Field notes on homes.
And other things.
I advise others on property decisions in Singapore. I also write. This space sits somewhere in between the two.
I arrived at a mosque that was quiet. It was serene. Despite being the penultimate night of terawih, the mosque was not overly packed. The night was cool and I was comfortable.
After eight rakaats of terawih, I turned to the bhai beside me and asked, “This mosque do eight or twenty?”
My buyers asked for a second viewing of a house they were eyeing.
Can we make an appointment to view again? I want to feel the rooms in the afternoon sun.
The seller agent duly obliged.
So on that Sunday afternoon, we returned for a second viewing.
Incredibly stressful. Emotionally exhausting.
I didn’t think I would ever use these words to describe closing my very first sale. Typically, you imagine them to be incredibly liberating or emotionally rewarding. But I guess this was not a typical sale.
Two small signatures, one very big move.
I sat across from both of them. They were about to make arguably the third biggest decision of their lives so far. The couple (let’s just call them N and M) had just gotten engaged last year. Barely a week ago, they had optioned for a three-room resale HDB flat in Tampines. At that moment, they were about to make a $4,000 payment to the sellers to exercise their Option to Purchase.
The first fifteen nights of Ramadan have passed. I can feel the Ramadan fatigue setting in. Time passes by more slowly during the day. Nights drag on a little longer, with each set of terawih requiring more rests in between.
My relationship with Ramadan has always been complicated. At the heart of it lies the one beverage that has part of my morning routine: coffee.
As always, I arrive to an impeccably tidy house. Fresh flowers stood neatly in a vase on the dining table.
A young couple had asked to view the house at 4pm. (Let’s call them J and K.) They arrived visibly excited, carrying a large plastic bag stuffed with packets of potato chips. They had just come from the mall, they explained, having won the chips through a series of claw machine victories. They laughed as they set the bag down, without any hint of embarrassment.
It turned out to be one of my more engaging viewings.
My colleague asked me, “Abbas, are you pure Pakistani?”
The question was a casual one. It was just before our team break fast at the office. I suspect it had something to do with the pakol I was wearing for the occasion.
The answer should have been straightforward. But when you’ve spent close to a decade studying history, migration and ethnicity, it rarely is. Questions of identity are rarely simple once you begin pulling at their threads.