When I was a child growing up on Mt. Apo Street, there was a dark, turbaned man in brightly-colored trubenized togs, who came to call on our neighborhood every now and then. He peddled all sorts of goods, from woven mats to Matadujong – a strong-smelling eau de cologne.
At first, I thought he was a Muslim, but my mother corrected the misnomer. “He is an Indian.” The man spoke a curious blend of Filipino and English with a funny accent. I always wondered why he wore long sleeves. Later, I learned that he wore on his arms all the wristwatches he was selling.