Alarm
His motherland is far and his mother is further. Between him and her
there is a lack of signal, the overtime, the salaries missed,
the loans, the debts, the hopes, the threats that who he is is
to be dismissed. A matter of survival in the fight to exist.
"Stay inside, stay safe!" drowns his cries from a room with 12 others where
many come from the same place, and in leaving their family behind,
they become family here for one another. "Social distance"
is unknown to brothers who find their only comfort of touch in one another.
We thought we knew but we have only scratched the surface.
We walk on their bodies to claim our space in a land we call ours but
without them we have no land in the first place. And yet,
a riot and a virus are the only light shed on the struggles that they face. Those
whom we thought we saw every day, did we really see? To see is to search
beyond the rough hands and the dirty shoes, to acknowledge
not just the man who builds our foundations but
the man who left home to build a future for his children.
Now the alarm rings and we open our eyes. We donate our money and our time because
today we see for the "first time". But tomorrow, we say we have helped and once again
we close our eyes because to see that he suffers is a wound that runs too
deep. We wait for the next alarm to ring as we drift back to sleep.
SAVITHAA MARKANDU, 21, studies drama, applied theatre and education at the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama in London.
Lockdown In Hell
Lim floated to his altar and picked up his entry pass to the mortal world. After a year of failed attempts at sending his regards to his family on the wind, he would be able to visit them for real this Qing Ming. He had spent the past few days planning his visit, ignoring the neighbours drifting past his door as well as the news.
At his touch, the yellow entry pass faded to black and disintegrated. Next to him, the communications wall lit up with a priority broadcast.
"Due to the large number of coronavirus deaths, the gate to the mortal world is facing massive strain," said the official Hell broadcaster, a ghost with bright red lipstick and a frozen smile. "All non-essential travel will be cancelled till further notice."
He jabbed the "off" button and began circling the room in frustration, until he saw the smoke coming from the wall of the room. It was an offering.
Through the smoke, Lim could see his flat in the mortal world. His heart clenched as his wife came into view. She pulled a lighter away from his grandson, who was holding the charred remains of a mask. "Aiyoh, Ah Boy, what are you doing?"
"Giving a mask to Gong-gong."
Lim brushed his fingers against the mask that had appeared in his hand.
"What?" She looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "Don't, it's dangerous."
"Teacher said everyone needs one," insisted Ah Boy, eyes bright and earnest in a way that brought a lump to Lim's throat.
Lim pressed his forehead and palms against the image of his wife pulling Ah Boy into her arms, but he could only feel cold stone instead of warm skin.
Sorrow flooded his body as he brought his fists to the wall, wanting to punch his way through. He pounded and pounded until he slumped in exhaustion. It was hopeless, he thought, and braced himself to ram his head into the wall until he lost consciousness.
Then he heard a rumble of distant thunder and looked up, heart leaping with hope.
Ah Boy ran to the window, stretching his hands out to the sudden downpour. Lim tightened his own fingers, trembling at the fleeting touch of a child's hands.
CHUA XIN RONG, 29, is a public servant.
Duty
(To the medical staff on the front line)
Sweat on my brow but I cannot wipe it
off. The mask that fogs my glasses
with warmth glistens on the dimple
of my lip but no one sees it slither
into the crevice of a silent mouth.
We don't know how long this will drag
on for, how many leaves will be cancelled, how many birthdays missed. Time
becomes the passage between two beds
and the hope that the patient still breathes.
My son misses me badly. He sits
at the dining table after washing the dishes,
waiting for someone to teach him
to count past 10, to tie a butterfly
knot so he won't trip over his shoelaces.
Mother turns up the volume, afraid
of missing out updates. New death tolls,
an increase in confirmed cases. She mutes
the TV immediately after, afraid of
hearing her daughter's name. When father's
cancer turned terminal and he came home
bald, I took the Hippocratic Oath
as an apology. I watched her wheel him
into the passenger seat of our sedan.
This time, ma, just sit back. I'll strap you in.
CRISPIN RODRIGUES, 31, is a teacher and has published two collections of poetry, Pantomime (2018) and The Nomad Principle (2019).
