The Plastic Girl

I finish my cigarette, dispose the butt and the plastic teacup in the dustbin next to the tea shop and walk away. I look around to find a few street hawkers - one of them selling watermelons, another selling coconut. But one particular shop draws me towards it.

The shop is a piece of tarpaulin spread on a wide footpath with plastic and electronic items placed on it. It’s got optical fiber lamps, alarm clocks, artificial flowers and small decorative table lamps. One optical fiber lamp has a red heart as its base with the words ‘I love you’ written in white colored italics. There’s a singing parrot alarm clock with the parrot figures looking rather lifelike. 

And then there is the girl. She is about four or five, wearing a frock sitting next to the tarpaulin, swaying to some song she’s probably singing in her head. It’s a purple frock with a beige collar and little golden flower patterns that shine during the dark, I’m sure. I almost suspect that she’s the sole manager of the shop while I notice a middle aged man leaning to an electrical grid box, his eyes fixed on the road looking out for potential customers. The girl is bored and is leaning on a large empty suitcase placed next to the shop. She’s restlessly looking around for something interesting and still making hand gestures. It’s a rhyme from school or an item number, I think. Why not? A school girl eating ice cream, along with her mother, goes past the shop glancing over the wide array of items. An old man who is negotiating a price with the owner is convinced after thorough testing of the plastic item. He pays the cash and walks away with a brand new table lamp. The owner counts the cash and places it in his wallet and watches the little girl.

The plastic girl picks up her favourite toy and looks at the owner. My mind wonders what it
is about little children being placed as sellers in a lot of shops in India tea shops, fruit
stalls, candy stores and now even plastic shops. Maybe it is the element of sympathy that
would persuade people to stop and look. Consider making the purchase.
She probably wants to get back to her books now.

The detour

I had to do it. I wanted to do it. To break the norm, break the routine and do something I normally wouldn't  The first step was of course my mode of travel. I went up to a random van that was parked at the junction half a mile from my house. I asked the driver if he’s going that way, signalling with my left hand. He nodded. I boarded the vehicle. A couple of people returning from their offices and heading home boarded as well. I put on my favourite song Deliverance from my phone in full volume with my headphones on. It was as if I was beginning to understand its meaning in greater detail. The other passengers got down in their designated stops. Very soon I had to too. The driver kept looking at me in his rear view mirror. The van came to an abrupt halt at a busy junction; the driver turned around and looked at me signalling that this was my stop. But I wanted to be in the van, against the gushing wind, just looking through the window. I looked out the window and found a couple of crossroads and asked him where those roads would lead to. He said names of places that I had never heard of and that was all I needed. I paid him ten rupees, thanked him and walked away. The van disappeared and I was looking at a signage that read “Singapura PO”. The irony couldn't be missed, after being in the city for more than 6 years and having witnessed its growth since I was about 8. I smiled and headed towards Singapura.

Clad in capris and a humorous Che Guevara tee shirt with my headphones on, I was already attracting attention from people who couldn't care less about my presence. The music should stop now and the sounds of mooing cows, angry people and incessantly honking vehicles should sink in, I thought while turning my phone off. I walked. I walked like I had to be somewhere, somewhere specific. Like I were a tourist looking for directions in every signage, every advertisement hoarding, and every Iyengar Bakery hoping to find something new in each one of them. And then Stanford Public School happened. It was right there, not half as big as my tiny college campus, with the word Stanford painted on its wall in the most grotesque (read horrible) font possible. Yes, now I look at typefaces every time I read text. Sigh.

 Moving on at full speed, considering I usually walked very fast, I noticed the landscape was getting increasingly un-Singapore-like. The roads got narrower, carelessly thrown garbage was more vivid and it was Christmas for dogs, cows and birds – all of them full of plastic I could tell. That is when I saw the abandoned temple on top of a small hill. I had to go off-track and self-imposed rule number one of the journey was not to get too distracted. I decided to go check it out regardless. The hill had tiny steps made of stone and I almost ran. I reached the top and found a small family of dogs – about 4 puppies and their mother – at a distance. It was oddly poetic to find them outside a temple that had gone without worship or prayer for ages. I took a step towards the temple and the mother looked at me like I had just walked into their house without asking. She was angry and started barking relentlessly clearly out of defence. I heard a lady’s voice from the bottom of the hill. “It bites”, she shouted and I could feel my heart in my mouth. As expected, the mother started running towards me and there was nothing I could do apart from gesturing in my shivering hands to stay the fuck away. I even tried the usual bend-to-pick-up-a-stone trick and it didn’t seem to work. The lady realised it rather soon, thankfully and she yelled something at the mother in some dialect of Kannada, which is when the running stopped midway. The barking continued however. Carefully I got down the hill like I was climbing down a ladder, with my eyes fixed on the dog. “There’s nothing over there, what were you looking for?” yelled the lady. With a sheepish grin, I replied “Oh of course, I just wanted to look what was there” and without turning back I walked to the road and just kept walking, leaving behind laughing children and puzzled ladies who had come out of their homes hoping to witness a demonic destruction in the hands (or teeth, or even claws) of the watchful protector of mankind in their house of worship. “Man’s best friend! What am I, a monster?” I yelled at the voices in my head. After that I swore to never take a detour out of whim.

(to be continued)