They never spoke to each other. The middle-aged man pushing the wheelchair also never engaged the woman in conversation. He pushed the wheelchair with solemn dedication, in silence, occasionally stopping to let a car pass. Once the car was gone, he resumed pushing the wheelchair, his gaze always straight ahead. He never looked left or right, nor did he greet those passing by. People around him only glanced in passing. I did the same the first time I saw him.
One day, when my pushcart nearly collided with the wheelchair, we exchanged glances, and I returned his smile. That was the first time I saw the middle-aged man smile. That day, I was running late to sell my dawet ice at Setu Babakan. In my hurry, I pushed my cart quickly. At a downhill bend in the road, just in front of a mosque near the entrance to Setu Babakan, my cart suddenly sped up. I struggled to slow it down. Luckily, the middle-aged man stopped his wheelchair first. I had a split second to maneuver, stopping my cart and avoiding a collision with the wheelchair. At that moment, the middle-aged man smiled at me, and I smiled back. The elderly woman in the wheelchair seemed unaffected by the incident. She remained motionless. But from that day on, every time we passed each other, the middle-aged man and I exchanged smiles. But that was all.
After some time, I stopped seeing him. I wondered what had happened. I secretly missed him, the elderly woman, and the wheelchair. Imagining him, I pictured myself pushing a wheelchair with my mother in it. I felt a pang of envy because I had longed to buy a wheelchair for my mother, bedridden for years due to a stroke. She was the same age as the elderly woman in the wheelchair.
One day, the middle-aged man reappeared. This time, his presence shocked me. He looked the same, as if nothing had happened. He continued to push the wheelchair along the same part of the road. What shocked me was what was on the wheelchair. No longer the elderly woman, but various old items. There was a small box, a fan blade, a rice cooker, some tattered books, a few bottles in a crumpled plastic bag, some worn-out shoes, a pot, an old bucket, and other miscellaneous items. Despite the change in the wheelchair’s contents, the middle-aged man smiled when we passed each other, and that was all. I didn’t dare ask if he was now a junk dealer. Strangely, the items in the wheelchair never changed; it was always the same old things.
This didn’t last long. A few days later, I stopped seeing him again. Sometimes I left earlier and walked slower, hoping his schedule had changed, but I still didn’t see him. Curious, I asked a local at Setu Babakan if they knew the middle-aged man who pushed the wheelchair. To my surprise, someone did and gave me his name and address.
Without hesitation, even though it was midday, I left Setu Babakan, pushing my cart to the middle-aged man’s address. After navigating narrow alleys, I finally found his house. He was sitting on the porch, surrounded by the same old items from the wheelchair, but the wheelchair was nowhere in sight. He noticed me and greeted me with a smile. I poured some dawet ice into a glass and handed it to him.
“Delicious,” he said after sipping my dawet ice. I sat next to him. As he enjoyed the drink, I asked about the elderly woman he used to push in the wheelchair. Holding his glass tightly, eyes distant, he shared his story. He had spent years caring for his mother, who had suffered a stroke. He felt fortunate and happy when a neighbor gave him a used wheelchair. He could finally take his mother out, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. Those, he said, were his happiest moments.