Food carts lit by gas pressure lamps giving off a soft whitish light, emitted a faint hissing as they passed. Around the lamps, smoke and steam billowed as satay was fried and noodles were boiled. From a nearby mosque, the call for evening prayer started up with a burst of static from the PA system. Expensive sedans swished in and out of driveways and domestic helpers busied themselves with the early evening chores. The air hung heavy with a mixed odour of evening jasmine and fried garlic.
Appearances can be misleading though.
Word spread fast along Jalan Irian to nearby streets in Menteng through the network of guards, drivers, maids, and noodle sellers. Soon, everyone knew how the poor cripple Djoko had been beaten senseless by the son of a general and lay, close to death, in a coma at the Islamic clinic behind Sunda Kelapa mosque. From the narrow aperture of his warung, lit by a single hurricane lamp, Adi sold single sticks of kretek to the neighbourhood's smokers and with each one he relayed the news. Crouched on the putrid floor of his flimsy plywood warung, Adi's ageing, arthritic mother grumbled in acrid tones about things not being right. How poor Djoko deserved better.