chulia street
Highly regarded Haji Adul Kadir Mohideen
Reminisces in his store;
Grey of beard, kepiah-haji
On his head, puffing an imported beedi,
Physically in Chulia street, mentally
He is in Nagapattinam; the Nagore shrine
Seething as usual with activity
Honours an alien wali
Who never stepped into this country
In Market Street and adjacent alleys
Chettiars count their money
Convert ringgit into rupees, promptly
Calculate the gains:
Another house in the native district
Another plot or two of paddy
Another daughter or son married
Another grandchild ushered into the world
In distant Tamil Nadu, ancient land
Of Silapadikaram, M.G.R., Sivaji Ganesan
Gone are the days when horse–or hand–
Cart, familiar rickshaw, tramcar
Led to a clamorous jetty, rickety sampan
Unloading bringing
The latest news,
With muruku, masalavadai, mampalam
Chulia Street is no longer the same
Though the adhan from neighbouring
Kapitan Keling maintains a familiar strain,
An occasional sermon intoned In Tamil;
Motorised traffic kicks high the dusty noise,
Bars and brothels prefer Mat Salleh
Introduced by beca-men,
The Japanese with their yen
Back in these parts with a vengeance
Tiger beer continues to flow
Besides watery whiskies and brandies, remember
“There is always time for a tiger.”
The hippies are hounded by junkies, pushers
Hawk their wares, rubbing shoulders
With benign mata-mata;
“Datuk, apa khabar, Datuk?”
“Apa hang buat?”
“Tak ada apa-apa, Datuk.”
A clumsy hand slips a tip
Another graciously accepts it
And Chulia Street does not notice.
The children have gone to study
On MARA loans or father’s fellowships,
Will return to cushy
Bumiputera positions
A life’s mission complete, another
Mamak will leave to lay his weary
Bones in the lap of his forebears
Another phase in history will end,
Begun centuries ago; the arrival
In this golden land
Where the climate is kind
And money, it seems, grows on trees;
Chulia Street will remain a name, a memory
A haunt of Alis and Babas, upstart aristocracy
Products of a New Economic Policy.
wayang
For now the wayang is over
Spectres dance no more
Upon the muslin, battles
Have been fought
Love triumphant enacted
In their basket the figures
Lie asleep
The audience is leaving, some
Still pondering the mystery
Of shadow and form:
Pray tell us, tok dalang,
Puppets or shades,
Tok dalang,
Which is the reality?
For now the wayang is over
On the day of judgement
Supreme Dalang
You will raise us again
In your boundless mercy
The essence of the wayang
Reveal.
hang tuah
You were fashioned a hero
A star
In your father’s dream,
Lived to prove
That heroes too
Can be human
In war or love,
But unlike the rest
You were born immortal
Precious warrior
Of Malacca
Bound to return
Some long-forgotten
Mahdi to reclaim
Taming Sari;
But tell us, Tuah
Where is she now
The Princess
Of Gunung Ledang?
Tell us why
The mighty sultan
Failed even in a fable
To build a bridge–
Golden pathway
To heart and throne?
loneliness
this trap
of loneliness
enfolds us
again
within its wall
of darkness;
and that glimmer
is absent,
that root of radiance
that like the first syllable
of creation
unfolds in eternal
night
the lotus bud.
hula hands
dancing hands
that lithely weave meles of old Hawaii
bodies swaying to rhythm
of ipu or uli uli
blue across your languid skies
you trace the legends of laie
of pele’s fiery face
if only I could sing, gentle palm
smooth in kwahines
of intricate gesture, measure
the mysteries of mind in words
soft as nimble hands
could melt in mists
beyond the crimson turbulence
of a dark heart
prancing hand
that animate worlds where menehune romp
on foams of ocean rippling
where humuhumunukunukuapuaa go dancing
lovely dancers drowned in leis
who can claim we’re not the dreams
the gods on high frame
articulate hula hands?
encounter
in the season of rains
memory revives again
that lost encounter
on the festive night
in the flicker of lighting
you stood alone
shivering in the shadow
of the hollow
co-operative building
i touched your cold hand
my impetuous hand
you had hypnotized
you mistook me, turned away
you chid the rain night
went away
in the season of rains
memory seeks again
that lost encounter
essence
let me catch
the essence of it all
why
from its stalk
the blushing rose
must fall.
the wild god
tonight the god appears
wild in the wind
that rolls
across the sunken sawahs
cracking the spines
of roofs and cows and men
we seldom see
the god
so wet and wild
we seldom see him at all.