A voice was heard in Ramah.

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This cat is HDB approved.

Jocelyn A. Monique

is currently an undergraduate student, and coping with her ~~overwhelming~~ commitments. I like long walks in solitude, cosy chats, usually sleep like a log, and beg your patience in tolerating my versatile humour

What's in a name?

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

9:42 PM

It was one of those mundane days at the community centre on a lazy afternoon when he walked in. I was busy with the administrative work, piled up to my nose ( mind you, I have a super sensitive one) sorting out the application forms for the social welfare scheme. Uma had very conveniently self-entitled herself to an early lunch break - I had my reservations about that woman ever since she had sniggered at my unfasionable hairdo. Like as though she was very fashionable - aiyoh, her cropped haircut reminiscent of Victoria Beckham just made her look very fashionable. Like a mushroom. And why would anyone want to look like her? So skinny the girl. I mean Victoria.

Hi aunty, can you help me or not?

Ya ya, what you want?
I couldn't be bothered to be those smiley-face receptionists you see on the posters, there was more presing matters at hand. Some hasty citizen had scribbled his name on the form, and I was busy deciphering whether it was Tan or Tam.

Er, I need some help applying for the financial assistance scheme.

Okay, give me a minute ar, it's the yellow form on the right of the counter, what's your name?

Hut.

I looked up sharply. There, dressed in a black tee shirt and equally grim jeans, was a lanky teenager. Male. Tanned. With a slouch.

"Hut" I echo him, unsure whether this boy was pulling my leg, anklets and goodness knows what else.

Yeah.

As in Pizza Hut?

No, just Hut.

Arre Krishna, I groaned inwardly, please don't let it be one of those kind. Kids these days, they are just like durian - you either hate them or love them. But of course, I didn't say it out loud. I had undergone enough customer service workshops on how to maintain my cool in mentally demanding situations. It's probably one of those wayward kids, with nothing better to do. As though they aren't enough trouble, they loiter around the community centre disturbing the stray cats and upsetting the dustbins. What they need, I always told my husband, is a good spanking with a chappati roller. Yes. That would teach them. Knock some sense into their dense heads.

So, er, Hut, please sit down here. Your full name, please?

Sorry this is for my grandma actually.

Oh?
I did a doubletake. So not those kind after all.

She can't come here, because the centre is too far away from her flat. And she can't converse in English either. So I'm here to help her apply.

Name?

Fatimah.

Age?

67.

Race?

Malay.

As I wrote out the form for him, I started feeling a little...guilty. A wave of sympathy rose within me, the kind that you get from watching the channel 28 drama serial at 10pm when Seetha's business partner backstabs her, leaving her bankrupt, stranded and with an ailing mother on the street. Also the same sense of pity I experienced in my community centre organised visits to the
Muslim orphanage, where children come from dysfuncational families or are abandoned by unwed mothers.

Have you eaten, boy?

He looked at me curiously.
Erm, yeah.

I busy myself rummaging through the drawers for the community stamp, despite the fact that Uma had initially cleared the entire stationary and immacutely arranged it very relucatantly after my constant nagging. I thought about the impoverished conditions that the villagers in some war-torn Muslim country resided in, taking up any available job, just to put some bread (or in their case, ketupat) on the table.

Your parents didn't come to register your grandmother?

No, they are busy at work.

Oh of course, I reply, truly convinced that his mother/father must be some blue-collar factory worker slogging away long hours.

What do they do for a living, boy?

My dad? He's currently away on a business trip. Some financial transaction with a client from the Middle East.

I am stunned beyond words. And your mom?

She's a school teacher. Chemistry.

I see.

So can I go now?

Oh. Right. Sure, I say, scanning through the yellow paper once more.
We'd get back to you on whether the application is successful or not, through mail.

Thanks, he replied, and even grins. And strolled out, whistling to the unheard melody of his Ipod.

I mutter and shake my head in disbelief, going back to my relatively high mountain of fluttering forms. When Uma sauntered inside after her break, I tried to interest her with my encounter with this boy who had came in earlier.

"And what was his name again you say?"

"Hut"

She looked long at me, expecting me to laugh out loud. I didn't.

"Is he Malay?"

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