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THE BARUTI COLUMN PART 2: Little India by baruti armstrong aka robotsex The day began like any other day. I stumbled out of bed, found my face and my legs and the rest of my body. I made my way with the mornings' Muslim prayer ringing in one ear and the latest Madonna jam throbbing in the other. I wandered like a nomad on the desert plains of some barren land. In the end I decided that I would take the train to the Masjid Jamek station. There I would be able to explore the markets that I had noticed there a few days ago on my way back from Bangsar. The markets are assortments of stalls in the middle of the streets selling everything from knock- off Louis Vuitton handbags, Gucci sunglasses, and Diesel shorts (although some of this stuff may be the real deal- I can't tell half the time) to tropical fruits that look like vegetables with names I've never heard of to handicraft items. I'm not too sure what isn't sold at these markets. It's hot, but not too hot, nor is it too humid. It isn't raining and by the weather clock that I use, i.e. looking out of my window every morning before I leave my apartment, I figure that I have at least a few hours before any sprinkles.  Now, one thing about me that I should clarify before this goes any further, is that I'm not an avid shopper. Let me be more specific: I'm not an impulse shopper. Sure I indulge myself in the occasional window-shop; a look into the Prada store window so I can see the latest strapless and impress girls when I pick out their shoes from a passing glance, or maybe even a peak into a thrift shop to pick up the best looking 1977 throwback bowling shirts I can find. But for the most part, Robotsex going shopping is about as common as seeing an episode of You Can't Do That On Television on television. But today was different. Today I had taken the physical challenge. It was time to shop, time to impulse shop. I was clad in my classic travelers get up; my best "I'm a grifter who plays by his own rules and if it wasn't for the fact that I've had a few glasses of the old Dutch courage at lunch today I wouldn't even be here" garb. I was high off the success I had already had in Chinatown. I was brash and glib, ready to mix it up, ready to listen in on conversations by locals who would think that I didn't know Malay from Italian, ready to haggle until the cows came home. I walked and walked. I glanced at street vendors and their products. I peered and poked. I gazed. Shunning my normal hatred for being a spend thrift and trying to embrace what I would normally never do.  I was walking past a table full of rings, having stopped momentarily because a ring was already on my pre-travel want list as an accoutrement I would like to have. There was nothing interesting there. I continued walking, brushing past people. I smiled at an Australian woman my age who was by herself and holding two or three bags of stuff. She smiled back. Then I turned to my left and I saw them. More or less, they were exactly what I had been looking for, before I even knew what I was looking for. I've always had a predilection for wearing wood, a natural tendency that is, an affinity if you will. Why? I can't say, but it has always been there. Maybe because of the fact that I have this weird belief that those things with a history are the best sort of things to have, and that a living history or the history of a past life is perfect in that same respect. Maybe, maybe not. Whatever the case, before me was an old man with a series of thirty or so handmade wooden lacquered rings (the wood placed in the rings' setting, and the rest of the ring made out of some cheap looking metallic substance). Immediately I go into action. Silently I pick out a ring, hiding my zeal and excitement. Just standing there I had felt such a rush, something beyond words, as if I was some vagrant who had one day discovered a door out of my mundane life of beating kittens and into an exciting new dimension where any and all things can be beaten at will, including children, eggs, and...bigger kittens...not to mention pretty much anything else at hand. But I played it cool. "Hey my brother." The man who was assisting the actual maker said to me. He was a Chinese-looking Malay wearing worse clothes than I was. I fumbled with a ring in my fingers, "How much?" Thinking to myself, Berapa? "That...oh," he tried his best to size me up without looking as if that's exactly what he were doing, "That one, that's 45." "Riggit?" "Yes, riggit...thatıs good, real Malaysian wood." "Kayu," I mumbled under my breath trying to remember if that were Malay for wood or not. Then I threw out, "Gosh boy, dat be expensive." I toss in a little Trinidadian accent like I were speaking to my mother just to keep him on his toes and not able to place me. I look at several, trying to find a good size. Another individual comes to the stall and I wait to see if he's going to try to buy one. The person doesn't, but I hardly noticed him leave. At this point I've tried on just about all of the rings. I pick up one I had strategically placed in the upper right hand corner of the table- it being the smallest one I could find. "Eleven." The man says and points at the ring, his answer in response to my unasked question about how may different types of wood were in the ring. I shake my head in a bargainers understanding, and then break out. "Saya mau ini." Translation: "I want this one." But something's wrong. I start out too high. "25 riggit," I continue "Oh well, I need 35 riggit." The deal as good as sealed at this point, the medium ground reached, the bargain brokered, I take a step forward when I should have held my ground as fast as molasses. When I should have reiterated, 25 riggit, instead I conceded, "30 Rm." The words leave my mouth like some annoying knock-knock joke, the punch line being my final offer. He agrees, I get the ring of my choosing, and that is the that as they say. I walk around the market, several streets clogged with cars and motor bicycles busying past people. Soon I'm beside myself. 30 RM-did I just pay that much for this ring-?which incidentally didn't even fit, the problem being that in trying to find a ring small enough to fit my pinky I got the closest one I could and later decided that it was still too big, but it was too small for my ring finger. 30 RM-hat's food for nearly a week. 30 RM-hat's nearly an entire wardrobe if I played my cards right haggling. 30 RM-hat's that's like 8 USD! And it's not that I'll miss 8 bux, it's the principle of the matter. There was no way I should have paid that much for something like a ring from a street vendor. It was a public relations nightmare. The ultimate humiliation. I'd been had. I'd been so had that I might as well continue referring to myself in the third person; Robotsex had been had. Plain and simple. I had opted for the physical challenge and I had failed miserably. And there was nothing that I could do about it. Nothing except plan my revenge. I'll have you embroiled in swarthy comments on the Internet in reference to your character, I thought to myself, You'll be made a fool of in The Baruti Column and it will be forever recorded in the annals of time. Although now that I think of it, this isn't much of a scathing account or depiction of him. Still, it's in moments like these that individuals are truly able to analyze themselves and their purpose in life. I was distraught to the point of fury. But it all boiled down to one thing. That was what I finally decided. Sure, there are countless ways to blow off steam, but let's face it no matter what the situation is, I really couldn't go wrong with billions of women. But a back up plan is always a good idea, so just in case I could somehow steer in the wrong direction, I certainly couldn't go wrong with billions of women and a monkey. So that was it. I decided to get as close to that as I could to that. A weekend in Singapore. Billions of women, no. Thousands of women, yes. A monkey, probably as far as I knew. So why the hell not? Besides, what else am I doing? I was prompt. I was careful. I was unwavering. I went right back to my apartment and packed my bags, or rather a bag. I prepared for the trip, planned it out, and made all the necessary arrangements, which were very minimal as it turned out. I stayed up late reading, and then next day I was on my way. The Baruti Column Volume 1 |
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