THE FIRST ONES ARE BEGINNING TO WAKE.
Stirring reluctantly within the warmth of their bedclothes. Small children, shapeless words bubbling out of their mouths, an arm gripped fast around an old toy, some with only minutes to go before their shower, a bowl of sugary cereal, and the bus ride to school. Mothers and fathers in the next room, breathing into each other’s bodies; the clocks on their bedside tables ticking firmly on, ready to burst out into a short-lived wail before the last of the sleepers’ dreams swirl to a close. There are the ones already lying awake, the elderly, bus drivers, hawkers, habitual early risers, watching the sun come on outside before sliding gratefully out of bed.
Outside, in the square of the parking lot, the only thing you can hear is the sighing of trees. The breeze tugs loose a number of leaves, browned and ready, so that they make their descent — listing first to one side and then to the other, performing a slow, lilting waltz to the ground. Two young cats observe this dance from below the belly of a car, their eyes darting, flashing wide; sleek bodies ready to fire off into a chase. One of them does just that. The other blinks lazily at its brother, stretches, then struts out into the open. It leaps onto the bonnet of the blue taxi they had been sleeping under, leaps again, up onto the roof, displacing the dewdrops dappling the cool, smooth surface. There it sits, washes itself carefully for the next few minutes.
Nearby, pigeons, crowded beneath the eaves of the coffee shop, have started to shuffle and coo. They know well enough. Breakfast. As soon as the owner of the Indian prata stall arrives and goes into his shop through the door in the back, they will alight on the grassy patch just outside the building, pretend to peck carelessly about. As if they weren’t waiting for him to come along with the stale crumbs, swept up and kept aside just for that little morning ritual. When he has fed them, brushed the last of the remaining bread off his palms, he goes back in. Stands behind the counter of his nine-year-old stall and starts on the dough. He takes his time — pulling it with his hands and adding more flour or water until it sticks and never falls apart no matter if he stretches it to the length of his arms, and then leaves it to sit in a bowl, covered with a sheet of cloth. Later on, just before the morning crowd starts to line up in front of his stall for their breakfast, different kinds of prata, the filled ones with onion and eggs and a dish of curry on the side, or the plain ones with just a bit of sugar to go along with it, he will sit at the usual table in front of his shop, pour coffee into big enamel mugs and share it with his wife. She is immediately above him at that moment, in the bathroom of their modest three-room flat, singing an old tune while she scoops pails of water from an old earthen vessel and tips it over herself. As she steps out, wrapped in a faded sarong, the tops of her shoulders still dusted with drops of water, the newspaper lorry winds in, curving past the bends in the long driveway. It stops by the curb, and out springs driver-turned-delivery-boy. For half an hour, he will wheel up stacks of everybody’s Straits Times, LianHe ZhaoBao, Berita Harian and Tamil Murasu. He knows it all by heart, goes door to door without a list, without missing anyone or anything out. He will slot these carefully between the metal bars of their gates. Finish up just as the first school buses roll in. Nobody notices, upon opening their doors for their newspaper, that they have been balanced neatly on a metal rung at a comfortable height. No one has to stoop, bend their bed-stiff limbs for their morning read.
The sun is now starting to peep in, revealing pink streaks across the steel blue. Then, little by little, a dusky red as the night lifts. Everything is held still for an instant, right before a deep roll of thunder rumbles through the air. It goes unnoticed but for someone on the sixth floor. There, a light comes on in the kitchen, windows swing open and a pair of hands reach out to draw in the bamboo poles flagged with freshly laundered clothes, forgotten and left out during the night. In a matter of minutes, rain starts to fall. First quietly, then ascending fast into the full-blown orchestra that comes along with tropical showers. The drumming on the roof is loud enough to drown out a child’s morning alarm for school, enough to drown out even her mother’s call to wake up, come down for breakfast; but not to draw her out of bed. Instead, the steady beating of rain on the roof sweetens her slumber, and so the girl shifts, burrows in deeper under the covers. As quickly as it started, the storm ends, leaving the sky still dark, an uncertain shade of grey.
Rainwater is still drip-dripping off the blue sign on the side of the building, falling off its raised white numbers shining 204. Sliding off the leaves, still making their way down the gutters and pipes, down from the roof, when the kitchens start up. A blue fire below a pot of savoury porridge. Kettles bubbling next to ready cups. Already, doors have been opened for the fresh air, for the neighbour’s children who pop over to say hi and linger before the other is ready to go downstairs for the bus. There is the child again, still drowsy, propping herself up with her arms on the table. Her straight-backed father coaxing, scolding, shaking out the newspapers in front of him while his wife comes in with the plates of toast, a tub of margarine, and a pot of jam. They listen to the news on the radio, waves to the couple next door as they walk past the window of their dining nook.
All of this while the moon, a white, curved sliver, reclines lazily on its side like a devoted bedmate, watching, watching a sleeping partner.