She pauses her ipod and decides to listen to the music from the streets instead – someone is playing the guitar across the road sitting on the steps of an old looking building she doesn't know the name of. Which is okay, she tells herself, she will find out one day soon. She'd asked for a table for one – un seul and the cute waiter (who was probably younger than her) gave her a sweet, almost mischievous smile. oh well, as long as it wasn't pity, she thinks.

Because alone, she has chosen to be. These 6 weeks which are her own; or 5 weeks and 2 days to be more precise. She had walked away from it all – the wonderful man, the fancy job, the loving family and the promises of the beautiful future she would have had. The promotion and the wedding were both looming ahead and while everyone marveled at the perfection that defined the current state of things, she was restless. She needed out – just to see if this is what she really wanted. It was hard to explain to them and if it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t have been able to. She just wanted out, she had said and he had understood. She did miss that – the instant understanding. Maybe that is what she wants.

The smiling waiter by her side snaps her back into reality and she places her order – a hot chocolate and a basket of croissants. Very cliché, very French. He serves her order and glances at the book on the table. Identity – by Milan Kundera, he smiles and tells her that the book was written in French. His French-English accent makes her smile for she has always been fond of their poetic, foreign way of speaking. She is even more amazed at the young man’s knowledge of the book. She learns that he is a student at one of the Grand Lycees and has decided to spend his summer waiting on tables, enjoying the small town simplicity and write his thesis – away from his home and usual life. And what about her? She pauses for a second and wonders what she wants to be today? A writer? A teacher? A prostitute? She decides to be a journalist today. It has a nice ring to it, she thinks. And with that and a bright smile, she spins an intricate web of lies to create a story of her life. A new one.

That’s what she loves about these 6 weeks and anonymity. She can be anyone, anywhere and live her life as that for a day, or few if she likes it and write the story as she pleases. And re-write it every morning if she chooses.

She is, deep inside, a story teller after all.

In the past few days, I have developed a new fear – of old age. I’d want to bid farewell at not too old an age I think. And the reason for this is not because I’m afraid of losing beauty, youth, drive, etc. but simply because every morning as I come up the escalator from the underpass, there is an old gray haired Chinese uncle giving out leaflets about some firm selling cheap-refillable printer ink cartridges. There is nothing wrong in that – might I add. Except that he’s old and hunched and should be in the comforts of a home at that hour of the morning, instead of at that hot, air-less underpass tunnel. It breaks my heart everyday and yet I’m pathetic enough to not do anything about it. It breaks my heart, nonetheless. Then there is the other uncle at the mall near my house, also on his feet, giving out pamphlets and saying “50% discount” to every passerby. Lots of people just brush him away and quickly walk past; some don’t even acknowledge his presence. These are the two uncles I meet everyday, one who seems in his early fifties and the other, in early sixties. Then there are the aunties – one who I rarely see now, but would be walking around the covered walkway outside the mall, selling colorful pens from an old ragged bag. I hang my head and walk past sometimes, others, I smile at her. At the Orchard underpass, there will be another old Chinese lady in flannel pajamas with a small mat set up selling knick-knacks like packets of tissue, instant noodles, small packs of detergent, etc. I don’t know if people ever buy anything from her, but she’s there every time I walk that underpass.

No, I have not done anything about these people because I feel bad about it for sometime and then get caught up in the mundane, money-making activities of the day and pay them bills. I am guilty of being just as materialistic as anyone. Yet, for the next 5-10 mins after I pass this uncle or aunti, I can’t face myself, or any of the affluent, fast walking people around me. one of these days, I hope I’ll resolve to actually do something.

In a way it’s a positive thing to see old people working, carrying their dignity in their hands, and earning a living. In a way, it is dignified – for they are not helpless, they are independent and working despite their age, or the nature of the “job.” I have in my life, handed out flyers once as part of some school activity and it was not a pleasant experience to be standing on your feet all day and being invisible to so many people in the middle of a crowd – when people just walk past you, walk through you. I salute my old uncles and auntis who still manage to smile back at you after doing this all day.

However, I do wonder if they deserve better. One works hard their whole life and deserves a break in their last few years. I wonder what each of their stories are – and why, if at all, they chose to continue working. If the uncle or aunty clearing leftovers and dishes at a hawker center really deserves to do that after 60 long hard years.

With everything else so perfectly oiled and functioning here, isn’t it time something was done about the elderly here? I do but wonder – and hope that one day I’ll find the courage to stop wondering and start doing something.

People are tiring these days – a lot more than work, work-out, and heels. People are what tire me out. These complications and double meanings and sugar coated bitchiness – I’ve rolled my eyes so many times that I think they’re permanently dislocated – for I see the ceiling clearer than the faces in front of me.

The selfish-ness index seems to be rising at an alarming rate and reaching record breaking height everyday! The art of caring for people beyond those connected by blood, by the same bed, or a relationship of significance is slowly becoming extinct. Call me cynical if you wish, but I still walk around smiling and collecting my good karma – because I’m going to need it one day – for myself, or to lend to you. You will, however, have to step down from that pedestal of yours to reach out for it.