We Are The Same(Repost)
The following story is a repost. It was edited by Robert Raymer.
The bus came to a groaning halt at the bus stop. Its electric-powered door swung open and I boarded it. After dropping some cash into the fare box beside the driver, I edged my way through a line of standing passengers towards the rear of the bus. I grinned to myself in relief when I spotted an unoccupied seat beside a red-shirted Iban man.
Having ensconced myself in the seat, I decided to close my eyes for a short rest. Something smelly attacked my nostrils. Crinkling my nose in disgust, I looked sideways at my neighbor. He seemed to be captivated by the view of buildings that whirred past the window. The odour came directly from him. How many days had he not taken a shower? No wonder the seat had been left vacant!
I suddenly found myself staring at the man eye-to-eye. My surprise turned to a shock when I realized that his face was mottled with bruises, scabs and open wounds. Before I could tear my eyes away from the repulsive sight, the man cracked a smile and said, "Hi, pulang ke rumah(going home)?"
I was stunned for a moment, not knowing how to answer. Nevertheless I nodded.
"Does my face frighten you?" asked the man, as he looked at me with a penetrating gaze.
The question threw me off guard. I shook my head and stammered, “No.”
"It's okay, don't feel bad about it." the man lifted his forefinger and waved it from side to side. There was something cheerful in his demeanor.
"May I know what happened to you?" I ventured, my embarrassment easing a little.
"Oh, muka saya?" he said in a calm voice, pointing to his wounded face. "I fell off my motorcycle four days ago. A car knocked me from behind."
"Good grief!" I exclaimed.
"The motorcycle overturned and slid across the road before being run over by a truck," he continued, his face impassive." it was reduced to a total wreckage."
"I am sorry to hear that," I said.
"It's okay. I'm glad that I am alive," replied the man.
"Ya, it was fortunate of you to have escaped death," I said.
The bus was now driving round a sharp bend. We both lurched forward in our seats. The standing passengers beside us tightened their grips on the overhead railing to steady themselves.
"Who took you to hospital?" asked I.
"The driver who knocked me down," he answered.
"Did he compensate you?"
"Ya, not much though."
I decided not to ask the amount lest it sound intrusive. Instead I asked, “When were uou discharged from the hospital?”
" Yesterday."
I was baffled by his reply. He should have rested at home today!
He seemed to be able to read my thought and said, "I returned to my workplace just now."
Amazed, I asked him what had made him go back to work.
"I pleaded with my boss not to give me the boot. I had been fired on the day of the accident."
"How inconsiderate of him!" I burst out incredulously.
"He insisted on firing me, saying that I had neglected my work."
"But you had no choice."
"He's a typical boss, cold and insensitive. There was nothing I could do," said the man. A pall of gloom descended upon his face. In a few weeks’ time, it would be a patchwork of new skin.
The bus pulled over beside a school and picked up more passengers. The bus driver kept hollering at the standing passengers in the front to move to the back. His voice was hoarse from the strain of anger, as though fed up with the inconsiderate standing passengers. When he saw that his order had been complied, he turned the ignition on and pulled the bus away from the stop. The presence of school pupils filled the bus with sweaty odour. For some reason their innocent-looking faces made me uncomfortable.
The Iban man interrupted my briefly-diverted attention by saying: “ Things keep getting from bad to worse if you are doomed with bad luck.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. My heart full of commiseration towards the man. Yet I knew that many bosses emphasized productivity over their employees' welfare.
"After leaving that dratted workshop, I went back to hospital asking for some anti-depressants. But the doctor did not want to give me any." He curled his calloused fingers into a fist.
"Did you go to the psychiatric clinic?" I asked.
"Yes, my mood has been unstable after the accident!" he said with a perceptible spasm of indignance.
"Do you go there regularly?"
"Yes, I have been a regular outpatient since I came out of jail two years ago."
I covered my mouth to stifle my gasp.
"You're shocked, aren't you?"
I did not deny.
"You look down on me?" his voice wavered as he spoke.
"No, everyone has their ups and downs." I gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder.
The man ran his fingers through his mop of greasy, shoulder-length hair. He cleared his throat and said,"That doctor, Miss Ida Mustafa, insisted that I was all right and that I needed no anti-depressants. Stubborn woman." He sighed.
Dr. Ida Mustafa? What a familiar name. The man couldn't have been lying!
"What is the colour of your psychiatric outpatient card?" I said, testing him.
"It's out of the ordinary, being pink in colour," he replied without hesitation.
I opened my knapsack and drew out a card of similar colour. He looked at it with dilated eyes.
"Why? You have the same card!"
I nodded.
"I never thought that we were the same kind of people!" he said.
"What do you mean?" I said, frowning.
"Orang Tak Siuman!"
Orang Tak Siuman?! My goodness. Mentally-imbalanced people!
"I am not mentally-imbalanced!" I remonstrated, "and neither are you!"
"Normal people always perceive all psychiatric patients that way," he said.
"That is a prejudice!"
"When did you start going to the psychiatrist?" asked the man.
"Last year," I answered.
"What problem?"
"Depression. What about yours?"
"I have a tendency for violence. My doctor told me that it was bi-bi..." The word was on the tip of the man's tongue and he forgot it.
"Bipolar disorder," I said flatly.
"Ya, that's the word. How do you know?"
" My doctor diagnosed me as suffering from the same disorder," I replied, Inadvertently divulging more to him than I preferred. I then found myself going further into detail with this total stranger. I did not like it.
"Ha-ha, we are the same after all!" laughed the man, his eyes narrowed into slits.
I shot him a reproachful glance, but he was not aware of it.
"When my mind goes reeling round and round, I will be violent and unable to work. Is that familiar to you?"
I shook my head impatiently. But I remembered how bad my temper had been years ago. At one point, I had been unable to teach at school for weeks because of violent mood swings. My emotion is much stabler now. However, I still need to go back to hospital for a fortnightly injection. To calm my mind, I like to read or wander around in shopping complexes.
"I think yours is not as serious as mine."
"No, not all all," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Celaka!" cursed the man out of the blue, "Without anti-depressants, it's difficult for me to sleep at night. The wounds on my body give me much misery."
"How do you make yourself sleep?" I inquired.
"I booze till I am drunk," was his reply.
"That is not good for health."
"Do you think I have a choice?"
I fell quiet. I could not imagine what I would do if I were in his situation.
"Do you want to see the wounds on my body?" he asked. Before I could say no, he rolled up his shirt and showed me the ghastly wounds on his chest and stomach.
"There are some more on my back and legs," he added.
Now I understood why he smelled so bad. It was not possible to take a shower with such a wound-laden body.
Suddenly, he said, "How I wish I could return to my Kampung. But I don't have enough money."
"Don't think of going back to your kampung now. Rest as much as you can," I advised.
"The hell with my boss. How I wish I could punch his nose!" He said through clenched teeth, cracking his knuckles.
"Be patient," was another useless advice I gave him, as I felt increasingly uncomfortable in his presence.
"He will never understand my plight. I am almost penniless," he murmured in despair, his eyes glazing over.
I drew a deep breath. What was he trying to tell? Was he hinting that I should give him some money?
Fretfully, I looked around and found the bus approaching a church. In ten minutes it would be reaching the vicinity of my house.
"Oh, the bus will be reaching my house in a minute. I have to go now." I rose and pressed the bell above me.
The man did not look at me. He was holding his head with both hands in brooding silence. His face was contorted with emotion. Little did he know I was lying.
The bus lurched to a stop. I got off the bus soon as I could, as if escaping a plague.
It took me almost twenty-five minutes to walk all the way home. Silly me! But I could not bear talking to the man any longer. He kept dredging up my unpleasant past through his tale. I remembered how I had been teased, calumniated and goaded into fights before. Faces of angry parents and copies of warning letters went spinning around like a whirlpool in my mind. When I was at my house gate, the piercing light of the lowly-hung sun shone directly into my face through the filigree tree branches. It seemed to admonish me of my action. I felt ashamed for not helping this man in need. What if it had been me? Are we not the same? Every one of us?
The bus came to a groaning halt at the bus stop. Its electric-powered door swung open and I boarded it. After dropping some cash into the fare box beside the driver, I edged my way through a line of standing passengers towards the rear of the bus. I grinned to myself in relief when I spotted an unoccupied seat beside a red-shirted Iban man.
Having ensconced myself in the seat, I decided to close my eyes for a short rest. Something smelly attacked my nostrils. Crinkling my nose in disgust, I looked sideways at my neighbor. He seemed to be captivated by the view of buildings that whirred past the window. The odour came directly from him. How many days had he not taken a shower? No wonder the seat had been left vacant!
I suddenly found myself staring at the man eye-to-eye. My surprise turned to a shock when I realized that his face was mottled with bruises, scabs and open wounds. Before I could tear my eyes away from the repulsive sight, the man cracked a smile and said, "Hi, pulang ke rumah(going home)?"
I was stunned for a moment, not knowing how to answer. Nevertheless I nodded.
"Does my face frighten you?" asked the man, as he looked at me with a penetrating gaze.
The question threw me off guard. I shook my head and stammered, “No.”
"It's okay, don't feel bad about it." the man lifted his forefinger and waved it from side to side. There was something cheerful in his demeanor.
"May I know what happened to you?" I ventured, my embarrassment easing a little.
"Oh, muka saya?" he said in a calm voice, pointing to his wounded face. "I fell off my motorcycle four days ago. A car knocked me from behind."
"Good grief!" I exclaimed.
"The motorcycle overturned and slid across the road before being run over by a truck," he continued, his face impassive." it was reduced to a total wreckage."
"I am sorry to hear that," I said.
"It's okay. I'm glad that I am alive," replied the man.
"Ya, it was fortunate of you to have escaped death," I said.
The bus was now driving round a sharp bend. We both lurched forward in our seats. The standing passengers beside us tightened their grips on the overhead railing to steady themselves.
"Who took you to hospital?" asked I.
"The driver who knocked me down," he answered.
"Did he compensate you?"
"Ya, not much though."
I decided not to ask the amount lest it sound intrusive. Instead I asked, “When were uou discharged from the hospital?”
" Yesterday."
I was baffled by his reply. He should have rested at home today!
He seemed to be able to read my thought and said, "I returned to my workplace just now."
Amazed, I asked him what had made him go back to work.
"I pleaded with my boss not to give me the boot. I had been fired on the day of the accident."
"How inconsiderate of him!" I burst out incredulously.
"He insisted on firing me, saying that I had neglected my work."
"But you had no choice."
"He's a typical boss, cold and insensitive. There was nothing I could do," said the man. A pall of gloom descended upon his face. In a few weeks’ time, it would be a patchwork of new skin.
The bus pulled over beside a school and picked up more passengers. The bus driver kept hollering at the standing passengers in the front to move to the back. His voice was hoarse from the strain of anger, as though fed up with the inconsiderate standing passengers. When he saw that his order had been complied, he turned the ignition on and pulled the bus away from the stop. The presence of school pupils filled the bus with sweaty odour. For some reason their innocent-looking faces made me uncomfortable.
The Iban man interrupted my briefly-diverted attention by saying: “ Things keep getting from bad to worse if you are doomed with bad luck.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. My heart full of commiseration towards the man. Yet I knew that many bosses emphasized productivity over their employees' welfare.
"After leaving that dratted workshop, I went back to hospital asking for some anti-depressants. But the doctor did not want to give me any." He curled his calloused fingers into a fist.
"Did you go to the psychiatric clinic?" I asked.
"Yes, my mood has been unstable after the accident!" he said with a perceptible spasm of indignance.
"Do you go there regularly?"
"Yes, I have been a regular outpatient since I came out of jail two years ago."
I covered my mouth to stifle my gasp.
"You're shocked, aren't you?"
I did not deny.
"You look down on me?" his voice wavered as he spoke.
"No, everyone has their ups and downs." I gave him a reassuring tap on the shoulder.
The man ran his fingers through his mop of greasy, shoulder-length hair. He cleared his throat and said,"That doctor, Miss Ida Mustafa, insisted that I was all right and that I needed no anti-depressants. Stubborn woman." He sighed.
Dr. Ida Mustafa? What a familiar name. The man couldn't have been lying!
"What is the colour of your psychiatric outpatient card?" I said, testing him.
"It's out of the ordinary, being pink in colour," he replied without hesitation.
I opened my knapsack and drew out a card of similar colour. He looked at it with dilated eyes.
"Why? You have the same card!"
I nodded.
"I never thought that we were the same kind of people!" he said.
"What do you mean?" I said, frowning.
"Orang Tak Siuman!"
Orang Tak Siuman?! My goodness. Mentally-imbalanced people!
"I am not mentally-imbalanced!" I remonstrated, "and neither are you!"
"Normal people always perceive all psychiatric patients that way," he said.
"That is a prejudice!"
"When did you start going to the psychiatrist?" asked the man.
"Last year," I answered.
"What problem?"
"Depression. What about yours?"
"I have a tendency for violence. My doctor told me that it was bi-bi..." The word was on the tip of the man's tongue and he forgot it.
"Bipolar disorder," I said flatly.
"Ya, that's the word. How do you know?"
" My doctor diagnosed me as suffering from the same disorder," I replied, Inadvertently divulging more to him than I preferred. I then found myself going further into detail with this total stranger. I did not like it.
"Ha-ha, we are the same after all!" laughed the man, his eyes narrowed into slits.
I shot him a reproachful glance, but he was not aware of it.
"When my mind goes reeling round and round, I will be violent and unable to work. Is that familiar to you?"
I shook my head impatiently. But I remembered how bad my temper had been years ago. At one point, I had been unable to teach at school for weeks because of violent mood swings. My emotion is much stabler now. However, I still need to go back to hospital for a fortnightly injection. To calm my mind, I like to read or wander around in shopping complexes.
"I think yours is not as serious as mine."
"No, not all all," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Celaka!" cursed the man out of the blue, "Without anti-depressants, it's difficult for me to sleep at night. The wounds on my body give me much misery."
"How do you make yourself sleep?" I inquired.
"I booze till I am drunk," was his reply.
"That is not good for health."
"Do you think I have a choice?"
I fell quiet. I could not imagine what I would do if I were in his situation.
"Do you want to see the wounds on my body?" he asked. Before I could say no, he rolled up his shirt and showed me the ghastly wounds on his chest and stomach.
"There are some more on my back and legs," he added.
Now I understood why he smelled so bad. It was not possible to take a shower with such a wound-laden body.
Suddenly, he said, "How I wish I could return to my Kampung. But I don't have enough money."
"Don't think of going back to your kampung now. Rest as much as you can," I advised.
"The hell with my boss. How I wish I could punch his nose!" He said through clenched teeth, cracking his knuckles.
"Be patient," was another useless advice I gave him, as I felt increasingly uncomfortable in his presence.
"He will never understand my plight. I am almost penniless," he murmured in despair, his eyes glazing over.
I drew a deep breath. What was he trying to tell? Was he hinting that I should give him some money?
Fretfully, I looked around and found the bus approaching a church. In ten minutes it would be reaching the vicinity of my house.
"Oh, the bus will be reaching my house in a minute. I have to go now." I rose and pressed the bell above me.
The man did not look at me. He was holding his head with both hands in brooding silence. His face was contorted with emotion. Little did he know I was lying.
The bus lurched to a stop. I got off the bus soon as I could, as if escaping a plague.
It took me almost twenty-five minutes to walk all the way home. Silly me! But I could not bear talking to the man any longer. He kept dredging up my unpleasant past through his tale. I remembered how I had been teased, calumniated and goaded into fights before. Faces of angry parents and copies of warning letters went spinning around like a whirlpool in my mind. When I was at my house gate, the piercing light of the lowly-hung sun shone directly into my face through the filigree tree branches. It seemed to admonish me of my action. I felt ashamed for not helping this man in need. What if it had been me? Are we not the same? Every one of us?
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