While visiting a community centre to get a photo for her story, our columnist learns that generosity is not about the size of your pocket, but your heart.

YOU didn’t bring your USB drive? Then how do we transfer the soft copy of the photo to you?” Kasturi looks at me in amusement.

I frown, not understanding.

“We have no Internet here.”

The capacity to care: Persatuan Pemulihan Dalam Komuniti Buntong also provides physiotherapy services for stroke patients.

I stare at her, dumbstruck. How could anyone – an NGO at that – function without Internet access in this day and age? I have only a few hours to drive home, get my thumb drive, come back for the pictures, caption them and hand in my story before five. Preoccupied with my own worries, I pay no attention to the children filing in as I dash out of the community hall of the Persatuan Pemulihan Dalam Komuniti Buntong.

At noon, I am back with USB drive in hand. Grumpy from the sweltering heat, I am even more agitated when I find Kasturi is nowhere in sight. Eventually, my stiff presence is noticed by a bespectacled lady.

“She asked you to wait 10 minutes,” she says distractedly, before turning her attention to a young student.

Don’t these people have any concept of time? I think, trying not to allow my impatience to show. While scouring the premises, my eyes fall on a pile of brochures. I flip through one cursorily. Before long, I’m distracted by the noise coming from the centre of the hall, where children are seated around a table.

From afar, I observe them covertly. One is sliding his hands up and down an orange plastic rod. The pale, skinny boy next to him is sitting with his head bent at an awkward angle. Some are just sitting and staring into space. The majority are wearing a vacant expression. I feel like I just got hit by a two-tonne truck.

Jeez. How could I have missed the obvious?

As I’m still coming to grips, Saras, a volunteer, walks up clutching the hand of a kid. “This is Jing Jing,” she introduces with a broad smile. “He is three years old.”

The boy is barely higher than my waist. “But he’s so small in size,” I croak.

“Say hello to him. He is very loving,” Saras pushes him gently forward.

I bend down to look at him. But something entirely unexpected happens when he falls unprotestingly into my arms. For the first time in my life, I understand what the expression skin and bones mean. I draw him closer to kiss his cheek, careful not to be too rough in case I crush him.

Trembling slightly, I get up and face the other children. They fixate curious eyes on me, all innocence and purity in their searching gazes.

“We teach them ADL, an acronym for ‘activities for daily living’,” explains Saras.

“Like how to eat, change their clothes, bathe. When she came six months ago, she didn’t know how to wear her shoes,” Saras says, indicating a skinny child I had mistaken for a boy earlier.

“She’s a girl?” I gape.

“Yes. She’s 15 years old. But her period hasn’t come yet.”

I do a double-take. She has short hair and is so skinny and angular with an undeveloped chest, you’d think she was seven or eight at most. The T-shirt she is wearing is riddled with holes. Swallowing, I make my way round the table, by turns shaking their hands and ruffling their hair, pausing at a handsome lad with huge, traffic-stopping eyes. His grin stretches from ear to ear, exposing neat, pearly white teeth.

“This is Viknesh,” introduces Saras with a broad smile. “He can be quite mischievous.”

And adorable! Before long, we’re engaged in a playful arm-wrestling match that’s punctuated with coy winks. A budding Romeo, I think, remembering my friend’s playful son of the same name.

It’s easy to mistake the Bambi-eyed Viknesh I am playing with now for any little boy next door. Almost. Then I speak to him, and he continues to grin wordlessly, and reality hits home – he’s a special child.

Suddenly, my throat feels constricted and the room begins to swim in a warm watery haze.

“Kasturi, I think you better help Miss Wong here. She is getting a little overwhelmed, “ Saras cheerfully announces her observation as if she were telling them it’s time to eat.

How did she know? I marvel at her perceptiveness.

To ease me back into reality, Kasturi leads me on a guided tour of the place. The centre has two full-time staff – Kasturi and Sutha – and one volunteer, Saras. Every day, an average of 30 kids drop in. We pause to observe senior citizens exercising with physiotherapy equipment in one corner.

“We also help with the recovery of stroke patients,” Kasturi explains. “Do you know of someone who needs help?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh, then you better send her here,” she says immediately. “See that gentleman over there?” She points to an Indian guy with a mustache like the KFC Colonel. “In just one and a half months, he could walk.”

As if on cue, he gets up and shows off his limber legs to prove her words. Not so lucky is an old lady, a recent stroke patient.

The staff, along with a group of Masterskill student volunteers, are trying to get her to bridge the short distance between the physiotherapy equipment and her daughter’s waiting car.

She falls into a limp heap every time she takes a step forward. But instead of gripping her tightly to propel her forward, the staff insists that she walks the distance herself.

I turn to Saras, who has just joined us, with questioning eyes.

“Stroke patients must learn to be independent or they will have a hard time recovering,” she explains.

“We have to be cruel to be kind. Now they hate us,” she says wryly, “but once they can walk, they will love us.”

How do they do it day after day? I wonder. Even as an observer, I feel drained emotionally. Shame fills me as I remember my earlier, distinctly uncharitable thoughts.

My introspection is interrupted by a small commotion.

The auntie has made it to the car, and everyone is cheering. The faces of the staff – so stern just moments ago – are now wreathed in smiles. The clock strikes one. Time to hit the deadline treadmill.

“Remember to ask your friend’s sister to come ok?” Kasturi calls out as I take my leave. “Stroke patients have to get moving within a few months. If they don’t move after a year, then they will be stuck. Tell her to come. We can help her. There is always something we can do.”

From a young age, I’ve always been reminded that everyone has infinite capacity to care for others, if we can only look beyond our own little world. Today, I know this to be true because I have been touched by the angels of Buntong.

> Alexandra Wong (www.bunny sprints.com) agrees with the good folks of Persatuan Pemulihan Dalam Komuniti Buntong (No.10, Lorong Pakianathan, 30100 Ipoh / 05-242 0805 /pdkbun tong.blogspot.com) that to give happiness to others is a great act of charity. Details and names of the children have been changed to preserve their privacy.

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