He came in walking on crutches. A young boy, thirteen at most, an amputee. His rounded face reflected minute crinkles and creases, a stain of spent emotions beyond his age and frame.

"Uncle, a plate of chicken rice, please."

His soft voice broke my train of thoughts.

I busied myself preparing the rice. What exactly happened to this boy, at so tender an age?

It was of course not uncommon to see people in crutches, or even wheelchairs, it was a hospital canteen afterall, the nonbedridden patients definitely preferred the food here over the gruel served in their wards.

"$2.80, boy, thank you"

Propping his trembling arms on his crutches, he slowly reached into his pocket for change. Then it happened.

His arms gave way, his body weight too much for his thin arms to bear. And he fell, crashing onto the floor.

My heart lurched, I wanted to run forward to help him up, but the design of the stall made it impossible for the vendors to move beyond their counter
As quickly as he fell, he hastily struggled to get up. It was no easy feat. Tears welled up in his eyes as he mumbled,

"It's okay, Daddy said I must do it myself. I don't need help. I don't need help."

Tears rolled down those round cheeks, in pain and in frustration.

His soft voice had taken on a rough, unnatural edge. It was the sound of a person who had fought many battles of hardship; a voice, from this tiny frame before me.

"Uncle, sorry... keeping you waiting, I... there, $2.80"

As he choked out those words, I caught his gaze.

They say that the eyes were the bridge to the soul. In his eyes, I saw sorrow and hurt, sadness and despair, loss. It showed me the anguish, the pain, the suffering and the toll it had taken on this young boy; a mere vestige of the life he was supposed to live.

The simple joys of tasting a sweet, the innocent pleasure of running free.

Unknown experiences.

As he limped away carrying his rice, I muttered a small prayer for the boy


-

A small stroke of inspiration on the train on the way to meet my brother and his friends for badminton the other day. I think i look like a right moron scribbling on my notebook then.