The Hounding

He awakes and falls asleep,
carrying the image of a dark van.

Between the weekly lunch time collections,
the handing over of a white envelope,
between the banal greetings
and leave takings,
the seven days pass too rapidly for him.

In the slow passing of the afternoon,
amidst the loud horn sounds
from his motorbike,
seeing familiar faces,
buying his kueh for their tea,
an unwelcome sight appears,
on a big white motorcycle.

He sees his day’s sales disappear.
The damage today is an orange Ringgit note.
Yesterday, it was a red one.

As the day draws on,
his Indian kueh move slowly.
Sweat runs down his brown face.
His baniyan is drenched,
soon sweat dapples his shirt armpits.

A sudden wave of hands
brightens up his tired eyes.
He brings his bike to a stop,
opens his metal case top,
revealing an array of neatly arranged kueh,
sweetmeats and savouries neatly separated.

It’s almost late evening.
The day’s light is dimming.
Three men wave him to stop.
His heart leaps with anticipation.
Three men with big appetites, he hopes.
One man hands over a folded fifty ringgit
He rummages through his worn-out purse
returns their change.
Laughing they leave.

The long day is done.
He begins to count the day’s earnings.
He unfolds the fifty ringgit note,
it is counterfeit.
His eyes mist,
hot angry tears
flow down his sun-burnt cheeks.
Another defeated day.

The dark van will return tomorrow
the men in blue
will ask for their share
of his blood.