He smokes bidis, she covers her head.
There is a library, and people actually still use it.
There is a colonial look, a great vibe and a romantic feeling. Utopia.
Until there were they, westerners, with shopping bags, presents. -Forgiven, because of the Christmas Season, and because who am I to judge anyway...-
Monsoon. Grey. Apocalyptic. High Clouds. Breeze. Sticky air.
Usually I would take one way to go, another way to come back, not to miss anything. But so absorbed are my eyes by just the one side of the road that I might actually come back the same way to stare at the other side of the road. And it will happen guilt free. (Oh yeah, don't we good catholic -at least in theory and paper- girls know how to feel guilty about it all?)
As I approach the neighbourhood, I feel the looks. Try to ignore is all and the best I can do: keep walking, don't look back. Stares, flowers, masalas, incense, mangos, 24carat gold, spices, colours, lizards; they all coexist in a chaotic harmony that can only happen in Little India. There would be no harmony if it wasn't for this overly populated by men chaos. I am the only woman I can see in the streets for a long time. I am used to this.
My obsessive compulsive addiction for incense has great chances of receiving a decent fix today. This place is home for different smokes and aromas. Might actually have to try one of each. My blood boils with excitement.
Next to the electronics' store it smells fresh grassy green, coconuty, minty. Next to the BMW parked outside a store of all wooden deities ever imagined pepper itches my nose.
Chinese platform little black shoes. They have a ribbon on top. Open toes. I am blessing the absence of rats in the streets the moment I almost step into a dead pigeon. Aick. Drops the size of who knows what start falling from heaven.
And how welcome they are. They make the air softer, lighter.
Meanwhile I share a table at the hawkers food establishment with a group of what seems four Indian workers. They look at me eat my food -veggie curry- with my hands and they can't help giggling like little girls. I know my fingers, no matter how much I lick them (is that allowed by this protocol?) will be yellow until well into the night if tomorrow. Suck it, I don't care, it tastes delicious.
Little India
Singapore
Sept.2012
