August 01, 2018

(Rewritten from 8/24/2017 journal entry)

I agreed to have lunch with a new colleague, and we decided to go to a dingy basement 茶餐廳 (cha chaan teng) on 昭隆街 (Chiu Lung Street). We had to 搭枱 (share a table) given that it was right smack during peak lunch hour. Across from us sat this unassuming family of three — a couple in business casual and a small girl with such a memorable doll face, tanned skin and large watery lake-like eyes. She only stood as tall as a fire hydrant and had thin twigs for arms and limbs. She wore an off-white dress embroidered with small white flowers which had a yellow-grey tint to it due to age and wash. I imagined it was a second hand dress perhaps passed down from a sister or a relative. Children outgrow clothes so fast anyway, as most Chinese parents would say.

By the time I had sat down with my colleague, they had already ordered and after a short few minutes their food arrived. The couple both ordered the lunch set — typical 茶餐廳 (cha chaan teng) fare, a plate of 豬扒配意粉 (pork chop spaghetti) and 炒伊麵 (stir fried e-fu noodles).

As I mindlessly chatted with my colleague about work, I started to observe her every move as if I were watching a character in a film. They asked for two tiny bowls and proceeded to portion them with each type of noodle, placing them in front of the little girl and urging her to start on her food as if they were in a hurry. The girl didn't seem particularly excited about the food in front of her and hesitated, but her mother hastily pressed her again. The three then proceeded to eat with their heads down in complete silence.

After finishing her first bowl of noodles, the little girl looked sad and seemed as if she didn't want to continue. Her mother gave her a stern look and requested for the third time for her to finish her food quickly. The little girl pouted and frowned but then nodded in silence and started on her final bowl at turtle speed. By now, both parents had finished their food all within a span of ten minutes. Mother picked up the bowl of noodles and started to force feed the little girl to help her finish.

I felt a wave of sadness and despair as I continued to stare fixedly at her, at which point her mother grew markedly uncomfortable that I was staring at her daughter without even blinking. I looked away briefly in embarrassment as the tears welled up in my eyes.

I could tell that she was well taken care of and that her parents loved her dearly. The tiredness, the numbness, the stress of office jobs, monotonous lives and city dust had settled into them like sediment. I imagined she wanted to go run around in the fields or pet over-enthusiastic puppies with dancing tails — instead she was stuck in the middle of the loudest, busiest restaurant in Central eating oily fried carbs. I wanted to whisk her away to open fields and pastures with yellow black-eyed susans or purple bellflowers but I couldn't and absolutely wouldn't because that would be a crime; and quite frankly, there were many logistical issues that would have to be worked out before whisking someone's child away.

I wondered if she'd be happier if she were raised somewhere else. I wondered if I'd be happier if I were raised somewhere else. I wondered where she lived — her family looked moderately well-off, perhaps a 600 sq ft apartment somewhere in Hong Kong. I wondered if she would find happiness in this cruel and relentless world. She had everything — a seemingly loving family, clothes on her back, food in her belly and a roof over her head. Yet she looked so unhappy and lonely. She was probably not even close to ten years old.

After the girl swallowed her last bite of food, they stood up to leave. As they made their way out of the crowded restaurant filled with bustling waiters and hungry office workers, the little girl reached out her tiny hand to meet her father's. I watched as they disappeared into hordes of loud, slurping tables.

How fragile little girls are, my achilles heel. I wish the world were nicer to little girls.