Wu Yong’s purposeful trip to Penang was supposed to be a hugely celebratory affair. A well-planned holiday, his short stay was bookended by a book launch at the beginning and a pre-wedding party at the end. The book launch, set for the only Saturday he was there, fizzled out like a flat fizzy drink – no zest, no bubbles, no effervescence and zero fanfare. He was eager to be dressed for the occasion, in Song Dynasty outfit as a peasant or commoner in hemp robes and unwashed hair tied up in a high bun. Blue Eyes, the first “hero” in the book was expected to appear as a court official, in fine silk and long wide sleeves and an elaborate turban headpiece. Gosh It’s Josh was gonna be problematic. Would a dark-skinned Indian man be convincing, walking into a room dressed as a 12th century Song warlord? But, it was a no-show. The media didn’t turn up. There were no VIPs, no finger-food and not even a drop of champagne. It did not augur well for the book. Written by Wu Yonggang, The Brotherhood of the Marsh seemed destined to be consigned to history as maligned and irrelevant as the dead heroes of the Liangshan Marsh in the Water Margin to which the book’s theme was based on. Although the venue had been booked and the invitations sent, the book launch was cancelled once the government announced that the general elections would be held on the same day.
“There’s no way the democratic rights of the people can be interfered with,” I said. The people will be more interested in their future than dwell on the historical stories of their Brotherhood.
The indefatigable supporters did not give up. Book lunch? At the Richard Rivalee Nonya Restaurant to support their writer friend, there were not quite one hundred and eight brothers as in the Water Margin, but a lively and vigorous twenty-eight strong party turned up to give him a rowdy and warm welcome and turned it into a soft book launch as well.
August in Penang was surprisingly cool in the early hours after dawn. The distant hills were decorated with white puffy clouds of mist not dis-similar to the wintry conditions in the Adelaide Hills. Wu Yong had lost his timbre voice from seven hours of non-stop karaoke and beer three days earlier. Correction. The free-flowing beers continued for another two hours after the short night-cap was extended by a bout of tropical rain. By the time they left the convenience store that also served as a pub not far from Edgecumbe Avenue, the open drains in the neighbourhood were gushing with free-flowing rainwater, a gift from the heavens above.
His attempts at intermittent fasting were less resolute than six years earlier. The pandemic and the sudden deaths of some in their brotherhood had weakened his steely discipline to be a standard bearer of good health and clean living. Relax when you’re on holiday, you can be rigid and fast when you’re back home. With that thought, he gulped down another mouthful of local beer.
“Life is short,” he said, reminding me of the futility to keep the smell of death away. The candles of two of his good friends were blown out in May but the wind of death would not be stopped. Overnight, Vasuthevan Loganathan, a classmate of his in Form 1, passed away after being a cancer victim for two months. He was reassured by this hindsight to party on long and hard, live life to the fullest and love those he loves in earnest.
“Let bygones be bygones, and don’t waste time judging others,” he chastised me for saying someone was tight-fisted and didn’t even offer me cup of coffee at an hour-long meeting to discuss the book’s marketing campaign.
“He gave you his time, right?” he said, suggesting that time is the most valuable thing we can give one another.
Oh Gosh, it’s Josh. He showed up a day before the scheduled book launch, not realising it was already a no-show. So, Blue Eyes took Josh and Wu Yong out to Moody Cow for cheese cake. They were bottomless cheese cakes, one made of durian and the other, a somewhat foreign-tasting chempedak. The more they ate, the more the cakes seemed to remain on the plates. Wu Yong suspected they were laced with coke. Whatever was in the cake made them laugh and laugh and laugh till they ran out of tears and their stomachs ached. Till the patrons at the nearby tables vacated in distress that the romantic, peaceful ambience was shattered. Till the cows came home, actually.
The following day, the trio adjourned to St. Nicholas’ Home for the Blind. To be politically correct these days, we call the blind the visually impaired. Does it make them feel better? See better? The trio didn’t care. They went there to support those who could not see but their attitudes to live and work and be useful were not impaired at all.
On the way there, Blue Eyes said they were supporting the home by giving their occupants work, and therefore a sense of self-belief and pride that they can contribute to society in a meaningful way. “They are the best masseurs!” he cried out whilst veering his car away from a errant itinerant motorcyclist who liked weaving in traffic.
“The blind will have sharper senses such as hearing and touch,” Wu Yong said before his wild imagination took over and not long after that, he was suggesting that he would play a prank on his beautiful and young lady masseur by positioning that part of his body where her unsuspecting fingers would be.
Blue Eyes paid RM85 each for all of them. Prez Lye turned up a bit later, so he did not use up the ninety minutes to the max. The four members of the Urghhlings Marsh Brotherhood were soon squeaking and grunting in pain. The loudest was that lout Wu Yong. The would-be prankster did not get what he imagined and who he imagined.
“What’s your name?” he asked the blind Indian man of no more than thirty years old.
“Mugilan,” the man repeated many times.
“Sorry, you’re mumbling. Can you spell it please?” Wu Yong asked.
” M U G I L A N” he said about three times, but the thick-headed lout could not remember.
“Mulan with a GI in the middle,” Blue Eyes said, rolling his blue eyes in disbelief at his friend’s slow mind.
Mugilan was no Mulan. Neither attractive nor feminine, he was not at all beautiful to look at. But, he was as powerful and strong, intuitively fast and accurate with his hands. He seemed to know Wu Yong just from feeling his toes. The middle part of the big toe reveals the neck part. The second toe reveals the health of his eyes, the more painful it hurts, the weaker the eyes. How good is his blood circulation? Check his lower ankles. Wu Yong’s big toe hurt like hell.
“Ah, your head is tired,” Mugilan said, before adding, “You think too much – you lack good sleep.”
“You over-thunk!” Blue Eyes exclaimed, marvelling at the accuracy of Mugilan’s assessment.
“You eat a lot of fruits,” the masseur continued.
“You have good skin,” he explained.
But, Wu Yong ‘s skin was dry, almost scaly, due to the harshness of Adelaide’s dry weather in the driest city of the driest continent.
“Maybe I have had too much dried fruits,” Wu Yong joked, but no one laughed.
The side of Wu Yong’s big toe hurt a lot. He was yelping like a puppy that was run over by a car.
“You have late breakfasts,” Mugilan said to everyone’s surprise. Everyone knew he did intermittent fasting and often skipped breakfasts. Wu Yong was disbelieving and felt Mugilan must have been briefed beforehand.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“Your stomach ada angin,” Mugilan replied partly in Malay.
“You got wind! hahahahaha,” Wu Yong’s mates laughed loudly.
“Don’t tell the others,” Wu Yong said hurriedly; he did not want the rumour of him being a serial farter confirmed erroneously.
Wu Yong could hear the laboured breathing of the Indian man at his feet. His new-found respect for the masseur was not just for the physical skills of the man’s hands but also the knowledge of the relationship between the feet and the rest of the human body.
“It must be very hard work,” he said to Mugilan.
“Oh, you want me to work hard? ok, I make it harder for you,” Mugilan said as he applied more force and made his client regret asking a stupid question.
Mugilan massaged him like he was a snare drum. Stretched taut and pummelled with two clenched fists, Wu Yong’s face grimaced and grinned between pain and relief and relief and pain. He didn’t know if he wanted more of the same or for the session to end. In the end, he felt he needed to be stretchered out.
Urghhlings 