generosity

Its a pleasant night, for this week, but there is a welcome warmth as I board the bus. "Very good, very good, dearie," the bus driver notes my u-pass. Is he a witch or is such cheeriness necessary for working the post-midnight shift?

I choose a seat near the front of the bus, still next to a girl, though I haven't lived in India for years. My mother has done her job well.

As the bus jerks on, I survey the people on the bus. Two goth guys chat with the driver. A goth girl next to me. A homeless man in a dark hoodie, beard across the seat. A woman? man? in a red jacket doubled over in slumber.

I cough, cough. Bronchitis isn't easy to get over. Cough, cough, cough. The night air is irritating.

The man next to me, in the dark hoodie, leans over his bag and the aisle. I turn to see he is offering his water bottle, nodding, smiling. Suprisingly, his teeth are intact. I shake my head, "No, thank you, I'm almost home." He nods again, puts it away.

I try to surpress my coughing. The tickle is there, in the right side, behind the carotid. I ignore it. I imagine scratching. I can't. Cough. Cough. Cough.

The bus lumbers along. We cross the bridge. Only 4 stops until home.

I note a dark-sleeved arm reaching towards me. I turn again. The homeless man is offering me a stick of gum. I accept, not wanting to be rude; I feel guilty that I will be getting off at the next stop, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

He grins toothily, nods encouragingly, then slouches back into his seat. I chew, let the saliva drizzle over the sore throat. My heart beats a little faster, prodded by this man's generosity. How kindly, easily, simply he offers what little he has for the comfort of others.