Heartfelt pleasure
Early in the morning when rays of sunlight filter through the towering cityscapes, forming a picturesque and refreshing view, most commuters are just having one thought in mind – to get to their workplace on time.
These are the myriads of people from all walks of life with their suitcases and handbags completely oblivion to their surroundings, striding the underground passageway that links two of the busiest streets in Orchard. They seem to have taken the clear blue sky with the occasion clouds for granted, perhaps only realizing how great the weather was yesterday on rainy mornings.
Down under, there lives another group of citizens — the permanent residents of the passageway. These are the people who have been scrutinized by the society because of their challenged method of living. These are the people who you would never take a second look at. These are the people who you would probably avoid like a plague lest you have to spare some of your wealth.
They are the buskers — the rodents of the human society if you would so unkindly name them. A burden to the society as some would say, leeching off monetary sympathies from unsuspecting passersby.
Just this morning, among the usual buskers selling overpriced tissue packs, blowing on their trumpets, singing on the microphones, at the other end of the passageway, sat a new-comer – an elderly gentleman with a pair of brown sunglasses.
His pitch sports a simple set up – a green matt laid on the floor, with a donation can on top of it and a long rectangular piece of brown cardboard right in front of the can with words too illegible to be seen from far. He has also rested his white walking cane against brown tiled wall behind him. He would lean his right ear towards the source of the coin sound and then return with a ‘thank you’ once in a while.
And that is all he ever does – no performance, no singing, nada, and zilch. But as undeserving of the donations he has been receiving as it seems, most people would just stopped dead in their tracks in front of him with a sad look. And he knows, as the sound of coins dropping into the can would not stop.
However, he seems nonchalant about his income. Instead, he seems contented just being able to sit right there peacefully, being able to enjoy the surrounding environment through his other senses. Once in a while, he would flip open his wristwatch’s cover and feel for the hours and minutes hands. And this time, he knows it is time.
9:55.
Gradually, he starts to pack. Leaving the donation can off the matt, he proceeds to folding the matt, halving it until it becomes a mini-backpack with the rectangular cardboard tightly attached to the front of the pack. Then he helps himself up using his walking cane and limped his way down the passageway before he, out of a sudden, stops and squats in front of the first busker he could identify with his hearing.
Placing his cane and can parallel to the busker’s pitch, he extends his arms out to feel for the busker’s donation can. Once he decides he has found it, he reaches into his own can of wealth before pulling out a handful of coins and gently releasing them into the busker’s.
The busker just stares in wild amusement, not quite sure how to react. Then the old man smiles and repeats his antics to every other buskers for as long as his hearing could aid him. No one could believe what they are witnessing.
As soon as he is done with his kind act, he starts heading gracefully for the exit, keeping close to the railing. The usual busy passageway is now much quieter as the witnesses of the phenomenon start whispering among themselves.
When he is finally near enough, one could finally see the writing on his cardboard in its full glory.
It reads: It’s a beautiful day and I can see it.