Hashwini hated crowds. She was only 1.5 metres tall and disappeared below the line of vision of the taller pedestrians jostling in the congested wave, invariably surprising them at the split second right before they bumped into her. As a pre-emptive measure, she would mutter aloud ’scuse me, ’scuse me as she pushed through the sea of bodies, like an ambulance with its siren switched on to clear the way. But when she stopped to catch her breath, the nasal assault of trapped heat and body odour would hit her hard and she would feel like retching.

“You’re just spoilt,” her grandmother would retort whenever Hashwini complained about the migrant worker crowd in Little India on any given weekend. “I go to the market every Sunday and I don’t have a problem. In fact, some of them are really sweet. They offer to help me carry my basket all the way home.”

“That is because you guilt-trip them.”

It was true. Hashwini had long noticed that her grandmother used her frailty and dotage to her advantage, especially when there was a discount to be wrangled or a favour to be solicited.

“And you really shouldn’t bring strangers home,” Hashwini added. “You don’t know them. What if they decide to rob you?”

“No, they won’t,” her grandmother insisted. “We’re all Indians. The same blood flows in our veins. We take care of our own kind.”

Hashwini wrinkled her nose; she did not feel any kinship whatsoever with the migrant workers from India. Unlike her grandmother, who hailed from a village in Tamil Nadu, Hashwini had been born and bred in Singapore. As far as she was concerned, the migrant workers who spoke a different shade of Tamil could well belong to a different species. Her kinship lay solely with her fellow Singaporean friends, be they of Indian, Chinese or Malay descent.

By the time she reached Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop, Hashwini was feeling irritable; her T-shirt was clammy with perspiration and clung to her skin. She noticed that both Mr and Mrs Ranjan were buried at the checkout counter behind a snaking queue that was at least ten men deep. For a moment, she frowned and wondered if it was worth wasting a half-hour queuing to pay for her bottle of hair conditioner. Then, an idea struck her. Mr Ranjan’s son, Kaustubh, often helped out on weekends when business spiked along with the influx of the migrant worker crowd. She could locate him and slip him the payment. The fact that she could come up with such a brilliant idea pleased Hashwini tremendously. She always knew she was an exceptionally smart girl.