Comments on the quality of my writing are very welcome, I think it would be neat to write a book about our experience, but am seeking feedback.
~ byl
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If you have not experienced it, interacting with the multitudinous beggars of India can be a dismal event. As a general rule, whoever is begging at your window is usually in one of three categories. There are the children, there are the infirm, and there are the old. Almost without exception, they are being watched by someone at a distance who oversees them and takes the majority of their day’s catch. The homeless children are managed by abusive strangers, or, even more sadly, abusive parents. The infirm are often not even that - they get a sudden burst of spryness when the traffic picks up and they have to get to the side of the street. And the old beggars are generally abused by the same overseers that exploit the children. By giving them change, you're perpetuating abuse. The few times we have given money, the car became surrounded by numerous emboldened beggars who saw one of their own get some rupees. That is an unpleasant experience.
We have learned not to give through the car window anymore.
I think everyone is indicted by the sad reality of the begging class, both those who prey upon them as well as those of us who make a habit of turning away.
With all of that said, reality can often interject the spectacular into even the most dismal situations. What follows is a touching and interesting experience I had recently.
One night when Khalil was driving me home we sat stopped at the intersection directly on the outskirts of HITEC. The sterile, monolithic, global hustle and bustle of the Indian programming boom is left behind, and with an immediate rawness, India welcomed me back into her multiple arms.
I decided to wait out the traffic by taking out the iPod and watching my favorite show, The Office. The view out the window had become mundane since our arrival a few months prior. I was way past gawking, and not even terribly interested in looking anymore. I had had a full day of meetings, discussions, analysis, and had read far too many e.mails. I simply wanted to watch Jim and Dwight spar on my favorite television program. I started to watch the episode. I was vegging out.
And then it happened.
Next to me, in the window, a small face pops into my field of view. The sun was setting, but it was light enough that I could make out the face of a boy no more than 10 years old, just a shade older than Aidan. He looked at me, making the sad face and moving his hand from my window back to his mouth again and again and again.
Tap, tap.
Look sad.
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.
Tap, tap.
Look even more sad.
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.
It’s his moment to sell his wares to me - his product is pity. I stared at him. The episode began. I ignored him by looking down at the iPod. He looked down at the iPod, too. We are both looking at Steve Carrell talk to the camera in the way that is typical on the show - the so-called "mockumentary".
The boy cups his hands up on the car window and leans in to get a better view. He is looking at the iPod and has stopped selling his wares. He just stares. I turn the iPod slightly toward him so he can have a better view. He can see clearly the face in the screen.
Scranton, meet Hyderabad.
Hyderabad, meet Scranton.
Glad to introduce you to each other.
A few seconds pass as the boy stares at the iPod in amazement. I am pretty sure he thinks that it is someone on the other end of the device talking to me. I smile and watch him watching the video. He looks up at me and smiles, then catches himself.
Tap, tap.
Look sad.
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.
Tap, tap.
Look even more sad.
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.
I give him a stern look and he stops. We exchange small smiles of appreciation. He seems happy to stop begging and catch another glimpse of the iPod. I am happy not to have to ignore his begging. I am not going to give him (or his overseer) any money tonight.
He cups his hands over his eyes again and watches a few more seconds of the show. Somewhere ahead a light turns green, or maybe it turns red. The precise color of the lights never seems to matter to the drivers of India, they proceed based upon very subjective measurements at every intersection. Perhaps a herd of cows had finally made it across the intersection where everyone stopped in shared reverence. Who knows. But we started moving. Something started forward motion. The honking starts. That was his queue to return to the median of the road, but he does not. I knock on the window and make a hand gesture that says, “watch out!”. He keeps looking at the iPod. I turn it away from him. He snaps to attention and looks at me, hurt. I point to the cars around him and wave my hands, telling him to get to the side. He flashes me a huge grin and puts his hands together in the traditional Indian fashion that can mean hello, thank you, or good bye. I do the same. He darts away as we pull off, and I see him get safely to the side of the road.
I have not seen him since. He is probably out there. Perhaps he has escaped his life as a child beggar. Our intersection that night was improbable to both of us. He almost certainly started his life in a rural village in Andhra Pradesh where there was no electricity and running water. He probably had not spent a single day of his life in a classroom. I, on the other hand, had spent my life free from virtually any form of want. Yet our lives intersected one night in a place foreign to both of us, where for a quick second we were shed of our differences and sat in mutual wonder.
Not all intersections are so touching. A few nights later I was at the same intersection at a late hour. It was completely dark outside and a knock came at the window on the other side of the car.
Tap, tap.
I glance over. By now I was an old pro at ignoring the beggars. Still, you cannot help but look for a brief second in the beginning. And what I saw could not be absorbed by a quick glance. I looked for a second and then glanced away. But I had to look back. It looked like the woman had white paint on her face. it was almost completely dark by that time of the day, so I could not be sure. It looked like two white stripes across the middle of her face. I looked again. Then I leaned forward to see what exactly the face was that was looking at me.
Tap, tap.
As I leaned forward, I saw a bit more clearly. Even with my glasses on, I had to squint. Then I had a rush of shock go through my body. It felt like ice water coursing through my head and spreading down my spine. The white stripes were her teeth. She had no lips. Her face was terribly burnt. Her eyes were peering out at me through scarred eyelids. Her face was horribly disfigured. Instead of a gasp, I exhaled loudly. It was an odd reaction, I am not sure why my body reacted that way. Perhaps I had muttered a word in the exhale. I am not sure. I was frightened and very sad, all at once.
Tara explained later that night that there is a phenomenon called bride burning here in India, wherein a bride-to-be is covered with petrol and set on fire if the dowry her family offers the bridegroom's family is deemed to be insufficient and insulting. This woman was almost certainly a burnt bride.
I have not seen her since.
These two examples, encountered at almost precisely the same place, serve to remind me that there is very little that is tepid about India. It is a land of extremes. The Eastern philosophies speak of a lotus arising from the mud. That is India. India provides you with touching things of beauty, and shocking things of a tragic sort. And both often come in the same packaging. Life in the US has become so controlled, so repeatable, so tidy, so marketed, so planned, so......
India, despite its voluminous business overtures to the developed world, is still a very raw place where life moves according to different rules, and at a different pace. It is a land that cannot be fathomed. It simply must be experienced, and experienced in the moment. And that experience will leave you forever altered. Forever.
