Notes from my long veiled conscience;
"Hey, do you remember that guy, a couple of years ago?"
"What, which guy?"
"The beggar. At Sunway. On the pedestrian bridge. Years ago. The one with no arms."
The one who, at a glance, was more or less a mid age oriental man with a balding head and a black, tangled messy beard? The one who had two alien stumps instead of arms and small watery eyes and a dirt speckled face? That gut churning, pleading look on his dirt speckled face? Yeah, I remember. We passed his grimy cardboard dwell and his little plastic bowl of coins with only a glance. The debris of cringing guilt that clouds when you pass the less fortunate, everyone tends to quickly brush off, ignore. As cold as it sounds, you can't help everyone, and this was a couple of years ago and I was young and selfish and I was in a rush and I wanted to go and have a good time.
"Remember what happened? With him? On the way back?"
I know, I remember. He was on the floor. And he was bleeding. Crimson and glistening. He was gasping and spazzing, trying to sit up, but failing and falling and he kept hitting his head on the cement floor. And this was the point where I realised the poor soul who had no arms also had no voice. He kept trying to get up and silently opening and closing his mouth to scream, his big eyes bulging as the splotches of his blood that was ignored slowly spread and grew on the dusty, dirty floor.
"And after that? Do you know what became of him, how he was?"
No, I don't. Because. I didn't stop. To help him, I mean. Nobody stopped. No. One. Everyone just gave a sorry glance, and walked on. Not a soul on that pedestrian bridge that day, saved 5 minutes to pause and at least help the man to sit up, or provide some water or a piece of cloth. No. One.
"Exactly."
A friend of mine, who I was with that day, having recollected this, stated blatantly, how that man, that human being, looked as if he had given up on the world. We, who champion civilisation and progress, base our values on helping one another and unity, but only show our polished versions to people of prominence and power. This man, who's origin and life and achievements I don't and would now never know, was in pain and in need, and yet was left just as he was. In this clotted temperament, it shouldn't matter if he wasn't a Dato' or a Bumiputra or family. Someone should have helped. I should have helped.
It's simple. Such a simple thing to do and yet crazily how, in that testifying moment, I only looked back with pity, but continued to walk on. Back to the air conditioned comfort of a car and my healthy arms and a warm home to go to with good food. Years later, on that day that I was so excited to go hang out and chill and shop - I can't recall who I chanced to meet, what pretty things I bought or didn't, or what stupid jokes occurred. I'm only recalling the look on his face, and how I did absolutely nothing.
Shows how a moment of neglect can eat you up and drag on to years of regret.
"Hey, do you remember that guy, a couple of years ago?"
"What, which guy?"
"The beggar. At Sunway. On the pedestrian bridge. Years ago. The one with no arms."
The one who, at a glance, was more or less a mid age oriental man with a balding head and a black, tangled messy beard? The one who had two alien stumps instead of arms and small watery eyes and a dirt speckled face? That gut churning, pleading look on his dirt speckled face? Yeah, I remember. We passed his grimy cardboard dwell and his little plastic bowl of coins with only a glance. The debris of cringing guilt that clouds when you pass the less fortunate, everyone tends to quickly brush off, ignore. As cold as it sounds, you can't help everyone, and this was a couple of years ago and I was young and selfish and I was in a rush and I wanted to go and have a good time.
"Remember what happened? With him? On the way back?"
I know, I remember. He was on the floor. And he was bleeding. Crimson and glistening. He was gasping and spazzing, trying to sit up, but failing and falling and he kept hitting his head on the cement floor. And this was the point where I realised the poor soul who had no arms also had no voice. He kept trying to get up and silently opening and closing his mouth to scream, his big eyes bulging as the splotches of his blood that was ignored slowly spread and grew on the dusty, dirty floor.
"And after that? Do you know what became of him, how he was?"
No, I don't. Because. I didn't stop. To help him, I mean. Nobody stopped. No. One. Everyone just gave a sorry glance, and walked on. Not a soul on that pedestrian bridge that day, saved 5 minutes to pause and at least help the man to sit up, or provide some water or a piece of cloth. No. One.
"Exactly."
A friend of mine, who I was with that day, having recollected this, stated blatantly, how that man, that human being, looked as if he had given up on the world. We, who champion civilisation and progress, base our values on helping one another and unity, but only show our polished versions to people of prominence and power. This man, who's origin and life and achievements I don't and would now never know, was in pain and in need, and yet was left just as he was. In this clotted temperament, it shouldn't matter if he wasn't a Dato' or a Bumiputra or family. Someone should have helped. I should have helped.
It's simple. Such a simple thing to do and yet crazily how, in that testifying moment, I only looked back with pity, but continued to walk on. Back to the air conditioned comfort of a car and my healthy arms and a warm home to go to with good food. Years later, on that day that I was so excited to go hang out and chill and shop - I can't recall who I chanced to meet, what pretty things I bought or didn't, or what stupid jokes occurred. I'm only recalling the look on his face, and how I did absolutely nothing.
Shows how a moment of neglect can eat you up and drag on to years of regret.
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