One day I was riding a bus coming back to school. In the front of the vehicle sat an old countryman, clad in soiled tattered clothes, with some monstrous bags and bundles at his feet. Just next to him was a smartly dressed lady. What a contrast!

It seemed that the countryman was new in town. He asked the chic fellow passenger in an outlandish dialect how to get to Hongwei. I had thought the lady might be annoyed. Contrary to my expectations, she responded to the countryman very patiently. The lady, instead of getting irritated, repeated the directions. Even while she was getting off the bus, she kept reminding him where to get off and change buses. Obviously, she was concerned that the countryman might miss the stop.

I used to believe that most urbanites, especially the privileged, look down upon country folk, because of their attire and their accent. This lady, however, corrected my bias.

After the lady disembarked, the countryman turned to me for help. I made a conscious effort to follow what he was trying to get across, but it was all in vain. For one thing, his dialect was so difficult as if he were speaking a foreign tongue. For another, I found he could not talk clearly and that he was a bit deaf. I saw an insect crawling about his face, but he was not aware of it at all.

Tears welled up in my eyes. For one thing, I was moved by the lady’s patience with the countryman. For another, I took pity on him because of his very being.

A lot of questions were crossing my mind then. “Where are his children? Why is he all alone in the monster city, hauling such hefty luggage? …”

I have no answers whatsoever to the questions above. One day when my parents are as feeble as the countryman, I don’t think I will let them wander about this way. The older one gets, the more care he will need.