The Piano Man at Tanjong Pagar: Lessons in Humility from a Grab Rider

“Humility is found in the quietest acts, echoed in every note.”

This morning I watched a video that I keep replaying in my mind.

It didn’t come from a glossy platform or a film festival. No. It was of a Grab delivery rider, helmet on, fingers gliding over the keys of a battered public piano in the chilly open space of Tanjong Pagar MRT.

He sat in his green shirt, the very uniform some glance past, or worse, judge. Maybe he played for himself. Maybe for the small crowd who gathered. Or maybe for no one at all. I couldn’t tell. He played with that mix of confidence and uncertainty that makes people both ordinary and remarkable.

The music—a K-Drama melody, soft and sad—floated above the platform. For two and a half minutes, time itself seemed to pause. His food delivery bags waited at his side, quietly. I wonder what stories were packed inside those containers.
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When he finished, the crowd clapped. He didn’t bow or pose. He waved only a little, picked up his delivery, and vanished. Like a subway dream that slips away before you can catch it.

I watched again. And again. Why did it move me? Maybe it was the reminder that greatness doesn’t always wear a suit or carry a title. Sometimes it wears gloves and delivers noodles. Sometimes it risks everything just to play a song before rushing through the city for the sake of a little income.

We spend so much of our lives measuring people by their uniforms, their jobs, their places in line. We label. We assume. “Delivery driver” gets filed away as someone to ignore, unless you’re hungry. It’s easy. Too easy.

But music, like kindness, can come from where we least expect.

Once, I would’ve thought these performances belonged to professionals, to the highly trained. But I’m learning—slowly—to shed those expectations. This rider, anonymous in a crowd, reminded me to see with new eyes. Everyone is carrying something. A skill, a sorrow, a hope. Most of us walk right past.

I wonder about the talents hidden in plain sight. The poetry, the art, the hands that fix, that heal, that feed. The piano man reminded me: A person deserves respect, before you know their story. Maybe, especially when you don’t.

He’s probably on the road now, weaving through traffic, music left behind in a train station. But I think people will remember the sound, the hands, the humility.
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So will I.