Oranges and Lemons
The Dhobi
Ghaut metro station was empty. It was the odd hour. Most people would be at
work. Celine was going home after cooking lunch at the Chinese restaurant. She
got into the train and sat close to the door. It would be easier to get off.
At Serangoon,
the crowds poured in like torrents of sudden tropical rain. She loved the
crowds like she loved the rain.. When attentive, she could isolate the familiar
voices: the schoolchildren, the couple, the mother with her kids, and the
group of co –workers.
Four more
stops to go. She listened to the conversations around her. She heard the couple
smile as they spoke. The woman was doing most of the talking. Can we buy the
larger red lamp for the Chinese New year? Her voice was persuasive. You
know my parents will be visiting us and we need to buy gifts for them and my
sister. The man sounded apologetic. What do we buy for ourselves? She
had a pout in her voice. A pair of oranges
for you and me, is that not enough? He tried to placate her. This year
too? The woman sounded disappointed.
The public
system announced Celine's destination. She could have missed her stop. She got
up and moved to the door, reaching out instinctively to counter balance the
movement of the train, careful not to step on another’s foot. She often
thought of herself as the ballerina of
crowded trains.
At the
neighborhood fruit shop, she bought herself an orange. Back home, she walked
with impatience to her desk. The dialogue between the couple offered her a
different subplot . She reached out to her keyboard with its keys in
Braille.
As the clock
chimed eight, the cat leaped onto her lap and mewed. She laughed as she got up.
Too bad the cat does not like oranges, she thought as she made her way to
her kitchenette. Fortunately, they both liked fish for dinner.
Pratima Balabhadrapathruni is a poet and writer from Singapore.
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