Observing perfunctorily the rhythm of everyday life on the street of Hougang Avenue 8, Murrai profess to be an expert of the small community inhabiting this area. Everyday at 5 am, the vociferous sound of alarms brought the drifting souls of the residents back to their working class reality. At 6pm, grumpy middle aged men and women descend down the concrete stairs of giant mosquitoes hives they call home, and gather at the bus stop to form a sleepy drolly crowd. At 7 pm, teenage students, possibly offsprings of the 6 o’clock commuters, for they possessed the sleepy drolly sameness, teeter to schools like walking corpse. At 8 o’clock, Suzuki and Mitsubishi, never a Lamborghini or Porsche, roams the road like royalty to the admiration of bus commuters onboard. 9 to 12pm is the only time of the day when one could hear the serendipity sound of the birds chirp, the rustling of trees and the incoming ancient old man clearing and spitting flam. It nearly missed Murrai leg, but it doesn’t spoil his day. For today is a special day, Murrai is meeting Hana, the prettiest girl in Hougang, not in avenue 8 alone but this whole busy town.
At 12 pm, young Murrai glanced at his reflection on a Honda rear view mirror at an unsheltered parking lot. He knew he is cute, with big shiny dark brown eyes and possess the most adorable grin, anymore cuter would be a sin. He knew he annoyed some of his male buddies, for his self-indulgence in looking cute rather than manly like they all relentlessly pursue. But who cares about their opinion if he could attract the prettiest girl in town? Giving himself a last minute check, he takes his time and strolled along the lengthy drain barricade to Macdonald. He knew he should be careful to meet up at a place like Macdonald, since the last time he was there he got thrown out by an angry old man after he create a huge nuisance there. Wait. Hold that thought. That foul man seems oddly familiar; Murrai recalls and chuckle as he did so. It is the flam spitting old grandpa he got the pleasure to meet this morning.
Slowly tilting his head up from the Mac breakfast banner, Murrai spied whether that man was there. The coast is clear. This time he spied on other person– Hana. How should I make an introduction? Should I just say hi, how are you? What should I say next? You look hot. Wow, whistle. Slapped. Damn it, I should have prepared myself this morning, Murrai mused. He knows he can be lashingly funny, but turned stiff cold when someone of an opposite sex approached him, giving him the look as if she was scrutinizing his every part of his body, assuring herself a flea to be hidden somewhere in his skinny body. What if I am not as cute as I myself believe it to be? Without the appearance, I am just an awkward youth, nothing to be proud of but everything to be ashamed of, Murrai heart sank, hitting the bottom of Magnolia milk carton.
‘Are you Murrai? And what are you doing?’ a soft feminine voice call out to him from behind. It is Hana.
‘Oh, um…. just thinking of what to eat for… for break..first,’ Murrai stutters. That’s when he realized he is hugging onto the ‘$4.95 for McMuffin meal with coffee or tea’ banner pole when Hana saw him.
‘Um...its 12.30pm, and I don’t think we should be here. Come take me around this place, I haven’t been here for ages,’
The tour with Hana is, surprisingly, delightful. Murrai slowly sheds off his shyness and stutter as the walk progress. He became conversational, not the ‘quiet as a mouse’ stigma some of his mates labeled him as such, which he loathed the creature but acknowledge that reserved trait that haunts him since childhood. Murrai showed her the various facades of the prosaic high-rise buildings, the small, cozy neighborhood garden hidden amongst the monstrous housing estate (the origin of mosquito breeding, Murrai exclaimed), the vast array of hair salons (they make a living by cutting each other hairs) and the indistinctive comic bookshop tucked between a computer repair shop and a family clinic, with a wrinkled grinning man sitting at a turn corner enterprising his shoe repair skills (speaking of multitasking…).
At 1.30pm, profane, homesick students escaped their puritan’s catholic school flood the pathway, shouting and fooling around, proving the nearby chattering coffee shop aunties’ theory correct on the menace of walking on the concrete footpath and rather travel on the tar road with Toyotas for safety reasons. Murrai sat down with Hana on an uncomfortable metallic bench at the opposite bus stop, savoring this wild rampage scenery while Murrai lectures Hana about the social aspect of Hougang Avenue 8.
This street is cursed with insouciant, he says. The residence didn’t bother about community bonding other than their pathetic self-interest. The young would curl up in their cells and engrossed over pixilated panels and television screens and cell phone screens for a full wasted day. The workhorses, unable to fathom their current dismal status, craved for greener pastures, turbo charging their career like a racehorse, in actuality more like a plow horse, leaving behind friends and families, muddied and forgotten by their unrealistic ambitions. Only the old, who had the luxury of time in their frayed hands, played Chinese chess and practicing tai chi in Punggol Park with other white hair duds and gals. Yet through their beetle eyes they knew, sooner or later, they would join the obituary club. Beside their black and white individual photos would be pictures of those who practice tai chi with them. Ah, finally, they murmured in heaven: a class photograph taken.
The translucent, cloudless sky allows the sun to smile face-to-face to his earthy mortals. The residents in avenue 8, however, are not particularly charmed by his positive radiance. Cursed, complaining, shielding the smiley with an umbrella as if he was an illuminating medusa. The sun, in the eye of the residents, is the murderer, ungoverned and untouched by the overly strict laws of Singapore judiciary system.
Murrai and Hana, wayworned by the sight seeing: the arresting diamond shaped façade of Hougang mall, the breezy laidback Punggol park, and the commercial green please-keep-the-environment-clean-thank-you trash bin. They dragged themselves back and sat on a checkered void deck overlooking the main sizzling street baked by intense sunlight. It is now 3.30 pm, everyone in avenue 8 should be, at this time, mending their own individual business, in their homes, offices, shopping centers, toilets, anyplace with an air conditioner. This is hardly utopia, incongruent with Socrates philosophy of true communal living. Murrai and Hana, both bleary eyed, eventually dozed off, surrendering themselves to the mid afternoon heat.
A piercing scream, a shriek of intense, crucifying pain, brings forth the animalistic instinct of Murrai –of escapism, to run as fast as possible from possible harm. But the scream is Hana’s and Murrai, realizing it only after unwillingly crawled out from dreamland and dumped his muzzy headedness into the trash bin, rushed to action. Following her cry Murrai saw from a distant, through his frightened bright brown eyes, an unleashed bulldog clenching on Hana’s scarlet limb. Blood trickling down to the ground and Hana, either due to excessive lost of blood or shock of fallen into that situation; seem too weary to fend off that beast. Escaping no more, as I had run away from life for too long, this is the moment I should assert myself, Murrai proclaimed to himself. Conjuring up the newfound heroism in him and pounding the scary feeling to a pulp, Murrai charged towards the beast.
It is now 7.30 pm. The workhorses, dreary from their endless work, dragged themselves back to their nest for a deserved night rest. School kids being escorted back home from tuition by Philippine maids. Old grandpas and grandmas, after tai chi, wipe up their beloved remote control and buzz through channels of mandarin language programs. It is at this time the residents of Hougang Avenue 8 overheard two kittens dire meowing and dog incessant barking. They scurried down their giant mosquitoes hives to form a crowd around the scene. Some, showing an affection of small animals, came down to break up the fight. Some, who sympathize the weak, help the kittens with first aid. We must do something about it, the old man who works at the Macdonald laments. A committee must be set up to look after the strays, he says. Just after he finishes his sentence, two Malay families volunteered themselves for this cause, and soon everyone wants to chip in - finacially, finding shelter, feeding, washing, taking them out for strolls - donating away their precious time. From this small incident the disconnected street has found the connector that links them, household-to-household, resident-to-resident. Finally, the individuals in this street bonded together, at this day with Hana and Murrai.
At 12 pm, young Murrai glanced at his reflection on a Honda rear view mirror at an unsheltered parking lot. He knew he is cute, with big shiny dark brown eyes and possess the most adorable grin, anymore cuter would be a sin. He knew he annoyed some of his male buddies, for his self-indulgence in looking cute rather than manly like they all relentlessly pursue. But who cares about their opinion if he could attract the prettiest girl in town? Giving himself a last minute check, he takes his time and strolled along the lengthy drain barricade to Macdonald. He knew he should be careful to meet up at a place like Macdonald, since the last time he was there he got thrown out by an angry old man after he create a huge nuisance there. Wait. Hold that thought. That foul man seems oddly familiar; Murrai recalls and chuckle as he did so. It is the flam spitting old grandpa he got the pleasure to meet this morning.
Slowly tilting his head up from the Mac breakfast banner, Murrai spied whether that man was there. The coast is clear. This time he spied on other person– Hana. How should I make an introduction? Should I just say hi, how are you? What should I say next? You look hot. Wow, whistle. Slapped. Damn it, I should have prepared myself this morning, Murrai mused. He knows he can be lashingly funny, but turned stiff cold when someone of an opposite sex approached him, giving him the look as if she was scrutinizing his every part of his body, assuring herself a flea to be hidden somewhere in his skinny body. What if I am not as cute as I myself believe it to be? Without the appearance, I am just an awkward youth, nothing to be proud of but everything to be ashamed of, Murrai heart sank, hitting the bottom of Magnolia milk carton.
‘Are you Murrai? And what are you doing?’ a soft feminine voice call out to him from behind. It is Hana.
‘Oh, um…. just thinking of what to eat for… for break..first,’ Murrai stutters. That’s when he realized he is hugging onto the ‘$4.95 for McMuffin meal with coffee or tea’ banner pole when Hana saw him.
‘Um...its 12.30pm, and I don’t think we should be here. Come take me around this place, I haven’t been here for ages,’
The tour with Hana is, surprisingly, delightful. Murrai slowly sheds off his shyness and stutter as the walk progress. He became conversational, not the ‘quiet as a mouse’ stigma some of his mates labeled him as such, which he loathed the creature but acknowledge that reserved trait that haunts him since childhood. Murrai showed her the various facades of the prosaic high-rise buildings, the small, cozy neighborhood garden hidden amongst the monstrous housing estate (the origin of mosquito breeding, Murrai exclaimed), the vast array of hair salons (they make a living by cutting each other hairs) and the indistinctive comic bookshop tucked between a computer repair shop and a family clinic, with a wrinkled grinning man sitting at a turn corner enterprising his shoe repair skills (speaking of multitasking…).
At 1.30pm, profane, homesick students escaped their puritan’s catholic school flood the pathway, shouting and fooling around, proving the nearby chattering coffee shop aunties’ theory correct on the menace of walking on the concrete footpath and rather travel on the tar road with Toyotas for safety reasons. Murrai sat down with Hana on an uncomfortable metallic bench at the opposite bus stop, savoring this wild rampage scenery while Murrai lectures Hana about the social aspect of Hougang Avenue 8.
This street is cursed with insouciant, he says. The residence didn’t bother about community bonding other than their pathetic self-interest. The young would curl up in their cells and engrossed over pixilated panels and television screens and cell phone screens for a full wasted day. The workhorses, unable to fathom their current dismal status, craved for greener pastures, turbo charging their career like a racehorse, in actuality more like a plow horse, leaving behind friends and families, muddied and forgotten by their unrealistic ambitions. Only the old, who had the luxury of time in their frayed hands, played Chinese chess and practicing tai chi in Punggol Park with other white hair duds and gals. Yet through their beetle eyes they knew, sooner or later, they would join the obituary club. Beside their black and white individual photos would be pictures of those who practice tai chi with them. Ah, finally, they murmured in heaven: a class photograph taken.
The translucent, cloudless sky allows the sun to smile face-to-face to his earthy mortals. The residents in avenue 8, however, are not particularly charmed by his positive radiance. Cursed, complaining, shielding the smiley with an umbrella as if he was an illuminating medusa. The sun, in the eye of the residents, is the murderer, ungoverned and untouched by the overly strict laws of Singapore judiciary system.
Murrai and Hana, wayworned by the sight seeing: the arresting diamond shaped façade of Hougang mall, the breezy laidback Punggol park, and the commercial green please-keep-the-environment-clean-thank-you trash bin. They dragged themselves back and sat on a checkered void deck overlooking the main sizzling street baked by intense sunlight. It is now 3.30 pm, everyone in avenue 8 should be, at this time, mending their own individual business, in their homes, offices, shopping centers, toilets, anyplace with an air conditioner. This is hardly utopia, incongruent with Socrates philosophy of true communal living. Murrai and Hana, both bleary eyed, eventually dozed off, surrendering themselves to the mid afternoon heat.
A piercing scream, a shriek of intense, crucifying pain, brings forth the animalistic instinct of Murrai –of escapism, to run as fast as possible from possible harm. But the scream is Hana’s and Murrai, realizing it only after unwillingly crawled out from dreamland and dumped his muzzy headedness into the trash bin, rushed to action. Following her cry Murrai saw from a distant, through his frightened bright brown eyes, an unleashed bulldog clenching on Hana’s scarlet limb. Blood trickling down to the ground and Hana, either due to excessive lost of blood or shock of fallen into that situation; seem too weary to fend off that beast. Escaping no more, as I had run away from life for too long, this is the moment I should assert myself, Murrai proclaimed to himself. Conjuring up the newfound heroism in him and pounding the scary feeling to a pulp, Murrai charged towards the beast.
It is now 7.30 pm. The workhorses, dreary from their endless work, dragged themselves back to their nest for a deserved night rest. School kids being escorted back home from tuition by Philippine maids. Old grandpas and grandmas, after tai chi, wipe up their beloved remote control and buzz through channels of mandarin language programs. It is at this time the residents of Hougang Avenue 8 overheard two kittens dire meowing and dog incessant barking. They scurried down their giant mosquitoes hives to form a crowd around the scene. Some, showing an affection of small animals, came down to break up the fight. Some, who sympathize the weak, help the kittens with first aid. We must do something about it, the old man who works at the Macdonald laments. A committee must be set up to look after the strays, he says. Just after he finishes his sentence, two Malay families volunteered themselves for this cause, and soon everyone wants to chip in - finacially, finding shelter, feeding, washing, taking them out for strolls - donating away their precious time. From this small incident the disconnected street has found the connector that links them, household-to-household, resident-to-resident. Finally, the individuals in this street bonded together, at this day with Hana and Murrai.
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