The Name of Life

Last Wednesday, I returned to the neighbourhood where I used to work for twenty-five years. Down the main road, where I used to walk every Monday to Friday evening, except on public holidays, the noon sun was harsh, but the breeze kept the air light and fresh.

Several old shops have been replaced by new cafés or food takeaways, while some seem to fight on with new branding. I felt unfamiliar with the whole area, but nearly four years have passed since my last evening walk down the road from the office to take a bus.

While being mesmerised by this unexpected unfamiliarity, I walked past an old man half lying on the ground. As if hearing a feeble whisper from behind, I turned back to check. I looked at the old man again, and I recognised him - The old man I named Mr Blue Jacket Turned Grey Jacket 10 years ago, who always sat on the ground near the minibus station outside the cafés and diners further down the road and stared at the road with a fixed and vacant look.

“Wow! He survived the deadly pandemic.”

“How does he survive this difficult time?”

These two lines of dialogue jumped out and flickered in my mind as I continued down the road, and the scenes from those November and December 2015 nights returned.

Having crossed a road, I looked back at the old man again. Ruminating about the hardship he might have gone through in the past ten years and feeling overwhelmed by how he is now, I urged myself to get grounded and decided to have lunch - at the old-style congee diner that I used to visit regularly. Looking at the decades’ old decoration and handwritten menus on the wall, the buried memories of lonely late dinners after work resurfaced.

Leaving the diner, I saw a takeaway shop across the road and decided to do something to muffle the quarrels in my head. After buying two minced pork buns and a bottle of fresh soya milk from the shop, I walked up the road to test my luck - I will offer them to Mr Blue Jacket Turned Grey Jacket. But if he were gone, they would be my afternoon snacks.

Relief washed over me as I saw the dark figure still half lying on the ground from a distance. Feeling unsure about his reaction, I hesitated and stopped twenty yards from him. Telling myself there was no reason to feel bad, however he would react, I walked toward him.

My sudden appearance did not interrupt any of his attention. He continued staring ahead with his mouth ajar, as if he were yearning for something precious in the far distance. He now wears a black jacket that fails to hide his sun-tanned skin and heavily soiled feet. I wondered when he had his last bath, and the thought saddened me.

“I want to share some food with you.”

“It’s minced pork buns.”

“And this is soya milk.”

These were the only words I could utter to the old man.

Not waving his hand to signal me to get away nor saying no, he gave me an empty look and turned his eyes to the plastic bag.

“It’s still hot,” I added. He looked into the bag, took it and the milk from me, put them down on the ground, turned his head away, and stared into the distant vision again. He did not want them, I thought, but that would be his choice.

Turning back after about ten paces, I now saw him holding onto the bag. He stared at me, still without a hint of emotion, but I was reassured and comforted.

This evening, while revisiting the writing of the old man from ten years ago, I cannot help feeling helpless about the inevitability of the ever-changing world and the inability of some people to change their lives. At this encounter with Mr Blue Jacket Turned Grey Jacket, I feel blessed that he did not wave me away, and I am grateful that he rekindled my dim heart and inert hands. I think of saying a prayer for him, but I cannot find the words. Maybe, I wish that he soon finds the things he has yearned for so long. I wish that he finds something he can smile at. I wish him well.

https://dustinthewhirlwind.blogspot.com/2016/01/auld-lang-syne.html