By Melissa Heng

I am generally a busy bee, as are most Singaporeans.

I rush from home to bus station, from bus to MRT station, from MRT station to client's office and, on the return
leg, rush from MRT station to join the inevitably long taxi queue after a long and arduous day.

Amid all that rush, I do not usually see anything except the few metres ahead of me.

Neither do I train my ears to hear anything except the impossibly loud click-clack of shoes and high heels all around me.

But something happened recently which forced me to step on the brakes for a few precious minutes.

You see, I heard the "mockingbird" sing, and what a beautiful, rueful song it was.

It was 6.45pm - rush hour. I jostled with the crowd as I dragged my heavy legs through a human maze.

All of a sudden, from somewhere, I sensed a tune weave in and out of the spaces around me.

It was soft but magnetic.

I hesitated, not wanting to stop walking. The taxi stand was still some 10m away and a queue was quickly forming.

From the corner of my eye, I spied the "mockingbird".

There, near the underpass, a few paces from the vehicle pick-up point, sat a blind man gently playing his erhu.

The pull was inexplicable.

With each motion of his arm, he drew the tune out of his fiddle, much like an expert tailor would a silver thread.

Teresa Teng's Moon Represents My Heart floated about me and settled deep within.

Now, I'm no fan of the famous songstress - I'm strictly a disco- and trance-music person - but, somehow, I was captivated.

Nay, I was affected.

I stood aside. The crowd swished past. I stared.

Two minutes passed. Then, three.

Slowly, I became aware that the man with the erhu was strangely invisible to all but me.

People of all ages, shapes and sizes walked past, oblivious to his existence. The man played on, dumb and silent against Teresa's haunting melody.

All at once, I was enveloped by an intense sense of guilt and shame. A mash of emotions forced a lump up my throat. I rebuked myself but the feeling persisted.

And then, I realised why.

Here was my mockingbird - a blind man stationed meekly on a busy street corner, playing his heart out for a few coins, while the truly blind rushed past him, day in, day out, hour upon hour, intent only upon reaching the taxi stand or the MRT station.

The bird sang on. The mocking continued. Who's mocking whom?

I felt myself fishing in my pockets, embarrassed. It was a soulful few minutes that seemed much longer. I felt alone with the man. Alone and vulnerable.

Will I find the strength to sing as the mockingbird does if I fall off my perch?

Can I possibly fly blind and trust those around me to keep me safe?

I don't know.

And in these uncertain economic times, I'm not sure I want to know.

But this much I do know: For the price of a cuppa, I have glimpsed the true meaning of courage and understood the
true measure of a man.

Play on, Mr Mockingbird.

Your music was not lost on me. And tomorrow, perhaps, someone else will hear your call.

Play on.

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