one story and the three most valuable things in life

the old man sat with his back hunched, at the corner of the packed train. one would not notice his tiny frame, almost out of view next to the obese boy busily shooting down alien beings on his psp, earphone plugged. the volume of the boy's ipod was at a maximum, of earshot of everyone in that corner.

while the other passengers were annoyed by the catchy, heavy rock metal tune, the frail old man was oblivious to all this ruckus. one hand tightly gripping to the string that held his electric blue plastic bag with yellow piping, the other desperately digging its contents for something. something really important.

head bowed, eyebrows locked, he frantically fished around. he lifted the rectangular plastic bag, weathered, almost torn at the edges, onto his thin thighs that 40 years ago, would outrun even the best athletes. now they were only flesh and bones, wrinkled and dry, like the folded skin of an old elephant, skinny as sticks.

the same catchy rock music repeated itself, the train sped forwards, rocking back and forth, and the old man kept searching. finally, with a wide smile on his wrinkled face, he found it. in his hands held a laminated black-and-white picture of a beaming child in the arms of a handsome, young man, hair slick and back-combed, in a starched, clean white shirt, a smile as bright as the sun. the same smile on the now wrinkled, sharp face.

"my son, my son, i can't wait to see you!" he exclaimed aloud deep in his heart, still smiling to himself as the train slowed down to a halt. the old man carefully kept the treasured photograph and struggled to stand up, his legs quivering unstably. he hung the plastic bag on his bony shoulders, and made his way to the train door.

immediately, a familiar face came to view. "son! son!" the old man cried out, waving his skeletal arm, with tears in his eyes, to the son he had not seen for a year.

there was no hugs, kisses or warm welcome gestures. "hey dad," the young man in the expensive armani suit halfheartedly took a glance at his aging dad, and continued talking importantly on his blackberry.

but the old man was contented, that his son was successful, and that his son still accepts him, unlike most of his friends whose sons abandoned their useless, troublesome fathers at the old-folks' home. he smiled from ear to ear, and deep within his contented soul.

"contentedness"
blackhumour, 200910202010

i was inspired to write this after seeing an old indian man of the same characteristics searching for something from his creased, electric blue plastic bag. it made me feel so sad for him, i duno why. maybe i was just being emo as i always do. and i thought of the mail mum sent me. this was one of the images that caught my attention.



maybe it's all the studying alone in the small little room that has gotten to her. despite all the stress to score in exam, she's contented of her life now, and gracious of everyone who loves her all the same. she loves them all too. from the deepest part of her soul.