S T A G E S - - - a l l n e w . a l l n o w .

sikh

the nights were always shorter when there was a full moon
silver on the black water, the river peaceful and pure
reminding me of home far away but not far from my heart
when I had finished my hourly rounds
checking the windows, locks and lights
without even raising my kerosene lamp
I knew each nook and cranny by touch alone,
the warehouse was an old lover, every corner a familiar curve
of course, no one would be stupid enough to break in
yes, mine, for people had long forgotten Mr Choo’s name
they just called it the warehouse with the big bayee
mothers would scare their children by pointing at me
speaking promises of punishment at my hairy hands
almost everyone who passed nodded at me with cautious eyes
as if they feared my turban would uncoil and bite them in the neck
I didn’t mind it very much, smiling and sipping my teh tarik
sitting on the old bamboo stool playing cards
with the coolies who were desperate to win for their next puff of opium
of course, they didn’t win very often -
I watched my money as carefully as I watched the darkened streets
and wondered how my family was spending the remitted dollars
when young Mr Choo took over his father’s company
he told me to leave - I was too old, he said
I did not argue- how could you argue with a boss who thinks
he has the right to be right because he’s the boss?
I packed my hammock, stool and lamp,
left the unlovely river, the soon-to-be demolished warehouse
and died of tuberculosis in a dirty hospital bed, some time after
but I did not go home, I am old, too tired to travel far,
so I watch the moon, the soft silver water lapping at the bank of the river

Gui Wei Hsin
October 1999

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