The regular customer was grateful and began to pass on the lead that liquor could be purchased at Nayagam’s provision shop if the customer was discreet. Very quickly, the old stocks of beer were cleared. Disappointed customers began to badger Nayagam to acquire resupplies. As it was impossible for a vendor truck to roll in to the car park without inciting curiosity and inquisition, Nayagam arranged for his son Kaustubh to pick up the new supplies in their own van, park it behind the provision shop and wait until two o’clock in the morning to unload the cargo.
Unfortunately for Nayagam, one of his rival shopkeepers was an insomniac and, one morning, chose to have a smoke while leaning out of his kitchen window at 2am. That was how his clandestine resupply operation was discovered. Fortunately for Nayagam, this rival did not go running to the police. Instead, he marched up to Nayagam’s provision shop and asked to have a word in private. He, too, had a load of beer in his storage room he wanted to get rid of. He would be happy to sell them to Nayagam at a slight mark-up from the wholesale price. Nayagam did not dare say no.
Over the next few weeks, the problem compounded. Four other shopkeepers approached Nayagam and asked to offload their old stock. Nayagam pleaded with them; there was no way he could help them clear their stock at such a thin profit margin. Besides, he alone was shouldering the risk. In the end, the five of them held a closed-door conference and came to a compromise. The four of them would each gradually offload fifty per cent of their old stock through Nayagam over the next two months. But if anything went wrong, they had to rally around him.
Everything went well for the first few weeks. Then one night, a scuffle occurred at a void deck of a flat two streets away. The police arrived to find three Indian youths bruised, bleeding and drunk. The statements taken at the police station revealed that one of the youths had discovered that another had cheated on him with his girl and arranged for the third, a mutual friend, to help settle the score. Alcohol was brought along to lubricate the process but ended up fuelling the discord instead. It was captured in their statements that their beer had been purchased from Nayagam’s provision shop.
The next morning, the police showed up at the aforementioned shop and requisitioned the surveillance tapes. Although Nayagam complied, his countenance was so pallid and his temple perspiring so profusely that the police inspector became alarmed and asked if he needed an ambulance. The shaken man turned down the benevolent offer. It was cruel enough that his wife would have to bear the ignominy of visiting a husband in jail. He did not want a call from the hospital to send the poor woman into a cardiac arrest.
The same afternoon, the other four shopkeepers who were offloading their stocks of beer at Nayagam’s expense received a call from the man’s son. Kaustubh was adamant that they stand by his father in this critical time of need. He reminded them that the surveillance tapes had captured all four of them wheeling beer cartons in through the back door at ungodly hours. Every single one of them was tethered to the sinking ship.
A contingency meeting was arranged but no solution emerged. By midnight, the six of them decided to march down to Desker Road and ring the bell of a three-storey terrace house. It was rude to pay an unscheduled visit so late in the night, but who else could they turn to? After all, Sasukumar Sathiyaseelan was one of only four grassroots leaders serving in Jalan Besar who had been conferred the Public Service Medal. He alone had the MP’s ear.
Sasukumar had panicked when he heard the door bell ring; was there a midnight security breach at one of the condominiums or shopping malls whose security operation he had contracted? Fearing the worst, he had stumbled down the stairs in his singlet and boxer shorts, only to find the gang of six at the gate.
“It is midnight! What is it you want that cannot wait?” Sasukumar hissed irritably. He had always made it a point to dress impeccably in a long-sleeved business shirt and a tie when he moved about in the constituency. It was his belief that a community grassroots leader had an image to maintain and he hated that the gang of six had caught him in such a dishevelled and underdressed state.
“If we wait any longer, you will have to visit the five of them in jail!” Kaustubh declared histrionically. He could almost hear the sharp crescendo of music that invariably accompanied dramatic plot twists in Tamil movies.
Sasukumar let in the gang and excused himself to change into something more decent. Upon his return, the five shopkeepers fell over one another to update him. They should have known better than to succumb to the temptation, but it was insufferably frustrating to witness Nayagam Ranjan clearing his beer stock while theirs stagnated. Times were terribly hard since the Little India riot. Surely their esteemed grassroots leader could understand their regretful infraction of the alcohol sales ban? Now they would need him to appeal to the MP on their behalf. All of them were way past their prime and none would survive jail time.
Sasukumar turned to Nayagam and professed his incredulity. “Of all people, Nayagam, I would never have expected you to break the law!”
Nayagam bowed his head in shame. Both Sasukumar’s and his own ancestors hailed from the same province in Tamil Nadu, India. His greed had led him to commit an act of treason that sank an entire clan into disrepute.
“You have to speak to the lady MP on my papa’s behalf,” Kaustubh urged.
“The lady MP, Sharon Shi, is the one who pushed for the alcohol sales ban. If she tries to absolve all of you, she will become the laughing stock in parliament.”
“Is there nothing you can do for us?” There was collective dismay.
“I will speak to the MP. Maybe she can persuade the police to issue a fine but drop the jail sentence.” Sasukumar had long learned that it was never wise for a constituency grassroots leader to decline outright an entreaty from the residents. There were other ways to say no.
The gang of six left the terrace house dejected; their esteemed grassroots leader had given them no assurance. It was imperative that they seek help from another figure of authority. A quick roadside discussion led to a consensus; they would appeal to the chairman of the Little India Shopkeepers Association.
Anshuman Tiwari was a little surprised when the gang of six ambushed him at ten o’clock in the morning as he arrived at his shop along Serangoon Road. He invited them in for tea and quickly made sense of the befuddling colloquy. He was intrigued when he found out that the gang of six had been turned down by Sasukumar before they came to him. That knowledge sealed his decision to help them. The truth was, he had an axe to grind with the grassroots leader.
Anshuman had been elected to the chairmanship of the Little India Shopkeepers Association five years ago. His progressive style of leadership sat well with the younger members who were inspired by his readiness to embrace change and technology. In contrast, the older members felt nervous and leant towards the most senior among the old guards—the Treasurer Sasukumar Sathiyaseelan. Over the years, the two factions managed to ride a series of small turbulence and continued to collaborate cordially.
Until the Little India riot upset the balance.
Anshuman Tiwari was furious when the MP Sharon Shi and the police commissioner sprang the surprise of the alcohol sales ban. He felt the burn of betrayal when Sasukumar tried to persuade the members to accept and support the decree from the police. Anshuman had wanted to fight the ban, but Sasukumar convinced everyone that had they done that, they would emerge an enemy of the people. Given how frightened the nation was right after the riot, the majority of the members casted their votes not to rock the national boat.
“You have my assurance,” Anshuman leant forward to rub Nayagam reassuringly on his back. “Let me know once the police issue you a notification. I will call for a press conference to appeal to the public. We merchants of Little India have had enough of this nonsense!”
Sharon was caught off-guard when The Straits Times and the online news portals reported the press conference held by the Little India Shopkeepers Association. The chairman made an impassioned public appeal to the peop
le of Singapore. The Little India riot was committed by migrant workers of South India origin. The shops and eateries in Little India were run by Singaporean Indians. Why should the latter be made to suffer for the transgressions of the former? The 122 rioters had already been apprehended and would be sentenced very soon. The alcohol sales ban ought to be rescinded.
The chairman went on to highlight that a hardworking and, till of late, law-abiding shopkeeper in Little India was recently charged by the police for an infraction of the alcohol sales ban. This was the same shopkeeper who had been interviewed soon after the riot and who pledged his support for the Jalan Besar MP Sharon Shi. The chairman wanted the public to see this infraction as what it was—an outcry against the unfair treatment by the authorities. The riot had occurred in Little India; there was no denying it. But why should a Chinese shopkeeper operating in Chinatown not be subjected to the same alcohol sales ban? Did not shopkeepers in Chinatown sell alcohol to migrant workers from China? What about shopkeepers in Peninsula Plaza who sold alcohol to migrant workers from Myanmar, or those in Golden Mile Complex who transacted with migrant workers from Thailand? It was surely not in the national interest to design a regulation that targeted a group of merchants based on their skin colour? Keeping in mind that Singapore was a multiracial, multireligious and multicultural society, the chairman of the Little India Shopkeepers Association asked that law enforcement efforts be made colour-blind. Either lift the alcohol sales ban from Little India or apply it nationwide to all constituencies.
“Why did you not pre-empt me?” Sharon shouted into the phone. She had never lost her temper with any grassroots leaders before but a useless one like Sasukumar deserved no mercy.
“That Anshuman Tiwari is a prick! He and his kakis completely blindsided me!” Sasukumar whined with hurt and indignation. He could almost feel the Public Service Medal unhooking itself and slipping off his breast pocket.
Sharon removed the mobile phone from her ear and tapped the screen to end the call. She wished she were using one of those land line phones from her parents’ generation, so that she could physically slam the receiver down onto the phone. A tap on the screen was simply too gentle to express the rage she felt boiling inside. The role of a grassroots leader was to be the politician’s eyes and ears on the ground. If Sasukumar Sathiyaseelan could not perform the role, she had no use for him.
Sharon next enlisted Masri’s help to conduct an online background check on Anshuman Tiwari. The efficient youth leader came back with a comprehensive report within thirty minutes. Anshuman was a graduate from the University of Pennsylvania, ran an import-export business and sat on the committees of five Indian organisations in Singapore that spanned religious, social and professional concerns. Sharon realised that she had to tread with care; Anshuman Tiwari appeared to have a wide network of connections within the Indian community. That probably explained why he had been bold enough to play the race card.
The Straits Times had left a message requesting a statement from her. Sharon wondered if she should email Yu Chin and ask him to help clear her plan of action with Elvis, as they were both in Jakarta for an ASEAN conference. But she quickly dismissed the thought. She was an elected parliamentarian in charge of a constituency. There was no reason why she could not decide and act independently.
Sharon published a written response to Anshuman Tiwari’s statement via The Straits Times. She explained that the alcohol sales ban was a geographically targeted regulation; if the riot had occurred in Chinatown, the ban would be applied specifically to Chinatown. Race was never a consideration in the implementation. She recognised that the merchants in Little India had to endure a degree of shrinkage to their revenue as a result of the alcohol sales ban, but that was because their point-of-sales were located in Little India. The fact that most of the retailers were local Indians was unfortunate but purely coincidental. If a retailer like Nayagam Ranjan chose to break the law, the people of Singapore should trust that the law enforcement agency would deal with the infraction impartially. That was the true essence of colour-blindness. The minority races in Singapore ought to trust that they would always be treated with respect and equitability by the government and its people.
Two hours after The Straits Times published the article in its online edition, Sharon received a text message from Yu Chin. We read your response to Anshuman. Why did you not clear it with Elvis first?
Sharon felt a pinch of betrayal; her husband’s message came across as accusatory. Should he not be supportive of her, rather than side with his boss? She also experienced a pang of anxiety; had her published response been inappropriate in any way? She texted back to explain simply that she had made the decision not to disturb Elvis in Jakarta.
We are flying back tomorrow, ETA 11.15am. Book a private table at the Peach Garden at Changi Airport Terminal 2. Elvis will discuss damage control.
Sharon fumed. What did they mean by damage control? She returned to the Straits Times article and read it again. Her statements were cautiously worded, her arguments sound and her defence effective. What did Elvis think was wrong with it?
Masri was the one who alerted her to the online waves of agitated responses that rolled in relentlessly over the next 24 hours. The Indian community was up in arms over Sharon’s statement that all minorities receive equal treatment and respect from the authorities and society at large. Did she not remember the racial slights that had occurred within the last year? Deepavali fell on 3 November 2013, more than one-and-a-half months before Christmas. Yet Christmas decorations were up by 1 November along the highway leading to and from Changi International Airport. India had consistently been among the top five countries of origin of tourists to Singapore, so the complete disregard of a major festival like Deepavali was shocking. The same year also saw a reputable supermarket chain putting up a Deepavali promotion of a 38 per cent discount on their beef products. Were the merchants so culturally insensitive as to not know that Hindus generally abstain from eating beef because they regard cows as sacred? How about the Thaipusam incident? The procession along Serangoon Road was supposed to be rowdy and celebratory. Yet the police officers had stepped in and reprimanded the urumi drum players for making too much noise. That led to heated arguments, some scuffles and the eventual arrest of three Indian youths. But it was really what followed that infuriated the Indian community. While police investigation was still underway, a Chinese MP claimed on Facebook that the incident was an example of how alcohol intoxication could cause rowdiness and public nuisance. Did he imply that all Indians were hard drinkers? How could such a racially insensitive comment from a parliamentarian be tolerated?
Apparently, Sharon’s article had opened up a can of worms.
“This is exactly what I feared would happen.” Elvis came straight to the point when Sharon met him and Yu Chin at Peach Garden the next morning. “You know Anshuman Tiwari was playing the race card. You should have deflected and steered the focus back to the migrant worker community. Our hard-line supporters are the conservatives. They will gladly form up a supporting contingent behind you, had you done that. But now that the focus of discussion is on the local Indian community, they naturally chose not to speak up. No one wants to be labelled a racist.”
“What can we do to steer the discussion back on track?” Yu Chin had asked the question. Sharon felt him reach under the table to give her knee a reassuring squeeze. He must have sensed her dejection and was trying to show support. Sharon felt a tinge of gratitude in her heart. Perhaps she was wrong about her husband after all.
Elvis must have given the matter prior thought, for his reply came readily. “We need to draw intense fire from the opposition party.”
Both Sharon and Yu Chin stared at him, uncomprehending.
“I need you to go out on a limb and say something outrageous about the migrant worker community,” Elvis turned to Sharon and explained. “A ridiculous statement that is bound to make firecracker opposition party members like Jowene Tay and Rashid Rahman jump
up from their seats and scramble for the microphone in parliament. And when they throw you into the fire pit and roast you alive, you will say nothing in your own defence. We need to get you publicly humiliated.”
“But why?” Sharon shuddered, not liking the idea at all.
“The public’s curiosity is highly flammable. Luckily for us, their attention span is also exceedingly short. Right now the hot topic of the day is all about race. We want to shift the focus back to the locals versus migrant workers issue. Your public humiliation in parliament and possibly online is the next circus act that has to top the preceding one. Our supporters will see your humiliation dealt out by the opposition party as their humiliation too. That’s the only way to resurrect support from the conservatives. Once they come to your rescue, the resulting brouhaha will keep everyone entertained and occupied for at least a fortnight. By then, Anshuman Tiwari will be too cold and stale for the public palate.”
“That’s a brilliant strategy!” Yu Chin exclaimed with delight. He turned to Sharon and said, “Don’t worry dear. Both Elvis and I will help you with the speech.”
Sharon bit her lip. That tinge of gratitude in her heart earlier had dissolved. For a split second she felt like reaching under the table and crushing her husband’s kneecap with silent fury.
Two days later, Sharon took the lectern in parliament and gave the speech that had been vetted thrice by Elvis and Yu Chin. She related her recent walkabout in Little India where she noticed that the migrant worker crowd had again swelled to levels of pre-riot days. This was a cause for concern. Congregations of such high density were walking time bombs and public disorder incidents waiting to happen. The majority of the migrant workers that visited Little India came from villages and towns in third world countries. They did not receive the kind of education that would equip them to participate responsibly in a civil society. They left their beer cans and liquor bottles lying around on the grass patches where they drank and they ogled local women. The riot that occurred several weeks ago provided clear evidence of the disorder these lowly-educated migrant workers were capable of. It was imperative that stricter regulations were put in place to safeguard the people of Singapore. Sharon proposed that the parliament revisit her earlier proposal to fence up areas in Little India and designate them out of bounds to migrant workers. She also proposed that a police check point be set up at the car park where the busloads of migrant workers were dropped off by the dormitory operators. These migrant workers should be made to register with the police and receive a coloured armband that allowed them a sixty-minute slot to conduct their shopping. Once the allotted number of armbands were issued, late-arriving migrant workers would have to wait on the bus for the next sixty-minute slot to be open. That would be the most cost-effective method to control the crowds in Little India and diffuse the potential time bomb.
The Riot Act Page 14