The Prisoners.

Perhaps they left for Petain Road, where in between sips of

coffee they talked about their beloved pets. Perhaps.

Another interesting character lived two floors above

"Bird-man's" unit. Weng Chai called him DOM. He had thought for

days before coming up with this name but in the circumstances ,

DOM seemed apt. It was actually an abbreviation for Dirty Old

Man and DOM spent his time being just that. Weng Chai later

expanded DOM to include a verb, DOMing(the act of being a DOM)

and a noun DOMee( a person under the scrutiny of a DOM).

DOM appeared at all times of the day at the window, and

from time to time he would produce a pair of binoculars and

survey the surroundings. While DOMing he would smile, scowl or

just look plain stoic. DOM had noticed Weng Chai a few times as

his binoculars spanned the vast beyond - and at such times DOm

would quickly move his field of vision elsewhere. Weng Chai

wasn't quite sure of DOM's motives. His DOMing was too obvious

to be covert and when DOMing was too obvious the DOMees would

surely exercise caution in their dealings. And anyway, the

blocks were too close together for people not to exercise caution

while in any state of undress.

DOM looked close to sixty, bald pate and missing teeth

included, and not one to be likely in the prime of sexual ardour.

Perhaps he was bored and watching the world go by. Perhaps.

Yet another person Weng Chai knew by habit lived on the

sixth floor of the opposite block. Weng Chai called him the

"Rain-man".

Rain-man" only appeared on rainy days. Armed with a

sponge and pail he spent his time cleaning the windows and ledges

of his flat. He would splash water lavishly on the windows and

ledges, smug in the knowledge that the splashing water would be

mistaken for the rain by flat-owners below his flat. His

obsession with clean windows was almost like a religious calling.

He wondered if "Rain-man" ever prayed for rain in the

evenings so he would be home for his Songkran.

Another person who made guest appearances at the

windows lived on the eighth floor,third flat from the right. She

appeared occasionally, like a fish coming out for a breather in

heavily polluted water.

It was only by chance that Weng Chai discovered that

she wasn't Chinese but Filipino.

He had seen her lugging a baby, tagging behind a burly

Chinese and his frail-looking wife. The man was obvious her

employer and also possibly a thug. He had tattoos on both his

arms. He had a wife whose frail body couldn't undertake any

ventures - which were promptly thrust upon the maid.

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Perhaps the maid had time to stand and stare only when

the baby was fast asleep. This could account for her guest

appearances.

He wondered if she was ill-treated. The man looked a

bully all right- with his tattoos and huge frame. A man who made

full use of his levy and maid. A man who believed in the old

adage that " an idle maid is a devil's workshop". There was

always work for the maid. When there is no work, create some

work. Dust the corners. Mop the floor. Do the dishes. Feed the

baby. Change the bed-spreads.

Perhaps all maids should be taught the theme song from

a Cinderella musical he once watched. "Work, work, work. All I

do is work........" went the song. He could see a Singapore with

maids in every home humming the tune. Filipino accent. Sri

Lankan accent. Indonesian accent. The works.

Weng Chai saw her in his mind. Mopping the floor.

Coaxing the baby to eat. Mindful that the baby couldn't be

forced or smacked for refusing.

A boy. The only son. The link with the next

generation. He visualised the maid on Sundays. At Lucky Plaza.

Complaining.

" So difficult boy. Urinate here. Urinate there. I

tells the mama. She says never mind. Boy only. His that one

is made of gold."

A loud round of giggles, either at the stupidity of

the mother or at the sexual connotation.

He wondered if the maid had a boyfriend in whom she

confided. A Singaporean sugar-daddy. A contractor who spent his

Sundays picking up women at Lucky Plaza. Or maybe she was a no

nonsense, strictly I-came-to earn-a-living maid.

It took him a week to give her name. He vacillated

between Julia and Nona. He finally settled for Nona. It sounded

more Filipino and pleasant. It was far better than "Bird-man"

and "Rain-man". It sounded more personal and humane.

The "Blob" lived on the third floor. She never

frequented the window except in the mornings when she made a

brief showing while hanging out the day's washing. She would

struggle with the poles and Weng Chai got an impression that the

very act of getting them out of the washing machine and hanging

them out tired her.

The "Blob" was Malay, about in her late forties and

extremely obese.

Weng Chai noticed that she was one of the very few

residents who used the playground below the block with clock-work

regularity.

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She would sit at one corner, giving the impression that the

mere act of coming down had tired her out while her two sons and

daughters ran up and down the slides, talked at the top of their

voices and made a general nuisance of themselves. He wondered

how she controlled them at home. Maybe a cane lurked in a dark

corner. Or maybe they ran riot indoors too. It was difficult

to say.

A few weeks after first spotting her, Weng Chai dropped the

" Blob" for a better name. He called her " Minah". It sounded

Malay and pleasant. He never ever saw Minah's husband but if he

wasn't her size that spelt some trouble for her marital bliss.

Weng Chai could imagine what Minah did most of the time.

A couch potato. Watching the Malay dramas on the Malaysian

channels and switching to catch the Mandarins soaps on SBC 8.

But maybe she never watched the Mandarin soaps on 8, not being

able to read the English subtitles. But she was definitely into

Hindi movies. Years before, when he lived opposite the Galaxy

Cinema which screened Hindi movies, Weng Chai had observed that

some of the patrons were Malays. He had often wondered how they

watched the movies without knowing the language.

The children never appeared at the windows and Weng Chai

never saw them anywhere except in the playground. Perhaps Minah

kept them occupied in some way or other.

Minah could have raised sniggers among her friends and

relatives. Weng Chai visualised her relatives at a Malay

wedding.

" Adoi. Look. Just look. Minah's getting really fat and out

of shape. I wonder why her husband is doing nothing to stop her

from eating. She took four pieces of chicken and is now going

for the fifth".

Sniggers all around. Poor Minah!

And the Sikh. Weng Chai called him Singh.

He lived on the fifth floor, seventh flat from the left.

He was at the window from time to time.

Manmohan Singh, Weng Chai's classmate had once told him

the truism about Singhs. "All Sikhs are Singhs but not all Singhs

are Sikhs." Years later, reading about the Indian politician

V.P.Singh he knew the man wasn't a Sikh.

But the Singh on the fifth floor was. He had all the

trappings of a Sikh, the first being a turban. His son tied his

hair in a top-knot and wore a turban when he left home.

Weng Chai wondered what his first name was. It could be

turned into a joke.

In his Secondary school days, Weng Chai and Ravindran

always spent time under the school banyan tree exchanging Singh

jokes.

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