8:00 a.m. in Clementi
8 a.m. in Clementi, Singapore is the heady rush and clatter of breakfast at the hawker center across the street from our public housing. It’s when office crowds wait in snaking queues for takeout (or as the locals say, da bao) lunch in flame-red polythene bags and sip sweet tea (teh) from throwaway containers before rushing off to downtown offices. I watch them from the kitchen window with quiet longing some days. These office-goers like my husband ride the thrill of rush and routine, flowing through the city’s arteries like mercury.
Battling pangs of loneliness, I fling the window open. I see the frenzied kitchen where practiced hands wield woks over fiery stoves. I hear the sizzle of crushed garlic on glassy hot oil. Then the whoosh of plump, fresh pink shrimp. The salty aroma moves through the neighborhood like sonic waves, drawing three more hungry office-goers into its orbit. My own stomach grumbles.
I drown oatmeal in milk and slice apples with a rehearsed finesse. Outside, a half-formed moon fades slowly out of cosmic space. Twin Angsana trees frame the view, bowing. Cool morning air circles languidly; a whispered gift from last night’s rains. It will grow humid as the day stretches.
But no matter the weather outside, my feet stay cool on the earth-red oxide floor I’ve come to love in this home—a nostalgic feature of this 1970s housing estate, where fixtures like hawker centers and timeworn mom-and-pop shops endure. There’s the ceremonial supplies store perfumed by incense sticks and prayer oil, its shelves stacked with yellowed joss papers and antique bronze deities. The fruit stall across the street, helmed by a vendor with sun-silvered hair, displays tropical wares: ripe-red mangosteens, hot-pink dragonfruit, and marigold mandarins. The old medicine hall on the estate's southern end is yet another object of intrigue, beckoning passersby with ancient Chinese herbs for each malaise and mood.
My thoughts drift back to the oatmeal I’ve prepared. After packing it away, I warm the cast-iron pan on the stove and roll out three rotis for my husband’s lunch. I flip each of them with a flourish before tucking them away in Tupperware with a side of vegetable curry.
Minutes later, my husband and I are sitting on the sofa. I rest my cheek on his perfumed shirt—fresh from the pile of laundry I folded last night. Our living room is still blanketed in darkness like a locked fort holding a secret, desperate not to let the peace of morning slither away. We lock heads gently, in quiet preparation for our separate days.
His phone pings, telling him to leave now if he intends to reach work on time. We hug. He breathes in the smell of my hair as I breathe in the crisp fragrance of his Davidoff cologne, entwined with his earthy, natural scent. I open the door and let the light in—thick, buttery, smooth. It slices the red floor into bands of molten gold. I sink into my sofa and open my laptop to write.
Hope settles on me like morning dew as I open a fresh document—as blank as the day ahead of me, yet rich with possibilities. I write until the light shifts to a pale amber; until my kitchen calls to me yet again that day. In the quiet companionship of my writing, in the rhythm of creation, the ache of my solitude lightens. Perhaps I’m not as lonely as I thought. Through my window, I watch two teenagers take a picture of the skies, now with wispy-pink strands of candy floss. A bicycle trills, laughter drifts through the air, and the hawker center slowly hums with life. The evening has just begun.
About the Author
Advaita is a writer and landscape artist from Mumbai, currently based in Singapore. While she began her career as a travel writer, these days you'll find her crafting sharp web content and copy for businesses, with the occasional editorial project keeping things interesting. Her work has appeared in publications such as Go World Travel, Stylist UK, and British Glamour. She also holds a Master's Degree in Psychology.
Illustration by Jane Demarest.
Edited by Aube Rey Lescure and Tusshara Nalakumar Srilatha.
