2005-07-19
that little boy
The bus ride home yesterday was painful. And the throbbing fever wasnt the cause of it. Somewhere down the route, the bus picked up a little boy, no older than 4 i think, and his young dad. They sat next to me.
The little boy first caught my attention because of the horrifically depressing way he was crying, intertwined with repeated muffles of "I want mummy!".
The dad was tensed. He carried a child's bag on his back and a colourful thermoflask in his hand. But his dedicated-daddy image stopped there. He pointed a finger so close to the boy's face that i was almost sure he would've hit him if they weren't so publicly announced.
"I want mummy!"
"Stop it."
"Daddy, I want mummy!"
"Stop it!"
" I want mummy! I want mummy!"
"I SAID STOP IT!"
He was getting hot under the collar. We, fellow commuters, wriggled uncomfortably in our seats, averting our eyes. One more for the divorce stats, I thought.
The boy cried silently. then he buried his face into his father's stomach. His dad made no move to comfort him. After several seconds, the boy took his face out and looked at his dad, "I want to go hospital to see mummy."
The father's face contorted ever so slightly.
"Can we call mummy in the hospital when we reach home?"
"Alright," the dad said softly.
The boy started sobbing again, and the dad reverted to sternness. I looked up to verify the dimly lit surroundings outside the vehicle and caught the father's eye by accident. His weariness startled me. Then he turned a deep, ugly red. Both of us scrambled to look away.
The man readjusted himself as his little son plonked his head back into the only remaining soft bit of his dad. The rest of us watched guiltily from the reflective windows.
nothing ever happens at 2:07 p.m.