My brothers, sisters and I were as usual on our terrace looking down onto the street below. The vendors were i the process of displaying their goods. They had placed large square groundsheets on the street floor . The toysman was arranging his toys; the smaller ones in front and the larger ones behind. His was the most colourful display. Sometimes he even had some of his toys switched on especially when he saw families with children and this never failed to attract the children who would rush to his site with cries of delight. The clothesman and there were several were also arranging their display. Some sold dresses, shirts and trousers while others sold bales of clothes wrapped into rectangular shapes. Women then were housewives mostly and skilled in art of sewing, knitting, crochet and spend their time after the cooking and housework to do sewing. At home, Mother like all my friends’ mothers sewed our dresses, uniforms, the cushion covers and curtains.
‘Look, there’s a new vendor,’ I said pointing and staring at the corner of the street. We all stared at the new vendor. He was a youth in his teens and an Indian. So far, the vendors were mainly elderly folks and Chinese with a few Indians. This was an Indian and young. He was tall and slim with slightly long hair. We kept looking at him as he arranged his rectangular shaped clothes. This was interesting.
‘He must have failed his exams. That’s why he’s selling clothes,’ said my brother dismissing him and looking away from him. ’Anywhere he is a Singh,’ continued my brother still looking in the opposite direction.
My sisters and I digested the information. We were Malayalees and he was a Singh, a Punjabi. There was a big division there. We were attending the top girls’ school and he was a school dropout. We looked away from him. When we went down to look at the vendors’ displays we sort of walked passed his clothes display though he looked at us. We were growing up and in our teens and we had been told clearly not to talk to boys. But we noticed that he was popular. People liked him.
I was returning home from school. It was evening and raining heavily as I got down from the bus at the bus-terminal at Shenton Way. It was the monsoon season and it often rained and heavily too. I opened my umbrella and carrying my schoolbag, I walked along the street to my house. The rain pelted upon my umbrella but I was safe and dry for a while. The streets were flooded ankle deep. Halfway on my home, my shoes became soaking wet and so was part of the sides of my uniform as the wind blew the rain sideways and moving vehicles splashed the floodwaters on the streets onto pedestrians. There were others too walking in the monsoon rain either clad in raincoats or carrying umbrellas. We were all getting soaked to a certain degree in the rain but still relatively dry.
Then I saw him. The Singh boy. He was coming from the opposite direction pushing his trolley of clothes. He had covered them with a cover sheet but clearly it offered scant protection against the rain and his clothes were soaked through. But what caught my attention was the Singh boy himself.
The monsoon rain pelted mercilessly down on him. He was wearing a thin blue cotton shirt and trousers both were soaking wet. His hair hung around his fair in strands. He was totally drenched and still pushing his trolley to reach home.
We looked at each other. This was the first time I had really looked at him. For a moment we looked at each other. I saw a tall thin boy with wet strands of hair falling on his face looking at me and the rain was falling on him. Why he could be my own brother drenched in the rain. Something tugged inside me. I had an umbrella and he neither an umbrella or raincoat. Instinctively I wanted to share my umbrella; I almost paused. But years of cultural upbringing surfaced: You do not talk to boys. He is a school dropout. You from a top school do not make friends with him.
I walked on. I carried my umbrella and walked on while he trudged on pushing his trolley, drenched wet in the monsoon rain. For a moment I was tempted; to turn back, to share my umbrella and walk my brother home. We all do wear masks and offer a facade to the world. And I carried my mask home with me that day.