I am going to bring you, Steve says, to the centre of the universe. The centre of universe is a little Hindu shine next to the railway tracks near Outram Park. The shrine has a tiled floor and roof, with no walls; the railway tracks end in grass and a wire fence and stacks of cargo; workers from the tracks cut across a corner of the shrine to climb up the stairs to the pavement ahead, removing their shoes as they cross the shrine. There is a tree at the entrance of the shrine, gnarled roots wrapped around in a white cloth; there are benches at the side, for old men and a cluster of women; there is a fire pit at the front of the shrine, beside the statue of Shiva and the golden feet on a pedestal, near a garbage container full of firewood. Devotional music fills the air. A friendly Indian woman tells us that today is the bathing of the god. This is the only shrine where the priest will have the bathing of the god for twenty-four hours, non-stop, all by himself. It is also the only shrine where the priest will let devotees bathe the god. We watch a devotee approach the little enclosure with the statue of Shiva and the feet. One of the priest's helpers keeps a bell ringing and the oil lamp lit for the appropriate parts of the ceremony when she has to wave smoke in the statue's face; the other helper hands her jars of water, henna, milk, honey, a white powder, a reddish-brown powder, which she pours nervously and solemnly over the statue and the feet. The helpers irreverentially remove blobs of paint or powder from the crooks of the statue. Then the bathing is over, and the Brahmin priest steps forward to dress the god in white cloth and flowers and give him a bindi. There are more oil lamps and smoke, and chanting; the devotee throws flowers at the statue, then walks around the shrine with a plate of fruit and flowers, leaving them at a different statue's feet (there are seven reincarnations of Shiva here, the friendly Indian woman says) and pressing her forehead to the ground. The sun is setting behind the shrine and the light cuts through the smoke from the fire pit, cuts through the devotional music and the ringing of the bell, the chanting of the priest in his green-and-gold sarong and string across his chest, the devotee pouring water, henna, milk, honey onto the statue. The friendly woman says that in times past there used to be five or six shrines along the tracks; the rest have gone off to be big temples elsewhere, and only this one is left.
Later, we head for the Roof Bar in Chinatown, which is as its name says (on a roof) but spoiled by loud radio music, and then the French Corner on Serangoon Road for fish and wine and dessert.