The other night I went out with 2 of my colleagues for dinner after work.  We ate some noodles at the normal roadside kopitiam (coffeeshop).  Towards the end of our meal, I noticed this Auntie loitering around the kopitiam's sidewalk.  She was holding this huge plastic bag then interrupted a couple seated beside the sidewalk.  Apparently she was asking them if she could have their canned drinks.  They quickly poured what's left into their plastic glasses and passed them to her.  After a couple of steps, she was a few paces away from our table, then I exchanged looks with her.  I looked down at my green tea canned drink but there was nary a drop left already.  I was a bit puzzled as to what it is that she wanted.  Begging and solicitation after all is not allowed here.  A few more steps and I saw she was going through the kopitiam's garbage bin to look for more cans.  I turned to my friends and asked them what was it that the Auntie was looking for.  They said that she wanted to recycle the aluminum cans and proceeded to tell me a hilarious story about how their bathroom's aluminum door got stolen.

I thought the Auntie probably wanted my can in hopes of recycling it as well.  This in mind, I was following her figure making her way around the kopitiam's sidewalk, and turning at the corner.  I wanted to give my can to her so badly.  All this while my friend was relating his funny story.  It was damn funny, true, but I found that I couldn't shake the thought of the Auntie out of my mind.  Before she disappeared from sight, I almost got up in the midst of his joke-story to chase the Auntie.  But something stopped me.  I dunno what, but some thoughts that were going through my head were:

"My one single pathetic can won't make any difference at all."

"She looked at me awhile ago but I didn't hand it to her, although admittedly I was still trying to figure out what she was after."

"What will my comapanions think of me, like this goody-two-shoes, idealistic, let's-make-this-world-a-better-place fool?  Like I'd actually make a diff?"

"Help her, help her, chase her and hand your can over to her now, you'll still reach her if you just get a move on!"

Well, I'd like to be able to say that I managed to override my apathetic tendencies, and emerged bravely as a person who doesn't care what others think of her.

But sadly, I didn't.

But I really really so badly wanted to.  That up till now I still can't get it off my freaking mind.

I guess another thing that really eats me is that there are so many Chinese Aunties and Uncles doing hard manual labor here.  It's nothing out of the ordinary to encounter them in the midst of cleaning the toilets, selling packs of tissue for exorbitant prices (their version of begging, but with dignity).  Back home you won't even dream of seeing such things.  Chinese parents are always doing business or office work.  I can't fathom what the hell their kids are doing.  Don't they know that their parents/grandparents are doing such things???  I'm sure at the rate they are splurging on themselves they can afford to set aside a bit to support their respective elderly.

Geez.  I really hate this sick treatment they give.

But right now I'm hating myself more for not giving my one single pathetic can to the Auntie. 

Maybe I could have shown her that not all youngsters (erm, people in their twenties?) are the rude ungrateful bunch that is the current lot.  Maybe I could have brought a smile to her face that night. 

I'm sure it would've lit my face and warmed my heart.

To hell with apathy and what people might think of you.  Regrets, somehow I discover I'm building a towering collection as the days go by.

Sigh.

*******

The reason why I decided to blog about this is coz I came across another short story by Paulo Coelho.  It reminded me of the other night's incident.  Hope we can glean a lesson or two from it.  Enjoy.

A Man Lying on the Ground

On 1 July, at half past one in the afternoon, there was a man of about fifty lying on the sea front in Copacabana.  I glanced down at him as I walked by, then continued on to the stall where I usually go for a drink of coconut water.

As a resident of Rio de Janeiro, I must have passed by such men, women or children hundreds or even thousands of times.  As someone who has travelled widely, I have seen the same scene in almost every country I have visited, from wealthy Sweden to impoverished Romania.  I have seen people lying on the ground in all weathers: in the icy winters of Madrid or Paris or New York, where they stay close to the hot air vents outside the subway stations; in the scalding Libyan sun, amongst the rubble of buildings destroyed by years of war.  People lying on the ground - drunk, homeless, tired - are not a new sight to anyone.

I drank my coconut water.  I had to get home quickly because I had an interview with Juan Arias from the Spanish newspaper El Pais.  On the way back, I noticed that the man was still there, lying in the sun, and everyone who passed did exactly the same as I had: glanced at him and then moved on.

Although I didn't know it, my soul was weary of seeing the same scene over and over.  When I passed the man again, something stronger than myself made me kneel down and try to lift him up.

He did not respond.  I turned his head and noticed blood on his temple.  What now?  Was it a bad wound?  I dabbed at his skin with my T-shirt; it didn't look like anything serious.

At that moment, the man began muttering something about 'make them stop hitting me'.  So he was alive; now what I needed to do was to get him out of the sun and to call the police.

I stopped the first man who passed and asked him to help me drag the injured man over to the shade between the sea front and the beach.  He was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase and various packages, but he put these down to help me - his soul was weary of seeing the same scene too.

Once we had placed the man in the shade, I headed off to my house.  I knew there was a Military Police post nearby where I could ask for help.  But before I got there, I met two policemen.

'There's a man who's been beaten up opposite number so-and-so,' I said.  "I've laid him down on the sand.  It would be a good idea to call an ambulance.'

The two policemen said they would take steps.  Right, I had done my duty.  A boy scout is always prepared.  My good deed for the day.  The problem was in other hands now; it was up to them to deal with it.  And the Spanish journalist would be arriving at my house at any moment.

I had not gone ten steps, when a stranger stopped me.  In garbled Portuguese, he said:

'I've already told the police about the man.  They said that since he's not a thief, he's not their problem.'

I did not let the man finish.  I walked back to where the policemen were standing, convinced that they would know who I was, that I wrote for the newspapers, that I appeared on television.  I did so under the false impression that sometimes success can help to resolve matters.

'Are you some kind of official?' one of them asked when I became more insistent in my request for help.

They had no idea who I was.

'No, but we're going to resolve this problem right now.'

There I was all sweaty and dressed in a blood-stained T-shirt and a pair of Bermuda short made from some old cut-down jeans.  I was just an ordinary, anonymous man with no authority apart from my own weariness with all those years of seeing people lying on the ground and never doing anything about it.

And that changed everything.  There are moments when you are suddenly free from any inhibitions or fears.  There are moments when your eyes have a different light and people know that you are absolutely serious.  The policemen went with me and called an ambulance.

On my way back home, I went over the three lessons I had learned from that walk: (a) Anyone can abandon an action when it's purely at the stage of romanticism.  (b) There is always someone to tell you: 'Now that you've started, finish.'  And (c) everyone has the authority of an official when he or she is absolutely convinced of what he or she is doing.

*******

I've read this story once before my own incident.  But I guess these kinds of stories may be touching at the time when you read it, and maybe you'll remember and think about it randomly after, but the true meaning only registers when you find yourself in the same situation.

Next time this happens to me again, without a second thought, I'd know what to do.

And I'm still hopeful I'd see the Auntie by the Coffeeshop again.