The mama shop uncle

The last lights have gone out in the surrounding HDB flats. The thick blanket of night contains within it a miasma of soporific allure, and one could have expected most people to have stolen off into a well-deserved few hours of rest before the inevitable cock's crow of the next day.

But not the old Indian man, sitting forlornly on a stool that has seen better days, in his cubbyhole of a mamashop. He sits on his stool, waiting for the business that will not come - not when night is at its darkest and most of the denizens in the estate are bewitched by Morpheus' seduction - and hopes his nightly hope that there will be one or two stragglers or late-comers who will pop by his store for a pack of cigarettes or some other provender.

The old man needs provender of a different kind. The paper kind called currency. He is behind payment for the goods ordered from several wholesalers. The refrigerator housing his forlorn few cartons of milk and desolate cans of soft drinks is wheezing its last breath. His family in India is looking forward to his long-missed remittances. There are so many responsibilities, so many bills, and so many burdens he is carrying on his hunched and arthritic shoulders, he thinks to himself.

The old man summons his rheumy legs and gets up from the stool. With pain etched across his face, he limps outside the sundry shop. He stares at the streetlights, the towering HDB blocks and listens to the shrill cries of crickets. Somewhere a stray cat mews. He thinks to himself as to whether he should pack up and throw in the towel. What is the purpose in opening the shop until 3am every night awaiting slack business? What is the point in soldiering on when he cannot offer himself and his wares against the metronomic precision of neighbourhood convenience stores and the giant supermarkets with their multifarious goods, shiny cash registers and immaculately-attired service crew? David versus Goliath.

He strikes up a hand-rolled cigarette and settling himself on his stool, puffs thoughtfully away; all the while his eyes glued to the shopfront and ears pricked for the sound of human voices or movement.

As someone on his cosy bed tosses over and dreams a sweet dream of tomorrow to come; the old Indian man ensconced on his ramshackle stool muses on his own hard life that is surely reaching its nadir as the night gets darker and darker.

Nursing a plangent hope for an elusive sale, loneliness in the form of his malfunctioning refrigerator, the haphazardly arranged stacks of sweets and chocolates on the counter, the shelves replete with cans of sardines, baked beans and other sundry goods, accompanies him through this most bewitching of nights.