perpetual rush

There I was, sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus home. I was sweating, sweating all over. Sweat pouring from my face, from my arms, down my spine into the small of my back and into my butt crack. Damn the dry months and the humid weather! The sweat just kept on dripping, even after I have wiped it. I hate the dry months.

So yes, there I was, fanning myself with an envelope that I found in my bag, a futile attempt of trying to keep me cool. A little later - when the envelope proved to be too flimsy - I fanned myself with the book I was reading. While I Was Gone, the title says, by Sue Miller. I pretty much don’t like the book when I started reading it, and that opinion hadn’t changed even as I was nearing the end. In the humid weather, While I Was Gone turned from work of literature to a fan, and I’m not sorry one bit about it.

So I kept on fanning myself. Fanning here, and fanning there. The sweat was still dripping, my vigorous fanning amounting to nothing except making my right hand tired. Still, I kept on fanning, convinced in the hope that if I just keep on fanning, maybe, just maybe, I would be cool. I switched the book to my left hand.

Then he came. He, with the green shirt and beige pants, both looked a little grimy, worn, with stains all over. There’s a pouch hanging around his waist. His hair unkempt, an unruly mess on his head; the face dark from the sun.

He was making his way straight to me.

I should have got up and ran away then, but for some reason I didn’t. I kept fanning my face. He plonked himself right next to me.

“Panas kan?“, he said, commenting the obvious.

I gave him a polite smile.

“Ni abang ni ha berpeluh-peluh. Abang ni banyak bulu ye?“, while looking at my left arm.

The nerve! My hairy arms are my own business. How dare him?! I was outraged and ready to show it.

“Bang, mintak 5 ringgit bang. Nak beli makanan“, just like that he said it. My outrage was cut short.

I looked at him, and all I saw was filth, filth, filth. I chose not to see his skeletal frame. His pouch, once the color of blue and grey, is now a few shades darker. It looks dirty, dirty, dirty. I ignored the rotating hungry gesture he made at his stomach.

“Saya pon mane ada duit ni. Ni tgh bulan, duit cukup-cukup je.” An unconvincing lie, one that he detected right away.

“5 ringgit je bang. Saya ni baru keluar dari penjara. Daripada saya mencuri, buat keje jahat macam tu, baikla saye mintak.” He said that without a hint of malice.

But all I heard was the word prison. Prison, prison, prison. My face must have changed. I picked up my bag and left, eyes glancing over my shoulder, afraid he might follow me, that he might mug me.

Then the bus came, earlier that I expected. My saviour I said, and heaved a sigh of relief.

It was later, in the safety of the crowd waiting for the bus to open its door, that I realised something: I should have given him that 5 ringgit. My eyes wandered around looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Probably wandering around again, asking for money from someone else, someone more giving than I am.

The bus opened its door and I stepped inside with a pang of regret. The bus came early, but my conscience came too late.