Shaking gently up and down, the bus was pulling ahead on a bumpy country road. It was a dull drowsy afternoon. All the passengers on board were too tired to talk, some fingering their phones, some listening to music with their earphones on.

The bus braked to a dead halt all of a sudden, rousing everyone aboard. “What’s on?” A half-awake woman groaned. “Should this vehicle get stuck in the mud, I’d be late for work!” a smartly dressed man grunted, worried. Lazily I lifted my eyelids and cast a glance out of the window.

Standing by the road was an elderly farmer with a sack at his feet. “I have money for the fare. Let me on, Driver!” he pleaded.

The driver pushed a button and the door opened automatically.

Lugging the sack along, the farmer struggled on. The vehicle packed, there was no proper seat left for him. “Okay, Okay,” the conductor produced a mini plastic stool miraculously from under her own seat. “You sit here. Your sack there!” she instructed, pointing to a corner next to the door, while seizing the banknotes from the farmer’s rough calloused hands.

“Oh no. I’ll keep the sack with me,” the farmer protested.

“You old guy, what treasure is in your damned sack?” The conductor tried to grab it from the old man. While the old man was holding onto the sack, it burst under the strain. Big round fresh potatoes, with dirt on, rolled out all over the floor.

The farmer flew into a fit of rage. He yelled, “Potatoes for my son in the city. Raised in my own garden. He loved the potatoes as a child. He hasn’t come back for three years.”

The old guy choked, tears trickling down the wrinkled face.

All became silent on the bus. I rose from my seat and picked up the potatoes one by one despite the swinging motion of the vehicle.

The sack torn, someone offered a cloth bag for the potatoes but it was way too small for so many. Then a girl handed me a large heavy-duty plastic bag. It was not long before all the potatoes found their way into the two bags.

“Thank you, lad,” the farmer said as I returned the produce to him. Then he went back to his stool and sat down.

Finally, we reached the destination. Everyone got busy checking out their luggage and getting out. I was about to go down when I felt a pat on the shoulder.

I turned around. It was nobody but the farmer. He took two big potatoes out of the plastic bag and put them into my arms.

“You are a kind guy just like my son. He is a doctor in the city hospital. These two potatoes are for you,” he explained.

Before I could say anything, the old guy went away. In an instant he was lost in the streaming hordes.

Later that evening at dinner, Mum asked, “The potatoes taste great. Where did you get them, son?”

“From a good old farmer, and a good father, too,” I replied with a smile, immersed in the reminiscence of the bumpy bus ride on the country road.