I will tell you, on another day.

From table to table

Herein lies the story of a lady we met by the name of Mary-Anne.

I have seen her before, many a times with her tired eyes, yet the glint of her smile always reaching to them, a distance never too far. She would smile, and with her merry voice, so identifiable with the Eurasian tilt, not begging but rather, simply greeting strangers, strangers she meet everyday, strangers that she meets once, twice and sometimes, every week. I am one of those strangers where strangeness is not part of my company.

Once again, the hour is late, the lights seemingly too bright and laughter is plenty. I am always with friends. Once again, I see Mary-Anne and yet, she seemed different this time. Ask me not what it is, for all I know is that something was. She passes by a table beside ours, and naturally, she leaves empty-handed, yet her exuberant smile and gratitude still lingered on her wrinkled brown face. Her hair was as I remembered, mostly white except for the edges of a few strands, and infinitely curly. She looks around, as she always does. This is what she does everyday, her eyes hovering across the multiple faces smiling and laughing, deep in conversation or simply gazing into space. I can only wonder what goes through her mind as she sees these young faces, juxtaposed to her aching knees, her shoulders sore from slinging her bag all day and night. 

She looked especially tired, her usual spark seemingly fizzled and I called out to her. Oh the look she has when someone acknowledges her. It is the simple joy of knowing familiarity in a crowd of many. I smiled as she did, and I tried my best to covertly hand her what my hand, heart and mind can offer without having any form of expectancy. A small portion of sincerity that only a beggar can offer. In the small gestures of passing from one hand to another, a subtle tenuous bond is formed between one and another, a softening of the heart. This is why there is a saying, "Charity is not an obligation, it is a privilege." I smiled at her, sincerity bleeding out like an open wound and quickly motioned for her to keep whatever she has. She quickly snapped, "I have my dignity to keep!" We laughed. My eyes glaze over and I feel a deep melancholy forming within. We smiled. We exchanged a few words, and I told her how I remembered a time when I saw her fighting with another over at Simpang and she laughed, but it was quickly extinguished as she tasted the sour and bitter memory of having been hit. 

Without letting any further thoughts cause any hesitation, I invited her to have a seat. No one tells a story while standing - except for preachers. No, she was no preacher, she simply wanted to share, and never intended any of her stories to have any didactic value, merely a nice story to tell. No one shares a table with me that they have no drink or no food, and I offered her a drink, and asked what would she like. "Hot teh-o with lemon please," accepting my offer graciously, oh would life have been simpler if more people in the world had such graciousness. Then again, she was no ordinary person. 

Herein lies the story of a lady we met by the name of Mary-Anne.