Ethos Books

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Excerpt from Happy Long Life to You

…. The following days were a living nightmare. Uma had absolutely no knowledge of sex. But her purity made her one of the most sought-after girls there. Scores of men would come and she would see them one after the other. It was typical for her to have eight to 10 customers every night and they paid by the half hour. A guard stood outside her room to keep track of the time and to prevent her from trying to run away. From the first knock on the door by the guard to signal the end of the first session, she was already completely broken.

She hardly left the bungalow during the year in Mumbai. Each day following the next was the same. She slept in the day and woke up in the evening to prepare herself. Then she would sit on the sofa with the other girls and wait for the men to pick them. She would remove her saree and lay on the bed. When they were finished she would put on her saree only to remove it again for the next customer. After she was done with her shift she would return into the same room and she would remove her make-up and go to bed.

This was the routine they set for her and Uma hated herself every day. She felt dirty and tainted. No amount of makeup and beautiful clothes could hide the shame she felt. Everyday Uma thought of how she could possibly look her grandfather in the eye again.

Later, she would learn that her story was not unique. Some of the girls were tricked like she was. But there were many others who joined willingly; one lady even had a husband and son whom she would send money to. The bungalow in this business was located in Kamathipura, Mumbai’s oldest red light district. Notorious for trafficking prostitutes, there were scores of other bungalows like this.

It was ironic how Uma felt most comfortable with Amma and not the other girls in the bungalow. Amma was a flamboyant woman, in her ways and in her words. Without fail, her make-up would be impeccable, her hair never a strand out of place and her pottu, never smaller than a one rupee coin. She wore intricately woven sarees, some of them embroidered with gold thread. Everything from her personality to her fashion seemed like she was overcompensating for her gender.

Amma’s entrances were always very dramatic: there would be someone to hold the door for her before she stepped in and exclaimed loudly, “How is everybody doing!” Her generosity extended to all the girls in the bungalow. They were given beautiful pieces of clothing and enjoyed luxuries like watching the television and having fish and meat in their meals—something growing up in poverty never allowed.

She could be very strict in her ways, enforcing rules to make sure that the floors were properly scrubbed and the girls’ hair neatly combed. But she was generally very nice to all the staff . Amma would always enquire about everyone and comfort the girls who were upset. Uma liked Amma’s eclectic personality. She was a complete contrast to Uma. Amma was outgoing and always so animated while Uma was quiet and reserved. Uma was drawn to Amma: like a bright flame, Amma’s lively spirit gave her hope, reminding Uma of her sisters and giving her some reprieve from the horror that went on in the rooms upstairs.

Amma looked after Uma well, and Uma turned to her whenever she felt overwhelmed by shame and despair. Like Uma, she was sold many years ago to a brothel. Without revealing her personal history, she would comfort Uma by telling her about the rough conditions she faced then and how fortunate Uma was now to have a proper room to stay in. With her chest puffed out she would reminisce fondly about how she got to where she was now and became an owner of a business she was proud of.

Though Uma grew to like Amma as a person, she never identified with Amma’s pride in her business. She would ask her whether she felt that it was wrong for girls to resort to such lengths for money. But Amma’s answers would always be the same: what is the problem with having all the luxuries and comforts they wouldn’t have back home?

Excerpt taken from the chapter “Prostitution” in Happy Long Life to You.

[ethosbooks]

from Faith in Architecture, edited by Gül İnanç

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The sound shook the tunnel of my soul and cut deep into my marrow. I knew the sound. It was the heavy wheels of the Northeast Line Mass Rapid Transit train that screeched and shook the tunnel that I designed and built; a tunnel that had desecrated the sanctity of life; a tunnel that would force all the stories and secrets of every soul buried there to surface through the soil. 

I stood rooted to the ground and felt breathless looking at the shadow of the automatic train that sped through it. I wondered at the rush of history in the making that was still beyond my grasp. It was as if it had spun out of control and could never be caught. There was no end to its devastation. Aside from humanity, who and what else would become its victims? 

Time would pass and the future would still be busy chasing the spinning of history. True happiness is the ability to grasp a moment of peace in times of chaos. Just like the serenity that I had experienced in the mosque soon to be demolished, and in Bidadari Cemetery that would soon be flattened. It was a serenity that was so sorrowful.  

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excerpt from One Earth by Isa Kamari

[ethosbooks]

From Walden to Woodlands: An Anthology of Nature Poems, edited by Ow Yeong Wai Kit and Muzakkir Samat

[ethosbooks]

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Hanging

Ricky sits up from his mat and smooths down the hair at the back of his head. He squats by his bucket, scoops up some water, and washes his face. He makes his way to the half-open door, where a guard is waiting. Ricky remembers being told by one of the wardens that they’ll take thirteen photos of him. 

But why? What significance is there in that number? They had probably made their calculations and arrived at thirteen: the average number of relatives and close friends for a typical death row prisoner. A figure arrived at after subtractions, taking into account those who are estranged, who have given up or decided that what they consider their social circle should not include condemned inmates. Thirteen: the maximum number of facial expressions that a human face possesses. Thirteen: the number of photographs a photographer could take before the monstrosity of the routine taps his conscience and paralyses him. 

Thirteen. The guard looks at Ricky. “Handsome, how? We’re taking your pictures today.” Ricky pulls the front of his T-shirt and wipes his face with it. 

“I know,” he says. 

...

“You have two shots left,” the photographer said. “Are you sure you still don’t want to smile?” 

Ricky shakes his head. He knows he is in control of this photo session. He can sense everyone in the room getting uncomfortable by his refusal to treat the session as a privilege, to display the necessary gratitude. He wants them to realise the perversity of this well-intentioned ritual -- if his mother were to receive one of these photos, what is she supposed to think? That his time in prison was never as bad as she had imagined, since here was proof that inmates were allowed to participate in role-playing excursions, flights of fancy that transported them from their implacable fate? That despite all the mortifications he has been subjected to, the prison recognised his essential humanity and permitted its singular expression during a photo shoot? 

No. The photos, all thirteen, would strike her as testimonies of regret: what could have been. Here is your son; this is what he would have turned out to be if he had not dabbled in drugs. This is the son that every mother would have wanted: the smart clothes, his own office, the proud smile. A life like this is within everyone’s reach, the problem with your son is that he chose to reject it. The law is a line separating binaries: there is normality, and there is crime. There is the office, and there are the gallows. The sum of your son’s life: a roll of undeveloped negatives. 

The photographer takes another shot. Ricky still refuses to smile. “This is the last one,” the photographer sighs. “It’s your last chance. Try to smile, okay? Don’t do it for me. Do it for your parents, for your girlfriend, whoever. Don’t you want to be remembered?”

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from “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Hanging” by Alfian Sa’at, in Telltale: 11 Stories

[ethosbooks]

excerpt from “Dragonflies”, in The Viewing Party by Yong Shu Hoong

[ethosbooks]

Endings and beginnings are often ideal spaces for rituals to flourish. A future grandmother prepares for her daughter-in-law’s confinement. Brides-to-be have their hair combed the night before a wedding. Schoolchildren make dates for bubble tea after Friday classes.

A grandson puts a pearl into his grandfather’s mouth.

These rituals tell many things about us: the steps we take in these milestone dances, the music that lingers in the air on exciting days, the emotions that we pour into these deliberate moves, even if we don’t know why. Sometimes the songs are dramatic, and other times silent, barely beating – the rhythm differs in every individual, but these choreographs still, in the end, tie us together.

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from Flow Across Our Ocean by Edwin Thumboo

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excerpt from “Ode to Color”, in Union: 15 Years of Drunken Boat, 50 Years of Writing from Singapore

[ethosbooks]

The Switch

My father waited till my twenty-first birthday to ask me the question every Chinese scion dreads: “When are you going to get married?”

The banquet hall fell silent then, and all my father’s relatives (fat, pompous creatures) and business partners leaned forward in anticipation, waiting for me to embarrass myself. “Yes, when?” they echoed.

“A beautiful soul like yourself—it shouldn’t be too difficult to get everyone to fall in love with you,” cooed an aunt, dressed in a too-tight red blouse that accentuated her ample belly, stuffed with years of overindulgence.

I demurred bashfully, made some excuse about not having met the right person yet (which was the truth in any case), then fled to the loo until the matter had blown over like a storm.

*

He waited till my twenty-fifth year to ask the question again. It was over a dinner of veal cutlets—osso bucco, to be precise. He conveniently waited till I’d popped a large mouthful of meat into my mouth. I almost choked. I’d forgotten that he expected me to marry.

I didn’t answer right away. Playing with the veal on my plate, I asked him coyly, “Do you love me so much that you wish to auction me off like a piece of meat?”

He wasn’t amused. “What are you driving at?” (In business, one learnt never to cross him, to get to the point quickly. He didn’t like time-wasters.)

“Where do the servants get our veal from?” I asked.

“From the market of course!” He gazed at me in disappointment, as if wondering how such a nincompoop could be born into his family.

“And they would choose the choicest cuts on display for our table?”

“They have been instructed to spare no expense for that.”

“Is that so different from marriage then?”

*

On my thirtieth birthday, my father threw another banquet in my honour and invited three hundred guests—equal parts family, friends and business acquaintances (my father was precise that way).

I had an inkling that he would ask me again when I would marry, but this time, I was prepared.

True to form, my father rose in the middle of dinner, just after the roasted suckling pig had been served, a cherry in its cooked mouth and sunflowers in its empty sockets staring reproachfully at us from the Lazy Susan. Rising to the stage, he hit a wine glass repeatedly with a chopstick and invited me to join him onstage.

I didn’t like the turn of events but I went anyway. It was too late to excuse myself to the loo.

“Friends, family and associates, today is the thirtieth birthday of my one and only child and heir to my business empire!” he announced.

Everyone clapped wildly. They were all drunk, their sheep faces stupid with meat and wine.

“As you know, my only remaining wish before I retire is to see my dear child married.” He turned to me then. “Ying, have you found someone yet?”

I hadn’t, but I did not have to tell him that. “Father,” I said respectfully, “Would you rather that I be happy, or lonely and unhappy in married life as you are?”

It took a while for my words to sink through the haze of wine that had settled on the guests, but when it did, there was an uproar.

My father said nothing, but his face had turned an interesting shade of red, redder than the cherry in the roasted pig’s mouth.

The next thing I saw was his palm, thick and meaty, raised like a fly swatter, bearing down on my face. He must have struck me then, so hard that I lost consciousness.

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from “The Switch” by Anila Angin, in Eastern Heathens: An Anthology of Subverted Asian Folklore

[ethosbooks]

by Justine Camacho, from Love Gathers All: The Philippines-Singapore Anthology of Love Poems 

[ethosbooks]

from Over There: Poems From Singapore and Australia

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In the last few decades, we have been too focused on drawing lines that divide us down to our nationality, race, language, and faith. But what happens when we reconfigure the lines based on our life pursuits, our values, or even the expectations that have been put upon us? Perhaps we will find that the person who was once across the line from us is similarly on the search for meaning, and the spectrum of emotions they have experienced, we experience too.

There may be borders between us, but even these borders are shared.

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This trepidation about an inability to recognize and classify people into the CIM categories is evident in the way that Eurasians – who are a rarity in Singapore cinema – are portrayed on the big screen. Unease about who or what Eurasians are is exemplified in One Leg Kicking, in particular in the character of Vernon – a popular name for Eurasians born in the years immediately before and after World War II. In order to identify Eurasians, Singapore cinema often turns to using typically degrading local notions of this communal group. Vernon, played by Arab-Singaporean Moe Alkaff, is overweight and looks like a fashion victim wearing colourful shirts and flared trousers reminiscent of the 1970s. In one scene he dons Michael Jackson’s famous red drummer-boy outfit with the trademark single white glove. It is easier, in other words, to portray Eurasians within humorous yet stereotypical frameworks, rather than unpack the complexity of this ethnic group. Eurasians after all can be stereotyped as adopting over-the-top American-centric fashion such as cowboy outfits, inclusive of the loud shirts, knee-high boot, spurs and rodeo-inspired hat.

...

Perhaps the most prominent homegrown Eurasian character to ever grace local cinema in Singapore is Army Daze’s new recruit Kenny Pereira, played with effeminate affectation by Kevin Mark Marghese. Kenny is the only Eurasian recruit in a multi-ethnic ensemble cast of characters representative of the major communal groups in Singapore. ... It is easier for Singapore cinema to make the Eurasian, rather than any other ethnic figure, gay. The effeminate gay after all presents sexual ambiguity that might confuse and challenge conformist ideals of manhood established by the cultural and religious teachings of other more dominant ethnic groups. Portraying ethnic Malays as effeminate, for instance, may be too much of a political hotbed since Singapore is in the middle of the mostly Muslim Malay Archipelago. Familiar media representations of ethnic Indians through the Bollywood film industry meanwhile portray its male heroes and villains as hyper-masculinized individuals. 

… 

On one level Singaporean comedies seem to have trouble exploring ethnicity honestly. This is particularly significant since the nation-state very strongly identifies itself as multicultural and accepting of ethnic diversity. Instead Singaporean comedies either sidestep the complexities of ethnicities outside the Chinese-Malay-Indian nexus or portray them reductively, or as comical over-the-top characters. However, on another level while such presentations of ethnic minorities may assist in creating a mirage of happy ethnic harmony through unproblematic and humourous portrayals of ethnic minorities, they provide an insight into how multiculturalism in Singapore can only cope within specific ethnic parameters. Anything outside the Chinese-Malay-Indian ethnic framework is incredibly challenging to understand and identify.

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from Multiculturalism through the Lens by Catherine Gomes. stills from respective movies. 

[ethosbooks]

III. The Animal Heart: She Warns Him

Don’t come too near; you might see light glistening off white fangs, a white underbelly. A woman doesn’t fight like that, you say, and then notice the claw, the tail in the half-moon. Kits running around your ankles. Beware the woman you meet on the path at night; don’t look in her eyes. She could be tanuki, if she has far-set eyes with shadows, or kitsune, close-set eyes and high cheekbones. Sometimes you have called us prostitutes, left money at the shrine after a night with us. But we are not after money, and you will go home betrayed with fur on your clothing and leaf-mould on your breath. Don’t be surprised at the trail of blood on our doorstep. A frightening vision—you trusted her docile nature would protect you, that you could inflict harm without being harmed? I don’t carry a fan, but a scrap of sharpened stick, and if you follow a flame into the forest, what can you expect? When I shed my skin for you, I left intact my animal heart, the desire to crack bones between delicate teeth. 

IV. The Fox-Wife’s Husband Considers the Warning Signs

When you were pregnant, you didn’t just crave dirt and ice, but grasshoppers, field mice, frogs. When you had our baby, I caught you licking his head absently on more than one occasion. Sometimes when you thought you were alone, you gnawed on your forearm. You kept a collection of bones in the house. Maybe I wanted to see you another way. Maybe I missed the clues on purpose. Until now, I wasn’t looking for evidence. Until now, I hadn’t thought of you as different, as separate. But now you are gone, there is no denying it; I thought you were part of me but really you were something else entirely. 

V. The Note The Fox-Wife Leaves Him

You didn’t know I was happier in the dirt before this terrible skin, its senses, before the dread of waking every day to me, to you. This isn’t what I knew before, the air and light. Heavier, and darker than I expected, not just the body, my mind—remembrances hang in the trees like ghosts, every glen a graveyard. You don’t know what satisfies—maybe my heart was hungrier than this. And when I leave you behind whatever I become next will be better. I know it. Don’t come looking for me, I don’t want to be found. The next life for me must, must be what I’ve hoped for. I shed claws and wings once already; don’t think it won’t be easier to shed this, where the cling and thrum of gristle and blood grow so faint I forget them.

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From “The Fox Wife Dreams” by Jeannine Hall Gailey, Eastern Heathens

[ethosbooks]

Kallakurichi, a state in Tamil Nadu, lies 4000 miles away from Singapore. Yet, Muthusamy feels like he’s never left home. “Work is tough, but my younger brother is here with me so life is bearable,” the 27-year-old said. He makes a living as an onsite electrician at a local construction firm. 

That Sunday was meant for grocery shopping. Having just finished buying toiletries for the month, a close friend suggested they head home early – to avoid the hassle of jostling through the evening crowd. That is one suggestion that he remains grateful for till this very day. Otherwise, Muthusamy would have played witness to the biggest riot Singapore has seen in over 40 years. Startled and in disbelief, his first reaction was to thank his lucky stars for leaving Race Course Road early that night – a decision that he has never looked back upon. 

“I couldn’t imagine someone had just lost his life at a place I was at a few hours ago.” Shuttling workers to and from dormitories, chartered buses are part of the landscape every weekend at Race Course Road. Muthusamy’s dormitory lies on the outskirts of heartland Yishun, a far cry from the vernacular district of Little India. Scheduled to commute at half-hour intervals, bus conductors and drivers can be quite feisty and unforgiving at times, he adds. “They don’t speak our language so it is hard to communicate.” 

“Most of the time, we don’t understand each other.” 

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from Riot Recollections by @zakariazainal and Prabhu Silvam

[ethosbooks]

Bugis

Salmah is wearing her tudung˚ again. For those who don’t know, the tudung is this scarf that good Muslim girls wear. People like Salmah just want to action, act like good girl, but later in school, she will meet her boyfriend, and hold hands with him. This wearing tudung also, I don’t know who teach her or where she learn. Last month she never used to wear, her hair was always tied at the back with a red scrunchie. She would often take it off to wear at her wrist, like a bracelet.

Just one month and Salmah has found God. 

I never saw her hair after that. Maybe it’s now permed or dyed pink or itching with kutu,˚ but if I know about most girls who wear tudung, it’s that they don’t care about their hair. They just care about looking like good girls and kissing their mother’s hand at the front door and winning their mother’s trust so they can later hold their boyfriends’ hands in school. I have seen Salmah do it, and I have also seen her punch Sazalie’s chest playfully. Action manja.˚ Sazalie is her boyfriend, quite cute, but he cannot pronounce his r’s properly. He says “argh” instead and when I hear him talk I tell myself I must get a boyfriend whose tongue is not so short.

So here we are in the MRT on the way to the poly. Salmah is trying to revise her notes, using a pink highlighter that is almost dried up. I usually don’t study in the MRT, so what I do is fan myself with a copy of The New Paper in my hands. (The headline today is: Will She Strip Again?) I do it not because it is hot, but because I want to ask Salmah if she is not hot wearing her tudung in the afternoon like this, but without opening my mouth. I don’t know if she is getting the hint, but she is looking down at the opened file on her lap and mumbling to herself. Salmah and Sazalie. They sound like a happy couple, the names would look good on a wedding invitation card, but I have seen them fight before. Salmah is terrible when they fight. She will make her blackest face, and turn it away from Sazalie. Her lips will pout. When Sazalie looks at her right, she will look left. When he looks to her left, she will look right. Their faces will be the two like poles on two magnets. That is why I think that all this girlfriend boyfriend business should start only after you finish school. So young, and wanting to find romance, my mother calls it “cinta monyet”, or “monkeys in love”. I have tried talking to Salmah about it, but she will always ask me back, “why you so kaypoh?˚ If I want to have a boyfriend, or 10 boyfriends, it’s my own business.” This coming from a girl who wears a tudung to school.

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tudung - A headscarf worn by Muslim women

kutu - Head lice

manja - Derived from the Malay word meaning “to pamper”; in this case it describes coquettish behaviour

kaypoh - Nosy or prying

from Corridor by Alfian Sa’at