I like pink. I like it a lot so that the image of that little girl sticks on my mind. If I have to guess, I would say that she’s around 9 years old, hopefully studying in elementary school at daytime. But, who am I to hope for her, on which is best for her? I’m not her. Though it seems like that we fancy the same color. But again, how do I know that she likes pink too. Maybe it was not even her choice.
It is 5.45 pm, the train where I’m in is waiting for departure time. I am sitting with my heavy black backpack on my lap, heavy of carrying a laptop. She is walking around the aisle of the train, approaching people with a used candy bag as a pouch to ask for money. No, not directly begging, but she is also carrying a heavy black box. It’s a mini-speaker. She sings. Then ask for money.
The train is about to depart. She steps out from the door. As the train doors close, I look down at my heavy backpack. Maybe as heavy as the weight of the black box for the little girl. Maybe it is nothing compares to the heavy weight of having to get some money in the train by singing songs and asking for money.
But again, what do I know about her? Maybe she enjoys it, because she meets friends, laughs, and sees it all like playing a game before sleeping in her family huts.
That late afternoon, what I know is what I saw. Her long dark hair is tight up in a ponytail style with a pink elastic hair band. The pink color matches the color of her T-shirt.
Picture of the Commuter Line train in Indonesia (a non-crowded situation) is taken from here
