the blind lady on the bus

Last Monday I took the bus home. It was one of those rides where I waited 20 minutes for the bus to arrive, and when I boarded by the MRT Ortigas Station there were only five people in the bus. When we got to Crossing barely 5 minutes later, people were already standing in the middle of the bus. And Monday was a non-working holiday.

In Guadalupe a lady came to the bus, accompanied by a couple of friends. The conductor shouted, "Standing na!" One of the companions said, "Naku, hindi po sya nakakakita." Then they helped her up the bus steps and left her.

I was surprised. The lady obviously was used to traveling alone, because she boarded the bus confidently. The conductor said, "Paano yan, tatayo ka na."

The man sitting beside me, on the window side, immediately stood up and gave his seat to the lady. It would be a long ride; I would be one of the first to get off, and that's an hour away. The man was the kind of person I'd pay close attention to. He didn't look like someone I could trust. He had been eating when I sat beside him, and he was eating when he gave up his seat; empanada with catsup, peanuts, crackers. (But then, I don't trust anyone when I'm commuting. Even innocent four-year-old seatmates can vomit in your lap.)

The lady felt her way to the seat and I helped her. She started feeling around for her things; a wrist purse, a large bag from where she pulled a foldable cane, her phone. She called the phone and told someone she's on the bus; I noticed she used speed-dial.

She had a pleasant face. She had long eyelashes. You wouldn't notice that she was blind, only that she felt everything around her, the bus window ledge, the curtain, the bar in front of her, before she settled down. Then she pulled out a hundred-peso-bill. She asked me, "Ma'am, how much is this?"

The conductor eventually came, loud and overbearing, and she asked him where the last stop is. She wanted to know if the bus would stop by a certain subdivision near SM Dasmarinas. The conductor said no, the bus would stop only along the highway, and the subdivision is on the other side of the road.

It was quiet in the front of the bus as the people digested this. One person said it would be good if another passenger would take the same stop, so she could be helped. Another said that maybe there would be a traffic enforcer to help her cross.

The conductor counted out her change and gave it to me, along with her ticket. I counted the money again, told her how much it is, and gave her the ticket. She carefully put it in her purse, and thanked me.

Then the conductor said the bus could stop near the subdivision, and he would take her across the road. He then shouted to the driver if that was ok. The driver shouted back that it was.

The lady smiled and said thanks. Everyone looked relieved. Some of us were smiling.

Every now and then the lady would ask where we were now. A man, squeezed behind the bus door with his face almost in the glass, would answer. Near MOA. Coastal Road.

It was an unusual thing: a blind lady who takes the bus alone at night. But the more striking thing about it is the response of the people, people like me who are so used to the uncaring atmosphere of jampacked buses, the rude drivers and conductors who would scold you if you had too many bags, the men who looked like thieves or sex maniacs, your seatmate who gave you dagger looks if your kid wouldn't stop whimpering or-- heaven forbid-- vomited.

We all had worries, but for the moment, we were all diverted to the concern of one woman who had to get safely home, who entrusted her well-being to everyone around her. I had to get off the bus, and I told her so. I told her to take care. Another woman took my seat, and she told me that she could tell the blind lady if she was nearing SM Dasmarinas already. We smiled at each other, and I was gone.

It takes one blind lady on the bus, and you can still believe in the basic goodness of people.