Rose and I were enjoying our chicken rice today, in the sleepy pre-monsoon grayness of a quiet Taman Mount Austin food court. Really savoring, because good chicken rice is hard to find anymore, and this one was good. Since it was about three in the afternoon, the employees far outnumbered the patrons. All of the cooks were there getting ready for the night shift, and some of the lunch stalls were shut already but still cleaning. Probably a dozen guests, and twenty workers.
Suddenly, the workers were a flash of activity. Every single hand was on deck, heeding a call that Rose and I certainly didn't hear.
Hawker stands were ripped from their makeshift anchors. Chairs and even two tables were overturned in the scuttle. A claypot rice vendor lost two nice clay pots as they fell from his stand. Chains and locks rattled, slatted bamboo curtains noisily coiled and re-coiled, their strings getting tangled, propane tanks were tossed about as if they were footballs.
I walked out the back and looked up, guessing rain at first. Nope. Not rain.
Eventually, though the spectacle was highly enjoyable, the noise became too much. As I know all to well from my own hawker stand days, the stands are all poorly built, the wheels ornamental at best, so the sound of rotten studs being scraped across sheer concrete became too much.
As we were leaving, I caught the attention of the Chicken Rice guy. They were one of the few stalls not closing up. With a shrug and a lift of the eyebrow, I asked him what was up.
"MPJB" He said. Something like that.
Police.
Checking permits.