The Riot Act

  The Riot Act

  Sebastian Sim

  ISBN: 978-981-47-8575-4

  First Edition: April 2018

  © 2018 by Sebastian Sim

  Author photo by Eng Chun Pang. Used with permission.

  Cover art and design by Yong Wen Yeu

  Published in Singapore by Epigram Books

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part Two

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Three

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Four

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  ALSO FROM THE EPIGRAM BOOKS FICTION PRIZE

  FINALISTS

  Sofia and the Utopia Machine by Judith Huang

  9th of August by Andre Yeo

  Nimita’s Place by Akshita Nanda

  2016

  The Gatekeeper by Nuraliah Norasid (Winner)

  Fox Fire Girl by O Thiam Chin

  Surrogate Protocol by Tham Cheng-E

  State of Emergency by Jeremy Tiang

  Lieutenant Kurosawa’s Errand Boy by Warran Kalasegaran

  The Last Immigrant by Lau Siew Mei

  Misdirection by Ning Cai

  Lion Boy and Drummer Girl by Pauline Loh

  2015

  Now That It’s Over by O Thiam Chin (Winner)

  Let’s Give It Up for Gimme Lao! by Sebastian Sim

  Death of a Perm Sec by Wong Souk Yee

  Sugarbread by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  Annabelle Thong by Imran Hashim

  Kappa Quartet by Daryl Qilin Yam

  Altered Straits by Kevin Martens Wong

  To my brother

  Part One

  A Hairy Situation

  Chapter 1

  Hashwini worried, in retrospect, if she had triggered the Little India riot of 2013. If so, Rodrigo would have to share the blame.

  Rodrigo was a sleek and handsome stray cat with a docked tail that roamed the neighbourhood where Hashwini and her grandmother lived. One rainy night several months before, the bengal cat had followed Hashwini home, then lapped up the saucer of kopi susu she had laid out for him and decided to stay. Hashwini’s grandmother checked for fleas, did not find any, and so gave her stamp of approval. She was going to call him, simply, Cat. Hashwini vetoed this. It had to be named after her Brazilian idol, Rodrigo Santoro. No other name would do.

  Rodrigo’s inexplicable urge to topple containers and dinnerware off the edges of counters made itself known quickly. Her grandmother would leave a plate of briyani on the dining table, but as soon as her back was turned, a crash would follow. Hashwini would step into her room and find her bottles of nail polish underneath the dressing table, cracked and leaking. Even a pot of simmering broth left to cool on the stove did not deter him. Rodrigo had a metaphorical itch to scratch, and the exasperated chiding from Hashwini and her grandmother fell on deaf ears. There was no taming the new male in their household.

  On that fateful night in December 2013, approximately an hour before the vehicles on the streets nearby were set on fire, Rodrigo apparently felt the itch again. Hashwini had disrobed and stepped into the shower when Rodrigo sneaked in and hopped onto the ledge above the towel rack. He eyed the line-up of fanciful toiletries thoughtfully; one of the bottles was uncapped and positioned nearer to the edge than the rest. Rodrigo reached out and gave it a little nudge with his paw. The bottle wobbled. Rodrigo glanced downwards. There was a red bucket filled with foamy liquid underneath the ledge.

  Hashwini turned just in time to witness her precious bottle of kaffir lime hair conditioner make a dive for the bucket in which she was soaking her bra. Her piercing shriek startled Rodrigo and sent him dashing out of the toilet. She groaned as she scooped the bottle out of the soapy solution; what little detergent that seeped inside had rendered her conditioner unusable.

  There was a brief moment when Hashwini contemplated skipping one of the ten steps in her beauty care routine. But she steeled herself against the easy temptation of being sloppy. If she were undisciplined with the necessary routine at the age of 25, she would have no one but herself to blame when crow’s feet eventually made their appearance when she reached 45. Hashwini had made it a habit to uncap her range of creams and moisturisers and spread them out on her bed when she reached home. This effectively made it impossible to skip the routine, even on days when she was exhausted from her job as a croupier at the casino and wanted badly to flop onto the bed after brushing her teeth. Similarly, she uncapped her beauty products in the toilet before taking a shower. That was how Rodrigo came to upset her bottle of conditioner.

  Hashwini quickly towelled her hair dry and slipped on a simple T-shirt and a skirt. The nearest provision shop that sold this particular brand of kaffir lime hair conditioner was six streets away, at the junction of Serangoon Road and Desker Road. It was not yet 9pm. There was still time to grab a bottle before the shop closed.

  Once Hashwini turned onto Desker Road, the crowd thickened. It was a Sunday night. The Little India district was packed with migrant workers of South Asian origin out on their rest day. They had come for the familiar comfort of Indian cuisine, music and groceries. Nowhere else on the island could one walk past a row of shophouses and be dazzled by the burst of colours from a sari shop, enticed by the aroma from a fish head curry restaurant or bombarded by the blast of filmi music from a CD vendor all at the same time. It was a slice of India right in the middle of Singapore.

  Hashwini hated crowds. She was only 1.5 metres tall and disappeared below the line of vision of the taller pedestrians jostling in the congested wave, invariably surprising them at the split second right before they bumped into her. As a pre-emptive measure, she would mutter aloud ’scuse me, ’scuse me as she pushed through the sea of bodies, like an ambulance with its siren switched on to clear the way. But when she stopped to catch her breath, the nasal assault of trapped heat and body odour would hit her hard and she would feel like retching.

  “You’re just spoilt,” her grandmother would retort whenever Hashwini complained about the migrant worker crowd in Little India on any given weekend. “I go to the market every Sunday and I don’t have a problem. In fact, some of them are really sweet. They offer to help me carry my basket all the way home.”

  “That is because you guilt-trip them.”

  It was true. Hashwini had long noticed that her grandmother used her frailty and dotage to her advantage, especially when there was a discount to be wrangled or a favour to be solicited.

  “And you really shouldn’t bring strangers home,” Hashwini added. “You don’t know them. What if they decide to rob you?”

  “No, they won’t,” her grandmother insisted. “We’re all Indians. The same blood flows in our veins. We take care of our own kind.”

  Hashwini wrinkled her nose; she did not feel any kinship whatsoever with the migrant workers from India. Unlike her grandmother, who hailed from a village in Tamil Nadu, Hashwini had been born and bred in Singapore. As far as she was concerned, the migrant workers who spoke a different shade of Tamil could well belong to a different species. Her kinship lay solely with her fellow Singaporean friends, be they of Indian, Chinese or Malay descent.
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  By the time she reached Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop, Hashwini was feeling irritable; her T-shirt was clammy with perspiration and clung to her skin. She noticed that both Mr and Mrs Ranjan were buried at the checkout counter behind a snaking queue that was at least ten men deep. For a moment, she frowned and wondered if it was worth wasting a half-hour queuing to pay for her bottle of hair conditioner. Then, an idea struck her. Mr Ranjan’s son, Kaustubh, often helped out on weekends when business spiked along with the influx of the migrant worker crowd. She could locate him and slip him the payment. The fact that she could come up with such a brilliant idea pleased Hashwini tremendously. She always knew she was an exceptionally smart girl.

  The hair care products were located in the deepest aisle in the shop, and Hashwini had to squeeze past the throng of shoppers. She spotted Kaustubh at the far corner unloading bottled beers from the crates onto the shelves. When she finally reached the last aisle, she was dismayed to discover that the hair care products had been repositioned, and the kaffir lime hair conditioner had been moved to the top shelf. What she wanted was way out of reach.

  Hashwini fought her way to the bottled beer section to grab hold of Kaustubh.

  “I need your help. I can’t reach the top shelf.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I am really, really busy here.”

  Hashwini felt a wave of resurgent irritability, but reminded herself that losing her temper would not get her what she wanted. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of her grandmother’s book and play the card of vulnerability.

  “I know you’re busy, but what can I do? I wish I were tall enough.”

  The surly young man pointed at the far end of the aisle and said, “Good thing the ladder’s been invented. Help yourself.”

  Hashwini almost blew her top. She stormed to the far end, grabbed the ladder and started shouting give way, give way as she bulldozed her way through. Her ambulance siren transformed into that of a fire truck. When her vehicle scraped an elbow, she bellowed such an aggressive sorry that the victim cowered and ducked away.

  Hashwini’s rage escalated when she discovered that the ladder wobbled horribly against the shelves. She spotted a scrawny man squatting beside her, examining the range of bar soaps on display on the lowest shelf. The man was unlikely to be tall, but he would have to do. Hashwini reached out to tap on his shoulder and requested as politely as she could manage, in Tamil, “Can you please help me?”

  The moment the man stood up, Hashwini realised she had made a terrible choice. Not only was the man barely five centimetres taller than she, his eyes were bleary and his breath reeked; he must have downed several cans of beer earlier in the night. There was no way he could balance himself on the ladder. It would have to be she.

  “Can you please help to hold the ladder?”

  The man stared at Hashwini for an uncomprehending second, stared at the ladder for another and finally nodded. Hashwini waited for the man to secure the ladder with both hands before she ascended. She had made it up only three rungs when both of them heard a shrill beeping. The ladder started to wobble the moment the man released his left hand to reach for the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. Hashwini gasped as she felt herself gradually leaning towards the hair colouring products on the left, and then pivoting towards the range of shaving creams behind her. She grabbed onto the nearest shelf for dear life.

  The man seemed to be oblivious to her predicament. As she maintained a precarious balancing act on the rickety ladder while holding on to a tenuous sheet of alloy metal, he took the incoming call. Hashwini seethed. She could hear an angry voice over the phone shouting at “Sanmugan”; now she knew she was not the only one antagonised by the drunken nincompoop!

  The rant on the phone went on for three full minutes. From what Hashwini could hear, it seemed that the voice belonged to Sanmugan’s bunkmate, who was reprimanding him for holding up the chartered bus. They had agreed to catch the 9pm transport back to their dormitory so that they could queue for a spot to do their laundry. Missing this bus and catching the next would mean landing themselves at the tail end of the two-hour queue and losing precious sleep that they needed.

  Sanmugan murmured a slurred apology and a promise to hurry, then looked up at Hashwini and gesticulated that she should step down.

  “This will just take a minute!” Hashwini shouted. She was boiling with murderous rage. “Will you hold the ladder with two hands, please?”

  Taken aback by the young lady’s outburst, Sanmugan reached for the ladder with his left hand, but discovered that he could not secure a proper grasp, not while still holding the mobile phone. He took a second or two to ponder, and then solved the problem by leaning his whole body against the ladder, his head almost brushing against Hashwini’s thighs.

  Hashwini felt like smacking the nincompoop’s head but decided wisely that she should just ascend the ladder, grab her bottle of hair conditioner and get the ordeal over and done with. As she climbed the third-last rung and stretched for the bottle, she thought she heard a click. She glanced downward. The man’s mobile phone was positioned directly below her.

  “How dare you!” Hashwini hissed once she had both feet back on firm ground. “How dare you take a photo up my skirt!”

  Sanmugan looked at her in bewilderment.

  “Show me the photo you took!”

  The man continued to stare at her stupidly.

  Hashwini lost her patience and made a grab for the mobile phone. She was going to tap her way into the gallery when an incoming call disrupted her mission.

  “Shit!” Hashwini cursed. Not knowing what to do, she handed the phone back to Sanmugan. It was the bunkmate, shouting at him again.

  Hashwini decided she wasn’t going to suffer fools. Grabbing Sanmugan by his shirtsleeve, she hauled him past the crowded aisles towards the front counter, ignoring the curious stares the other shoppers threw at them. The inebriated man was strangely compliant, enduring both the rant on the phone and the manhandling by the fuming young lady without putting up a fight.

  Hashwini found Kaustubh near the shop front carrying yet another crate of bottled beer. She quickly explained the situation.

  “What do you want me to do?” Kaustubh shrugged.

  Hashwini stared at him in disbelief. “If a female customer gets molested in your shop, what do you think you should do?”

  “Molest? I thought you said he took a photo of you?”

  “An upskirt photo!” Hashwini almost shouted, exasperated. “Don’t you think you should be calling the police?”

  “Why don’t you call them yourself?”

  There was again the nonchalant shrug. Hashwini wished she could smack the insolent, lazy young man. And then two concurrent realisations struck her—that she had left her mobile phone at home and that Sanmugan was gone.

  “Where did he go?” Hashwini shrieked.

  Kaustubh jerked his head in the direction of the entrance.

  Hashwini pushed past the few shoppers blocking her way to the door. But the instant she stepped out onto the street, she was cruelly reminded of her height handicap. The pedestrians that streamed past her immediately blocked her view, and the man she was after had already vanished into the crowd.

  Hashwini stepped back into the provision shop dejected. But the sight of Kaustubh wearing an unsympathetic smirk on his face infuriated her so much that she was instantly reinvigorated. There was no way she was going to let the pervert get away with this!

  Hashwini took two steps towards Kaustubh and extracted the mobile phone she spotted jutting out from his back pocket.

  “Hey…” Kaustubh could only utter a feeble protest; both his hands were lugging the crate of bottled beer. He watched with a frown as Hashwini called the police with his phone and reported the incident.

  “Where do the workers get picked up from?” Hashwini turned to ask once she got off the phone.

  “What?” Kaustubh looked bewildered.

  “All those chartered buses that
take these foreign workers back to their dormitories. Where do they pick them up from?”

  “Just across the road, a little farther up.”

  Hashwini sprang off.

  The car park was 500 metres away on the other side of Serangoon Road, where more than thirty buses that had been chartered by dormitory operators to ferry the workers back waited with their engines running. Hashwini arrived just in time to see a convoy of five buses edging towards the exit. The first bus had to stop and wait for a gap to interject itself into the Serangoon Road traffic flow.

  Hashwini dashed to the front entrance of that bus and pounded on the glass panel. The driver tilted his head and stared at her with suspicion. He could see her mouth moving but her words were muffled and indecipherable. The dormitory housed only male workers so she was definitely not part of his bus load. She looked deranged. He decided that it would be a bad idea to let her into the bus. So the driver turned his head towards the main road, spotted a gap and jerked his vehicle into the traffic flow, completely ignoring her.

  Hashwini was livid now. She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Kaustubh.

  “How can you run off with my…”

  Hashwini did not let Kaustubh finish his sentence. With all the strength she could muster, she shoved him towards the middle of the exit lane and ordered, “Stop the next bus!”

  Kaustubh froze like a petrified deer blinded by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. But the indignant honking of the bus unfroze him and he quickly skipped off the tarmac onto the grass patch. The driver threw vulgarities at him as the bus swerved into the main road.

  Disappointed by this useless specimen of a man, Hashwini decided to take things into her own hands. She scouted the immediate vicinity and quickly spotted what she needed. As the third bus inching towards the exit, she raced to a rubbish bin by the road, toppled it and rolled it towards the middle of the lane, creating an effective blockade. The bus driver stared at her with incredulity and began to honk furiously. Hashwini marched to the side of the bus and ascended the steps once the door was opened.