After the showers dissipated, I shut down all the programmes, tore myself away from the desk and finally heeded L's call for a drink before we call it a day. In any case, I had had no lunch, and that glass of Milo was all that sustained my duck from 9 to 7. With my few remaining dollars, I hailed a cab and happily enough, achieved my mission within minutes (ok, 20 minutes is still minutes) and at the cost of a mere tenth of a grand.
The weather remained clear, though damp and dreary. Eschewing public transport, I decided to walk down the road towards Bras Basah. I encounter once more a Blue Flame of tragic events which still await a full undoing. Still, I am not unwilling to sample this establishment's creole offerings in much more cautious circumstances.
The route takes me past two institutions of this district: the Sultan Mosque that holds sway over its entourage of shophouses, and the Malabar Mosque, a distinctive cornerstone of thousands of tiny blue tiles topped with a golden dome that serves as a spiritual gateway between Arab Street and the lanes of Little India. It had never to occurred to me that a muezzin's call was out of the ordinary, if you could put it that way, until mrs budak found her sleep interrupted by the dawn call to prayer in the town I once called home. For me, it was but one of many sounds that encased life in that small town, perceptible yet unimpinging, like the sync-less crows of early roosters and echoing howls of nocturnal hounds and the furious buzzing of crickets and cicadas, wing-fiddling in the hope of entomological amour from their cryptic corners.
I pass by a shop run by a local Indian, but boasting produce from the Bosphorus. Colourful hookah implements are displayed in a manner reminscent of the shiny paens to worthy ancestors displayed in outfits in Chinatown. He also stocks Turkish Delights, the confectionery of Edmund's downfall. I purchased a trio and he threw in a fourth. How nice!
Turning a corner, I find Zam Zam busy as usual, tossing rotis and murtabaks, while Enciks and Makciks 'park' their SUVs by the junction and await rush hour curries.
Turning back towards Bugis, two cats appear on the sidewalk. Both were half-grown kittens, the tuxedo in particular is a livewire who refuses to stand still for a picture and finds delight in swatting pebbles on the pavement. He regards my approach with a mix of fear, uttering small cries, and curiosity, eventually twirling his way through my legs. I have a feeling they are siblings. The sister appears to have a wounded jaw (or is it just the colouration?) and keeps her distance, trusting not large ducks whose kind wield both harm and help to creatures not of their own making.
I also had an unplanned haircut.
the jaw looks like just coloration
anyways, i think the traumas of the night has colored my impressions of the blue flame cuisine
hahaha the uncle threw in a 4th turkish delight because he was really the white witch in disguise!!!!! muhahaha
Posted by: monkey | 23 December 2005 at 12:42 AM