An old Malay man sat beneath a chandelier of bananas outside the store on a red plastic chair, reading a newspaper, glasses like Gandhi.
He jeered at me. He jeered at me through his glasses and my sparse understanding of history, and his eyes and my eyes and his memory and my thoughts of who he was and who he thought I was. And through what each other thought the other represented, he looked at me and I looked at him. But neither of us saw each other.