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WHAT looks like a minimart but is also a security post, senior citizens' corner and student day-care centre all rolled into one?
It is none other than the void deck kiosk.
Conceived during the 1970s and located at the void deck of every fourth block, the kiosks helped deter crime as their operators kept an eye on the visitors to the estate as well.
Today, their number has dwindled to just 440 across Singapore - compared with 520 in 2000 - as residents flock to shopping centres and megamarts for groceries.
Despite their decline, some void deck kiosks still perform a valuable social role.
Ms E. Saraswathi, 60, who took over the void deck kiosk outfit in West Coast Drive two years ago, found herself becoming a magnet for elderly residents in the neighbourhood itching for a chat.
This, she says, along with the relaxed pace of work, has become one of the joys of her job.
In Lorong Lew Lian in Upper Serangoon, minimart operator Edna Miranda prides herself on being the neighbourhood social worker. Pointing to the block of flats behind her, the stern-looking 60- year-old says: 'There are many low-income families there. Some of the parents are not well educated and the children do not go to school. The parents sit at home drinking. I tell the children, bring your textbook here and I will teach you.'
Her 'classroom' consists of a table and plastic chairs, surrounded by shelves of groceries and fridges containing milk and juice. The O-level holder, who has four adult children of her own, used to live in a kampung just around the corner. Her mother made it a point to bring home any child who needed help with schoolwork so that Ms Miranda and her six siblings could tutor them.
These days, her job is more challenging, as not all her 'students' or their families understand the importance of education.
'There was a family with three children who used to come down for tuition. Then one day, they stopped. The children still come and buy things from me. I asked them how they are doing, and they said their exams were very difficult,' she says, her voice tinged with sadness.
She keeps some English textbooks around just in case, and lets students from the nearby schools read the newspapers in her shop if they are short of cash.
'Reading is very important, you know. These boys can buy cigarettes but they have no money to buy newspapers,' she laughs in exasperation.
Apart from promoting education, Ms Miranda also makes it a point to weed out underage cigarette buyers.
'Some of the boys carry a pair of shorts in their schoolbag. After school, they take off their school uniform, and wear just the shorts to buy cigarettes.
'I ask them for their IC and they say they have forgotten to carry it with them. I tell them, if you forget to carry your IC, it means you are 100 per cent under 18.'
Even when the cigarette buyers are of legal age, she is sharp enough to smoke out adults buying cigarettes for youths. 'The boys ask maids and Bangladeshi workers to buy cigarettes for them. If a boy comes along to get cigarettes and I say 'no', and then the next moment a maid comes, I ask who sent them to buy the cigarettes.'
She puts her ability to uncover such deception down to close observation. 'When you smoke, you know what brand you want. If you stumble over the name, then obviously you don't smoke.'
Meanwhile, China nationals living in the area also ask her for help in translating letters from the HDB.
'I know only a little Chinese, but I still try.'
Her social conscience has not gone unappreciated by the residents. Despite coming down hard on underage smoking, she has a close rapport with the schoolboys who hang out around the void deck. She is one of the first to get news of their exam results.
Residents watch out for her safety while she runs the shop alone late into the night. 'They give me their telephone number. They say, 'If you have any problem, you call me.''
This article was first published in The Straits Times.
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