Island Math

Chapter 26 – Island Math

Changi mornings count differently. The air smells like fried dough and salt; the trees pretend they’ve been up since before boats were invented. Aleem arrived at Changi Village with a tote tuned for small travel: two metal bottles, plasters, sunscreen, a zip‑lock of coins for boatmen who respect exact change, the gray gloves in their pouch, handkerchief, umbrella that was brave but not delusional. No itinerary printed; only a page in his pocket that said: Proceed by invitation.

A: Bus reaching. Wearing hat with apologies to wind, her message said.

Aleem: Ferry terminal, left bench under the fan that squeaks like a mouse doing overtime, he replied. The bench did squeak. He liked its honesty.

Aoi walked up with the stride of a person auditioning to be unnoticed and succeeding. Long sleeves against hub air‑con she would meet later; trousers that forgive bikes; cap until the room consented to her face. She lifted a hand with the small vocabulary they had built. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he said. “Rules before water?”

“Yes,” she said, happy to recite. “No photos. Phones for time and maps. Cash in small notes. Hats okay; faces lowercase. Meet points if separated: first the jetty, then the bike shop with the cheerful rooster painted on it. We proceed by invitation.”

“And we will be boring on purpose,” he added. “Our favorite rebellion.”

They walked to the counter where the sign reads like a recipe: Bumboat to Pulau Ubin / 12 pax / queue politely / cash only. The boatman counted heads the way men count rain–professionally. They waited their turn, which is a kind of love.

Onboard, the boat’s engine spoke the old language of work. A row of life jackets watched like aunties. A child asked his father if the sea was awake yet; the father said yes as if telling a secret. Aoi’s knee brushed his; he moved a fraction to give space; she moved a fraction back to say thank you for the thought, not the gap.

“Two taps if you need air,” she whispered–ritual as comfort.

“One hold if we stay,” he answered. “Three taps if we let the plan be smaller.”

“Smaller plans,” she said, approving. “Island math.”

Ubin is a door with sand for a hinge. They stepped onto the jetty and into a smell that had decided to be mangrove and fried banana at once. A rooster announced opinions. Bicycles waited in stances that promised adventure and knee complaints.

At the first shop, a woman with forearms invented by decades of repairs gave them the inspection all good bike aunties give. “Tall,” she told Aleem, squinting at his legs. “Seat up. You know brake is hand, not foot? Bell work. You”–to Aoi– “need small frame. Basket, free. I don’t want to see your back carrying water.”

“Thank you,” Aoi said, pleased to be parented. She set the gray gloves in the basket like a pet on a ride.

They tested brakes, nodded to the rooster mural that had volunteered to be cheerful, and pushed off. The road asked them to be persons who notice. Shade, light, leaf shadow, pothole. The island taught the lesson cities forget: speed is a choice, not a personality.

“Chek Jawa?” he asked at a sign where an arrow made a suggestion rather than a command.

“Chek Jawa,” she said. “If tide is polite.”

The road narrowed and then thought better of it. A troop of cyclists in matching jerseys overtook with the courtesy of bells. A family negotiated training wheels and a picnic plan. At a rise, the sea made itself known by smell and a geometry on the horizon.

Tide chart at the info hut: High at 10:40. It was 10:15.

“Boardwalk closes at high sometimes,” he said, not disappointed–just inventorying reality.

“Then we are people who look from the tower,” she said, accepting adjustments like a good dancer.

They locked the bikes at the rack where handlebars gossip and climbed the Jejawi tower with the pace knees like. Mangrove arranged itself below as if auditioning for a postcard. A heron remembered its lines. Air carried the sound of schoolchildren learning the plural of crab.

Aoi leaned on the rail, elbows respectful. “I like rooms where tide makes rules,” she said. “No argument; just timing.”

“Island math,” he echoed. “Less doing, more noticing.”

Below, the boardwalk gate clicked shut with apologetic efficiency. A sign explained, not scolded. They waved at it for trying.

On the ride back toward the kampung, the island performed a small test disguised as physics. Aoi’s chain hopped off with the sound metal makes when it remembers it had other plans.

She braked like a brochure and coasted into shade. Two taps on the handlebar to him–here. One hold on the basket–stay. He dismounted, hands already reaching for the pouch. “May I?”

“Please,” she said, amused at how quickly the gloves had justified their existence.

He pulled the gray cotton over his fingers, turned the bike gently onto its crank, and set the chain back with the patience of a man who has rehung many things at home without cursing. A mosquito auditioned; he declined its role. When the chain sat where it recalled it should be, he spun the pedal twice, listened for the right soft noises, and stood. “Done.”

Aoi clapped once, quiet applause. “Gloves approved,” she said. “You fixed a sentence.”

“Punctuation,” he said. “The comma returned.”

They pushed off again. The road made a suggestion to detour. A sign offered Sensory Trail–trees teaching their names. They agreed without words and followed it to where an open shelter had decided to be a room.

Rain announced itself without asking permission. Drops fat as suggestions turned into a sheet that reorganized priorities. Schoolchildren shrieked and then laughed and then remembered umbrellas. A guide executed the choreography of moving thirty humans two meters without making them feel like luggage.

Aoi lifted the umbrella they had brought, then lowered it–it had already lost the audition to the weather. They ran the five steps to the shelter and arrived laughing like adults who have allowed weather to parent them.

“Here?” she asked, palm up.

“Here,” he said, and matched his palm. Two taps, one hold; three light taps. We stay. Air. Smaller plans.

They sat on the bench built under the shelter, public furniture doing its calling. The roof sent rhythm to the air. A boy played a memory game with raindrops on the floor. Someone’s father told a story about a storm at sea and then stopped in time because this was not that.

“Lunch,” Aleem said, inventorying instead of apologizing for the sky. “Coffee shop back at the jetty. Noodles that forgive weather. We can let the island do island things without us performing.”

“Approved,” Aoi said. “We choose rest over plans.”

The words landed between them like a document that didn’t need signatures.

When rain thinned to reasonable, they rode back with water approving of spokes. The kampung coffee shop wore its history without making a speech. Plastic stools of every mood. A TV that believed in badminton. Fans that thought they were helicopters. The menu existed both in laminated form and inside the auntie’s head.

“Two kopi,” he said. “One less sweet. One iced barley.” He looked at Aoi. “Fried bee hoon with egg? Or rice?”

“Bee hoon,” she said. “With the courage of small chili.”

They took a table near the wall that had collected hand‑painted signs over decades. No outside food. Return tray. We keep change. Thank you. The sound of plates did the job of music.

A group of teenagers came in, helmets still thinking fast. One recognized Aoi’s posture without knowing why; he glanced, thought better of it, and remembered to be a person not an antenna. She gave him the small nod that says thank you for choosing ordinary. He grinned privately as if he had passed a test no one else had seen.

Food arrived the way good food does–hot, fragrant, uninterested in Instagram. The bee hoon tasted like patience; the fried egg had edges that told their own story. Aoi ate with the neat economy of someone who has learned to be hungry at appropriate times and not when told by cameras.

“Travel rule,” she said between bites. “When tired appears, we don’t argue. We put tired in a chair and feed it.”

“New square,” he said. “Feed tired first.”

She laughed. “Under Feed people first on your museum door.”

“Exactly,” he said.

They shared a plate of goreng pisang that had seen oil behave. Sugar stuck to fingers. He offered the gray gloves a glance; they smirked from the basket and allowed him to lick his fingers like a civilian.

The island resumed its routine without needing their opinion. They returned the bikes to the auntie, who inspected them like children after recess–knees unscraped, bells honest. “You two ride like people who want to get home,” she said. “I approve. Come again when sun less naughty.”

“We will,” Aoi said. “We proceed by invitation.”

At the jetty, the boatman counted the mathematics of humans again. Back across, the sea rehearsed being glass and then forgot and became water. Aoi’s hand found his wrist for three seconds like a person ensuring a bag had made it onto a bus.

“Thank you for fixing commas,” she said.

“Thank you for choosing smaller plans,” he said. “Island math saves ankles.”

Changi Village pretended it had never seen rain. Clothes lines at the sundry shop winked dryly. He pointed to the ice‑cream uncle who carried his trade like a flag. “Red bean?”

“Red bean,” she said. “We share the duty of melting.”

They ate on the bench under the squeaking fan and watched planes argue politely with clouds. Somewhere, an auntie adjudicated pricing in a tone that could restructure governments. A boy walked an old dog who had achieved the dignity of deciding which trees matter.

“Small trip successful,” she said. “We learned boat, bike, bench.”

“And comma,” he added. “Gloves’ debut; bench’s cameo.”

“Next time,” she said, “JB groceries. Nicer to do with a teammate.”

“We will draft border rules,” he promised. “No Instagram of passports. Queue as art. Curry puffs as fuel.”

She leaned her shoulder into his for the count of two in, hold, three out. The bench did not complain. He practiced the small smile he had promised to bring when her face forgot joy while feeling it. She saw it and matched it, the kind that belongs in rooms that forgive.

“Thank you for not arguing with tide,” she said.

“Thank you for teaching me island math,” he said.

Home, the corridor smelled like curry rehearsals and neighbors negotiating laundry. His mother looked up from her paper and counted the facts. “Wet,” she said. “Not miserable.”

“Wet,” he confirmed. “Happy. We chose rest over plans.”

“Good,” she said. “People who argue with weather live shorter.” She pointed at the kettle and then at the sky in the gesture that means tea tastes better when clouds choose narrative.

He opened the locker door’s paper museum. The squares watched him like colleagues in a meeting that keeps its own minutes.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.
Approval, always.
Public first, always.
Don’t be the wind.
Rest is allowed.
Feed people first.
Hold the room steady.
Small is brave.
Credit small; safety large.
We will be boring on purpose.
Be the bench.
Proceed by invitation.
Listen with hands.
Signals are kindness.
Check in, don’t guess.
Choose together.

He cut a new square from the corner of a calendar that had stopped pretending months are anything but suggestions. He wrote: Choose rest over plans. He slid it under Rest is allowed and above Feed people first. The stack shifted its weight and made a quiet agreeable sound only he could hear.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Thank you for island math + commas. I will return gloves to pouch with honors. Next: JB groceries when schedules are kind. We proceed by invitation.

Aleem: Home. Bench approved of us. I will bring curry puff expertise. Two in, hold, three out.

The fan rehearsed rain for later. He lay on his side facing the wall that had memorized his breath, and let the island continue without them. Plans folded themselves gently into tomorrow’s drawer.

Two in, hold, three out. Not magic. Structure.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, somewhere a boat counted to twelve and left on time, a rooster argued poetry with the afternoon, and on a bench under a squeaky fan, a boy and his old dog agreed on which trees matter.