Bras Basah

Where the old, cosy Rendezvous sat so intimately
With a row of eccentric shop-houses now sadly slain,
There Raffles mapped a second vista from the sea.
In time it had a special road: Bras Basah, wet paddy.

Later, assorted semi-colonial names in confluence:
Dhobby Ghaut, Prinsep Street, Kirk Terrace, Mount
Sophia. Followed by the YWCA's smart tennis courts
For memsahibs, sipping Earl Grey as they demolished
Fresh cream and scones, on secure whites only terraces.
Across, a Shell kiosk where Papa parked his Austin 7
Close to Hock Hoe's for redex and spares. I heard
Strange laughter tumble and spread, and saw khaki
And white suits of standard drill flutter in the sun.

Then came three Cathays: Loke's resplendent, deeply
Striking, new age building, much our tallest then,
Looking out to sea; next Camera Shop and Silk Store
Where Rudy's wife, ever petite, occasionally demure,
Quietly assessed her customers as she held her sharp
Intelligence above showcases. Two doors away, Heng,
Conversant with Ziess cameras and sales Japanese,
Was en-route to a partnership; starting to be called Mr.

And Mr Pang of Victory Bookstore offered credit:
Pleasure and instruction in advance of cash. Picked up
Penguin New Writing, Palgrave's G-Treasury. And Q's
Oxford Anthology, a most happy find. And mixed issues
Of The Wide World with stories of white men carried,
Burden and all, across Asia and Africa; up Ruwenzori
To the moon, down the Brahmaputra, planting imperial
Dreams. Undisguised, unadorned, unhurried first hand
Narratives powered by honest prejudice and artlessness,
Tallied our many curious practices, high superstitions.
No theory, no Other; no Diaspora; just plain Natives.

At the nasi padang counter the man with a mole
Couldn't decide if you were the lucky one that day.
He holds that extra spoonful, balancing fate, deciding
If you looked auspicious. Two doors away Simon Ong's
Shop; full of fishing tackle, jazzy Winchester torches,
Knives of Solingen steel. Outside, the Woodsville tram,
Noisy with St Andrew boys, swings round the corner,
Braking fussily again.

The world grew, bit by bit,
From First to Second to Third Term, Standard Eight
Through School to Post-School Cert, through growth
Spurts, shifty hormonal stirs, first troubling pimples,
Vague moustache monitored daily, while the voice
Discarded childhood vestiges. Meanwhile a passing
Mouth held other possibilities: a smile to half-blushes
Curving beneath convent blue. The body's quiet ripening
Disturbed my mind, as desire stalked parading images.
Noons were less than evenings and life no longer simple.

A road of beginnings, Bras Basah, where Suppiah and I
First met, talking Shakespeare. But that is another tale.

Edwin Thumboo
Dec 01; July 02.; August 05

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