It's A Beautiful World

Looking up at the morning sky, which was blanketed with dull clouds that showered a light drizzle upon the trees whose leaves rustled in a chill breeze that blew across the pathway, which led to the canteen, where people flocked to have their morning meals, Mr.Chan walked with slow steps. He was in an agitated mood.

He ordered the usual breakfast, gave the usual smug smile for the stall owner’s usual lame joke, paid the usual, sat down at the usual table and began eating the usual way.

But unusually, the canteen seemed a bit crowded that day. Within a few gulps of his soup, an old lady came walking towards his two-seater, searching for a place to sit. In a sudden generous mood, Mr.Chan motioned with his spoon at the empty seat in front of him. The lady hesitated a moment or it could have been late response due to the friction that age induced in limbs. Mr.Chan could not judge which. But it took quite some time for the lady to settle down at the table with her cup of coffee.

Mr.Chan politely stared at his plate and ate with concentration. This was the norm when you eat with strangers. You either looked down at your plate as if marveling at a wonderful sculpture or you looked away into the distance as if in a deep, contemplative mood. Mr.Chan had chosen the first alternative.

The sound of the raindrops hitting the roof of the canteen grew louder. Mr.Chan looked up at the sky and happened to catch a glimpse of the old lady’s face as his gaze turned back towards his plate. Her face seemed familiar.

Chewing the meat hard, Mr.Chan tried to recollect where he had seen that face before. Behind the glass panel at the bank? Beside the billing machine at the supermarket? Inside the MRT in the seat opposite his?

“No... Somewhere else...” replied his mind.

After several mouthfuls of the soup, deeper thought and one more glance at the old lady’s face, the recollection dawned upon him. He knew where he had seen the face. In fact, he saw it every day - funny though, that he could not recollect it easily. It was the face that smiled at him from behind the tray collection counter. He saw that happy face every day, framed within the four sides of the usual slot, where he thrust his empty tray.

He drank another spoonful of the soup with a feeling of triumph and satisfaction with his memory.

“You have a photographic memory, Mr.Chan!” The visual of a smiling man, giving him a silver plaque, floated in and out of his mind. A low, rumble of thunder brought him back to the canteen. The visual that he now saw in front of him surprised him a little.

The old lady was stirring the cup of coffee - her eyes staring at the swirling, brown liquid. Her face did not have the usual smile. It was grim.

Mr.Chan wondered what could be wrong. She was not in her uniform today. Maybe she was fired from work? No. Why would anyone fire such a nice lady? You never know. With the current economic crisis maybe even canteens were...

Mr.Chan’s thoughts trailed off as he noticed a small, teardrop form on the edge of the lady’s left eye. But she was sipping the coffee solemnly and staring vaguely into the distance. The teardrop made its way slowly down her rugged cheek and fell softly upon the table.

Mr.Chan could not help but admire the beauty of the teardrop. The few rays of sunlight, which escaped through the slits in the dark clouds, touched its surface and made it glisten for a moment. He looked up at the woman. What sorrow could there be in her life, he wondered. His eyes looked around. People were walking past with filled trays, chatting between mouthfuls of food. No one cared to pause and ask her. None cared to know...

That was when Mr.Chan realized that he was done with his soup. Lifting the tray from the table he made his way to the tray collection point. There was a new face that stared coldly at him from behind the counter. Leaving the tray behind, he wiped his mouth with a tissue.

After dropping the tissue into a dustbin, he looked back. The old lady still sat at the table with her cup of coffee unfinished. The teardrop on the table glistened, screeching out for the attention that it was never destined to receive. A cleaner came up with a small cloth in his hand and was gone in an instant. The table was wiped clean – cleansed of all the dirt, the spillings and the teardrop...

“Many hands there are to wipe her tears off the table but none to wipe them off her face...” thought Mr.Chan, to himself and turned around. Opening up his umbrella, he ran out with light steps into the pouring rain with a smile on his face. He had the perfect, touching story for his next short film.