the bus?”

  “I was tracking down one of the migrant workers who earlier took an upskirt photo of me.”

  Hashwini gave herself a mental pat on the back for so quickly establishing her status as a victim. She wondered if it would help if she looked traumatised. But it had been three months. Perhaps she shouldn’t overplay the role.

  The inspector flipped through the documents until he found what he wanted.

  “There was a 999 call from a woman reporting an incident that she suspected someone of taking upskirt photos at Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop at the junction of Desker and Serangoon roads at 8.55pm on the same night. Did you make that call?”

  Hashwini had half a mind to challenge the inspector’s use of the term “suspected”, but when she thought about it, she did not actually get a look at the upskirt photo. She had merely heard a camera click—or thought she had heard it.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Using your own mobile phone?”

  “No, I didn’t have mine with me.” Hashwini remembered her promise to Kaustubh not to implicate him. “I borrowed the phone from a stranger.”

  “Where is the mobile phone now?”

  “I dropped it while I was getting away from the riot scene.”

  Hashwini thought it sounded both logical and plausible that she was nervous enough to drop the mobile phone in a riot scenario. In reality, she would never lose her mobile phone. Her collection of selfies inside was too precious for her to act so carelessly.

  “Did you try to contact the police again after the riot?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…the man was already dead. I thought the case should be closed.”

  Hashwini cringed at her own reply. It sounded imbecilic.

  “Did you witness the death of the migrant worker? The one who you claimed took an upskirt photo?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Would you be able to identify him if I show you a photo?”

  Hashwini paused. “Before or after he was crushed by the two buses?”

  “I am referring to his passport photo.”

  “I can try.” Hashwini felt relieved that she did not have to pick him out from a line-up of post-accident photos taken at the mortuary.

  “We will arrange for the photo identification in time,” Inspector Toh Boon Hwee said. “Many among the witnesses on the bus claimed that you identified yourself as a police officer when you boarded the bus. Is that true?”

  There was a long pause. Hashwini could not make up her mind. She had mentally rehearsed this scene repeatedly ever since Kaustubh informed that she was wanted by the police. Over the weeks, she had narrowed her options down to three. She could deny it and claim that she had in actual fact shouted “Please!” She could admit it and claim that she did so because the bus driver would otherwise not allow her to search the vehicle. Or she could refer the interrogator to her lawyer. That was assuming she had enough savings to engage one.

  “Do you need me to repeat the question?” Inspector Toh Boon Hwee asked. There was an unmistakable tone of distrust and impatience.

  “Yes, but not right now,” Hashwini sighed. She might have to take up a loan. “You will have to speak to my lawyer.”

  “That is so cool what you said!” Euu Ki screeched once Hashwini related the episode to him later that night.

  “No, it was not,” Hashwini said dispiritedly. “He gave me the death stare before he ended the session. I think he assumes I am guilty.”

  “Do you have the inspector’s name? We can do a background check on him.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Well, for one, he works in the police force. They are very anal about their officers’ personal conduct in and out of uniform,” Euu Ki explained. “If I can track down his profile on Tinder or Grindr, I may be able to get hold of some proof of indiscretion or even some nude pics we can blackmail him with.”

  “Are you hoping to get caught for blackmailing so you can share my cell and keep me company? So sweet of you!”

  “Sweetie, if I ever end up in prison I will be the Goddess of Supreme Blowjobs and there will be a mile-long queue of inmates lining up to be my cell mate. You’ll have to take a number.”

  “Very funny,” Hashwini snapped. “I have to get ready for midnight shift at the casino. Please help me ask around and get me a lawyer I can afford, okay? Bye.”

  Two hours later, Hashwini found herself seated at a blackjack table in a private room at the VIP lounge. She was relieved to discover that Teddy Toy Boy had booked the session. In her discombobulated state of mind, she wouldn’t be able to handle a tough customer like the Beast.

  At ten minutes before midnight, Teddy entered the Sapphire Room with his mobile phone pressed to his ear. His eyes swept across the two croupiers and automatically picked Hashwini’s blackjack table. She had always brought him luck. Hashwini removed the chip tray cover in preparation to deal, but Teddy Toy Boy gesticulated at her to hold on as he continued listening intently. There was a look of consternation on his face that Haswhini was seeing for the first time. She wondered if his sugar mommy was giving him a lecture of sorts.

  “It sounds like the Indian Embassy is trying to pull a fast one. They must have come into possession of that video clip very soon after the riot. Why did they have to wait till now to throw it at us? The sentencing is three days down the road. They are leaving us very little time to react.”

  Despite the fact that Teddy was speaking in a whisper, Hashwini could hear every single word. She had always had a keen sense of hearing and the absolute silence in the Sapphire Room was highly conducive to eavesdropping. It sounded like Teddy Toy Boy’s sugar mommy held a high position in the government sector. Perhaps that was the reason she could not come down personally to enjoy her game of blackjack at the casino.

  “I have a piece of good news for you though,” Teddy Toy Boy continued. “I spoke to the police commissioner this afternoon. They managed to haul in the young woman who impersonated an undercover police officer the night of the riot. They took a preliminary statement, but midway through she asked for a lawyer and they had to stop.”

  Hashwini sat up straight. They were talking about her!

  “We don’t have all the details yet but she could be our backup target. What the Indian Embassy wants is to be seen stepping in and saving the rioters from harsh sentencing. That will earn them huge credit with their people back home. On our part, we can claim that the statement of this fake undercover police officer has uncovered new evidence that needs to be incorporated. We can ask for a deferment of sentencing. In time to come, the court c
an pass a lighter sentence on the rioters by claiming that it was this singular act of mischief by this mysterious local woman who triggered the riot. That way, the Indian Embassy is appeased, and the public cannot blame us for kowtowing to pressure because the agent of mischief is one of their own.”

  Hashwini felt her head spin. This was surreal, eavesdropping on a conspiracy to implicate her. She glared at Teddy, who had stood up and was pacing the room speaking into the mobile phone in an inaudible whisper. She found it hard to believe that such a sweet and affable creature, who had treated her with unfailing gallantry all these weeks, was in fact a mean and deceitful villain. Had she not overheard the phone conversation, she would never have guessed that he was the one who was plotting to push her into the snake pit.

  When Teddy eventually decided to start the game, Hashwini was not able to concentrate. There was always the underlying contest of speed when croupiers dealt for Teddy. Not only could the man count cards as fast as any trained croupier, he always played five hands simultaneously, for he claimed that “5” was his lucky number. That required the croupier to stay sharp and focused. Hashwini was anything but sharp and focused that very moment. Every gesture and every word that came out of Teddy’s lips irritated her. She could now spot the insincerity in his signature dazzling smile that once used to mesmerise her. How could she have been so blind? Teddy was but a more evolved form of the Beast. He was pure malice coated with honey.

  By the third game, the pit supervisor had to interrupt and ask if Hashwini was feeling alright. Not only was her dealing slow and clumsy, she was making too many mistakes. Hashwini feigned discomfort; she was having woman trouble. Teddy gallantly excused her and allowed for a change of croupier. Very quickly, another croupier was summoned from the staff lounge to take over.

  Jingxuan was chatting with another croupier at the VIP lounge. She waved Hashwini over and pointed at the bowl of chendol she held in her hand. “This is really tasty!” Jingxuan told her. “One of the perks of dealing at the VIP lounge that croupiers at the Mass Gaming Area do not enjoy. You should scoop a bowl for yourself.”