In Singapore I am not feeling like Uma Thurman anymore, ready with my prefab slick moves and sharp edged sword. I am tired. I was sleepy. It has been raining doggedly for days now. Not the spontaneous bursts of monsoon rain but a persistent, grey rain clouding over the many parts of this ambivalent city. The centre, frequented by tai tai's (ladies of leisure, generally in their 30s - rich wives, they are dressed in Armani suits, with perfect hair and nails, driving a Merc upwards, living to shop) and the peripheries, frequented by keen-eyed shoppers bustling up and down wet avenues looking for the best discounts.
Yesterday I left the synthetic sidewalks of Orchard to venture into the real areas. The MRT station was crowded and wet, the train smelt faintly of bad breath and body odour. Varicose veins, warts, undone eyebrows. The Singapore that STB (the Tourism Board) carefully shielded me from in my little cocoon of expensive restaurants by the river, fashion evenings, nightclubs and exhausting malls. So there is another Singapore after all. One with industries, Indians, checked lungis and tired people who sleep on the MRT ride.
My story is half formed in my head. It has been an easy one, on fashion and Indian designers showing at international events. My 'other' story, the one that has occupied my mind for weeks now, of identities and repressed personalities, is waiting to be born.
I have seen the 'sights'. I have been to Zouk, Jurong, the botanical gardens, the big malls, Chinatown. Tonight I was meant to go on the night safari but the rain has nixed my plans and so I peer at the computer instead.
I have bought, like some rich NRI on a homecoming shopping spree, cheese and chocolates. Chomel, my cousins' most beautiful dog, is licking my foot carefully and pleadingly, so I better attend to her. I want to write more about my trip. But later.
