Kasihan — Pity

A glimpse is often all one can get, or reasonably take. Looking back, or looking too hard was not permissible. In the dark section of road up from the train station toward the river, on the Malioboro side of the line, chap wheeling his pushie slowly just off the footpath, the narrow passage that comes to a thick cover of either coarse-grain dark sand, or else volcanic dust there. (Jogja’s gardens, roads and pathways are strewn with grey ash from Merapi.) Possibly the man knows of the obstacle ahead in his path. Older chap, he had procured from somewhere a fair kind of hat, shapely and passably decent it looked in the dark, with upturned brims and a nice crown. Where was he going? Did he have anywhere to go, really? Age was not the reason for that slow turn of wheel. More than anything, against the lights of the passing traffic and the occasional pedestrian, he seemed to be attempting to draw any available pity. Around the corner at the lights on Mataram  a truly pitiable young father with a girl holding a baby on the raised road-divider had gone from one motor-cycle to another seeking alms. The old chap wheeling his post-war bicycle made his case wordlessly.