In Continuum.

I was on the train home on Monday when the idea for this entry came about, the way the man's hand grasped the railing a few centimeters above my own on the train. He was an indian man, an ordinary one you'd find at a common construction site. You know, the kind that wears an old and worn out shirt, black pants, a pair of boots with paint stains on them, and then that distinct body odor of concrete and other construction materials. They are always carrying a little backpack around in town, always minding their own businesses or hanging out with friends who press in pretty much the same attire. It has become almost like an uniform, as if all of these foreign workers have to wear the exact same thing in order to work in this country. I feel bad for them, every time I think about how long they have been toiling downstairs under the raging hot sun or the merciless rain. Coming all the way from their hometown to Singapore just to build a concrete dragon underneath the ground to make our lives better, and how dare we complain about them taking their own sweet time? It's sickening at times, to hear rich and pompous middle class assholes suing construction companies for the noise and air pollution, when everything is being done really for the betterment of their narrow little pathetic lives. 

More than our lives, I wonder how much of their lives have been improved, or the people back home they routinely send their money to. I saw that man's hand as it wrapped itself around the railing, and it was as if his palm was burned over fire or something. The top of his hand was in his normal skin tone, while his palm was of a lighter tone. I know, most indians have a lighter skin tone on their palms and feet, but his skin tone was unnatural and strange. It felt like it was lighter because of all the work he has gone through over the years, probably due to abrasion or other wear and tear you find at a construction site. The darker side of his hands met with the lighter one with a clear line of tore skin, kind of like the part of your knee you see after you tear away the hardened scar. His nails were poorly tended to, with the tips of those fingers jagged and broken, as if he spent hours upon hours digging an escape route back home with his bare hands. It was painful to look at, but he just kinda stood there without noticing his own hands. He must have gotten used to them, the sight of their utter and complete destruction, and for some reason I thought to myself, if the man ever knew how to play the guitar. 

I can't imagine living without my pair of hands, especially after watching this Chinese pianist on television the other day, playing classical pieces on the piano with his toes. You have to remember that the gaps between normal human toes are significantly narrower, which makes it even more astounding to see an armless man playing the piano with his toes - better than me, at that. I felt ashamed, but infinitely impressed with his devotion and passion for music. I have my pair of hands, but I am predominantly stuck with my bedroom and tunes I hear over my speakers from time to time. That is not to say that anybody without a dream to make it big in the music industry should feel ashamed, of course. It's just that, I have been thinking so little about my pair of hands, the way they just kind of hang at the end of my arms like blossoming flowers at the end of two stems. I enjoy how my fingers would dance down the fret board of my guitar, or the way I can compose random piano pieces despite being completely oblivious to any piano playing skills. So much of my passion depend on these ten fingers, and yet there are people out there who have lost the ability to use them forever.

Out in the fields, I was always careful with my hands though. I wore gloves to protect them from the thorns in the branches, the mud on the ground, and the grease in the vehicles. I had a thing about hands, I preferred to keep them as clean as possible out in the fields. I was particular about it, which was why I had a bag of wet tissue in my back pocket at all times, just in case. But it was impossible to prevent injuries, and I have suffered a lot of those along the way. I remember the time when a tree branch that was covered in thorns lodged itself into my palms in the dark. Then there was that other time when I noticed the deep cut at the end of my right thumb only when I felt the moisture in my shirt sleeve - my blood. I've always had horrific images of doors or gates being slammed on my fingers, and I blame my aunt for slamming the car door on my fingers when I was a child. Anyhow, I look at my hands and sometimes wonder how I have made it this far with these strange body parts of mine. 

Like how my passion is dependent on these things, that indian man probably had more than just his own life balanced on the tips of his fingers. The expectations of his family members back home, his friends, and all the reasons why he left his home and came to Singapore. Just picture the pipes and the bricks, the mud and all the sand for a while. Multiply that by a couple of hundred times and then multiply that by about four years. That is how long they have been at it in the construction site, toiling away. They work and they work, and they wear the skins on their hands thinner and thinner. All for minimum wage, all for that chance to have a better life somewhere else other than Singapore, perhaps back home. They aren't even sure if their family are using the money right, they don't even get to see them at all. I pity these foreign workers in Singapore, because so much of our luxurious lives are directly due to those hands of theirs, like the ones that held on to the railing that night when I was headed for home. 

There aren't a lot of professions out there that do not necessarily require your hands. A singer probably won't need their hands, or a soccer player. Everything else requires our hands to make things work, no matter how much genius is involved. I remember the way my teachers' fingers used to be stained with chalk, I also remember the smell of my mother's hands after she's washed the dishes. I remember the smell of that lady at the saloon after she has washed the hair of another customer, and the way the stack of paper sliced deep into the hands of my tuition teacher in english class last time and told nobody about it. She couldn't teach for a while afterwards, and I do think about her from time to time. For every one of those busted pair of hands, there's probably an endless book of sorrows just waiting to be told. But they've swallowed these stories, like how we've all been trained to silence our own. Just wake up in the morning, just do your work. Just go to sleep now, and prepare to repeat everything again in the morning. We don't question, and we really don't fight back any longer. We just kind allow the society to take away what is ours, even if we are talking about something as personal as the skin on our fingers.