On the 106 home
Two individuals sat beside each other but yet separated by an aisle.
One was haggard middle-aged man with clothes crumbled like (but thankfully, not smell like) kiam chai on. He sat with his legs wide-open, palms resting on his knees as if He was drawn toward something but didn't want to slouch. The other was a frisky young boy and had his t-shirt securely tucked into the elastic waistband of his mauve pants, as if to preemptively protect himself from any cold chills attacking him at the middle. he comfortably assumed the fetal position (upright), where his knees occasionally met his chin when he bobbed his head. They were visibly different from each other but yet, had something common shared between them. Their hands were doing the talking for them.
"Father/Son? Grandfather/Grandson? Who is the handicapped one, or both of them are handicapped? Perhaps it's a game invented and played by only them? "
Questions buzzed in my head as I observed from behind my novel the conversation that was taking place.
His hand gestures were forceful and unreserved, that if He were able to speak, He would sound like any other uncle commonly found in a kopi tiam discussing about soccer at the top of his voice. he, on the other hand, was nimble and precise just like any other boy at his age would be. They talked about anything, from what was happening outside the bus as it drove passed (He would point exaggeratedly to arouse his attention), to him showing off his EZ-Link card printed with his Primary School details and Him telling him to keep this bag properly by his side.
The conversation never stopped as the hands were constantly animated, taking flight in the stale cold air. Nothing could distract them, as if there was this protective bubble encapsulating them, forming their own private world. It made me ponder on how the some of us who have the gift of speech/hearing, hardly ever speak/listen to anyone.
I alighted the bus feeling a warmth that was calming, like a hot cup of tea in a frenzied office with the thermostat set very low.
One was haggard middle-aged man with clothes crumbled like (but thankfully, not smell like) kiam chai on. He sat with his legs wide-open, palms resting on his knees as if He was drawn toward something but didn't want to slouch. The other was a frisky young boy and had his t-shirt securely tucked into the elastic waistband of his mauve pants, as if to preemptively protect himself from any cold chills attacking him at the middle. he comfortably assumed the fetal position (upright), where his knees occasionally met his chin when he bobbed his head. They were visibly different from each other but yet, had something common shared between them. Their hands were doing the talking for them.
"Father/Son? Grandfather/Grandson? Who is the handicapped one, or both of them are handicapped? Perhaps it's a game invented and played by only them? "
Questions buzzed in my head as I observed from behind my novel the conversation that was taking place.
His hand gestures were forceful and unreserved, that if He were able to speak, He would sound like any other uncle commonly found in a kopi tiam discussing about soccer at the top of his voice. he, on the other hand, was nimble and precise just like any other boy at his age would be. They talked about anything, from what was happening outside the bus as it drove passed (He would point exaggeratedly to arouse his attention), to him showing off his EZ-Link card printed with his Primary School details and Him telling him to keep this bag properly by his side.
The conversation never stopped as the hands were constantly animated, taking flight in the stale cold air. Nothing could distract them, as if there was this protective bubble encapsulating them, forming their own private world. It made me ponder on how the some of us who have the gift of speech/hearing, hardly ever speak/listen to anyone.
I alighted the bus feeling a warmth that was calming, like a hot cup of tea in a frenzied office with the thermostat set very low.
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