Scraps of Kindness
This story was published on May 2nd 2019. It was written by Rida 2018–2020 Cohort)
Cold air brushes harshly against my face as I glance at the google maps on my phone for the umpteenth time. I rush to cross the street and turn the corner to see another traffic jam. The traffic light turns green and with it, the cars start to get ready to whiz through. I anxiously glance at the approaching bus number 31 and my heart sinks — I can’t miss this again.
I bite my lower lip and clench my fists, heart pounding fast, ready to make a dash to cross the street for no car is ready to slow down, until one comes to a screeching halt.
Since I avoid eye contact with people I say thank you out loud-without looking who it is and hoping (s)he hears me and run to the other side. The kind soul, my heart smiles and my brain thinks while my curled up lips fall down again when I see the bus driver shrugging at me for being a millisecond late in making it to the open bus door, which is now grudgingly closed at me again.
Getting late was becoming a norm now.
I sit close to the rear door of the bus. It will be easier for me to get off from it when my stop comes. I see an old man, grabbing the door handle with all his might as he stretches his other arm for his wife to hold on to — an old lady dressed in mink pink, with a matching bag and beige block heels — as she matches her steps with the slowing pace of the bus. The man makes sure his wife is right next to him as he lowers himself on one of the priority seats, saving one for his beloved as he does so.
*
I change my usual stop and walk to the one closer to the main gate of the university. Don’t panic, I tell myself. You will be home before rush hour kicks in. As my stomach wails noisily with hunger and lurches with anxiety, I see the bus again, 31, as it comes to a halt where I stand. The bus is full and there is no space for me or any of the five people who get on with me so we all cluster together near the luggage space. A guy’s back constantly pushes against the stop button until he is called out by an angry passenger to step away from the pole.
I see him turn scarlet. I empathize. I would be embarrassed too.
I cling to one of the bus poles with all my might and all my hope. I don’t want to stand here for the next 40 minutes, I am practically breathing on a girl’s face as she sits on the luggage space, clutching her bag tightly. Traces of pink peek through her blonde hair that are loosely tied in a top knot while strands of hair fall on her face as she constantly checks her phone that flashes a picture of a boy. A closeup, and I assume it is her boyfriend. And I think of a story-her story. A worried boyfriend waiting on the other side, anxious to meet his girl while she sends him texts of reassurance, that she is on her way and will be with him soon.
I sigh and look away shaking my head at the silly cook up.
The bus stops near Mater Dei. And as the bus door opens, I see people pushing each other, fighting to get in. A woman has her phone tucked perfectly under her left ear and cheek as she takes her bus card out and tries to drag her son along while she talks in a husky voice on the phone — until she feels a push from her side, and screams at the lady (the culprit). The look on her face does a quick translation in my head — her Maltese looks and my English/Urdu brain comprehend that she is angry.
More than that. She is furious.
Not only because she was pushed, but because she had a toddler and she got pushed on TOP of that. As she comes close to me, I skitter away from the angry lady. I am tired and my Uncle Ben’s Golden Vegetable Rice await me. I don’t want to think about anything else or worry about getting into an argument. But this woman’s got no chill . As she drags her trotting son along, she argues once again, in Maltese, for there is no priority seat left for her to sit on.
A kind man gets up and offers up his seat.
She takes it.
But she is still angry as she picks her son up and makes him sit on her lap. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, as my head throbs with pain for I hear an angry string of foreign words thrown around — from one seat to another. The bus moves once again towards Milt while I sway left and right, avoiding bumping into people who are too close to one another, much to their evident discomfort. And that is when I feel a rough hand, no, a probing finger pushing my right leg away and as I glance down I see the woman sitting to my right casting me an annoyed look for my poor right leg had brushed against her body as I had tried to prevent myself from tripping. The woman turns her head away and doesn’t make eye contact.
I feel hurt. And my immediate conclusion is she hates me for how different I am as compared to her.
Suddenly I miss home.
“Next stop is Technopark 4”.
I brush my nostalgic thoughts aside and hurriedly get off the bus to walk the remaining way back to… home.
*
Soon my lunch is ready. I still feel hungry as I scrape off the last grains of rice from my plate. They should definitely increase their portion size, I think. I wash the lunch plate and turn around to see the landlady holding a plate with four slices of Pizza that are adorned with rosemary and oregano. For you and your friend — says the kind lady while my stomach sends her a special prayer of gratitude.
