Alms With A Difference

 A young girl, a tiny child beggar, and the tender bond that develops between the two...

That was a very beautiful story, which could so well be true - Zephyr

There was always a high flow of foot traffic on that bridge in Mumbai for it was the link from the suburb of East to West Dadar. 

Vaishali, a small speck at the foot of the bridge, eyed it stretching away endlessly, weighed down with noisy traffic, pedestrians, vendors, dust, the heat…Slipping her hands under the straps of her heavy backpack she massaged her shoulders.

Go on then, she urged herself. The trick is to keep moving. 

Bringing her hands behind her back and under the bag, she gave it a hoist and took a determined step up the bridge. That hurdle overcome she settled into a comfortable rhythm - left then right, left-right. Her mind took over, events of the day crowding out the sheer drudge of walking up, then down that bridge

Her mind was on Sandeep. She had known for weeks their relationship wasn’t working.

This must end, she had thought. But how?

It had been surprisingly easy. They’d broken up at the end of the day. ‘It’s not working for me, Vaishu,’ he’d said regretfully.

There it was. The inevitable. It still came as a shock. She had a momentary panic attack. What would she do without having a nice, strong, dependable arm to lean on? Or a partner to take her to the movies? Should she pretend not to understand what he was talking about?

NO. That would be cowardly. And unfair to them both. 

Without admitting it wasn't working for her either, she had quietly agreed.

Were they making a huge mistake? Was it her imagination or had he held on to her hand a moment longer than necessary? Her heart full of doubt she’d watched him turn away, before walking out those huge college gates herself.

Right now, on her way back home, she admitted to herself that it was a blow to her ego. And inconvenient. Nothing more. Half way up Tilak Bridge she acknowledged the guilty sense of relief that was beginning to suffuse her being.

I'll survive, she thought, a sudden spring in her step, knowing she shouldn't feel so ridiculously happy. If only I didn't have to face those pitying looks from the others, she thought, her feet slowing down. I know, she thought, perking up again. I won't tell them. Not yet.. 

They’d been together for two years. It had crept upon her gradually that there were certain things about him she didn’t like. Where once she couldn’t wait to get to college simply to be at the receiving end of that lazy smile through, oh those heavenly, even white teeth, she had started seeing past that.

Why couldn’t she ignore the little things he did? Like laughing at just about everyone and expecting her to laugh with him?  She felt a twinge of embarrassment every time he did that and her gaze became shifty. When the animated conversations about life, their hopes, their dreams gave way to gossip, that’s when she should have ended it. Somedays when they were by themselves, she found herself surreptitiously checking her mobile to see if there were texts from friends. Anyone. Even her mum, for goodness’ sake. 

It was difficult for Sandeep not to be admired. The result was inevitab...

 Vaishali jumped, coming back to the present with a fright. Was that a creepy crawly that had brushed against her leg? A cockroach? She shuddered. She hated cockroaches. With a half-strangled sound, she bent down to flick wildly at her leg. She stopped herself just in time as she saw a tiny hand, the tiniest she'd ever seen, withdraw in fright. It belonged to a child beggar. He'd barely brushed it against her leg to catch her attention.

For a second, reacting to the fright he'd given her she had this urge to yell at the little boy. Sanity restored, she looked at him again. He was a boy of about three or four. Exhaling on a shaky breath she would’ve continued on her way - such things happened on Mumbai roads all the time - but he had such a quality of vulnerability that without realising what she was doing, she stopped. She looked at the child beggar, not knowing what to do. 

This was a gut reaction. It wasn't the face she'd trained herself to present to beggars. However persistently they invaded her space, however much they touched her with their dirty, grubby hands she kept walking, never looking at them, her face carefully blank, her pace neither quickening nor slowing. After about five minutes of this - their insistent touching as they tried to force her to look at them, and her determination not to, they ran off to harass another, more likely victim. They never realised how close she came to caving in.

In the eighties she used to give money to the few beggars on Bombay roads. But, almost overnight, their numbers had increased. Begging had become a whole new industry - that of gangs organising poor and deprived kids into a beggar's brigade. There were too many and they had started using tactics of harassment to get her to cough up. She would recoil wherever she felt a beggars’ army of persistent hands on her person but she’d decided she was better off holding on grimly to her lost-in-thought demeanour and measured walk.

Today was different. After that one touch, the little child did not touch her again. He sat there, frozen, except for his huge eyes, not beseeching - the look these beggars normally assumed - but slightly fearful, slightly curious and very hopeful - a look that somehow pulled at her heartstrings.

Vaishali knew so many reasons why she ought not to shell out to this beautiful, dirt-streaked baby and yet, she was driven to. She wanted to wipe the sadness and fear off the little upturned face, the obvious hunger. He still hadn't acquired the streetwise cunning she knew would mar his face before long - a beseeching face for people like her and a knowing, sideways glance for his beggar friends.

As she went for her purse, she realised there was probably a gang of other kids watching out for suckers just like her. 

She suddenly knew what she must do. She clamped shut her coin purse and marched across to one of the street vendors standing not too far away. She bought a batata wada. She cautioned the vendor not to put any chutney in the bread. After her tiff with Sandeep, the two hadn't ended up at the canteen for a coffee and she luckily had some pocket money to spare. She picked out the visible chillies from the vada with her fingers, went back to the child and handed it to him. He accepted it with excited eyes and a beaming smile. She stood there watching over him while he ate – quick, tiny little bites. One of the other beggars tried to approach her. She stopped him with a fierce look. There was something so formidable about her blazing eyes that he did not dare.

She was aware that the other pedestrians had started noticing her.  Some looked at her with interest, but most had cynicism writ large on their faces. What a foolish young woman, those faces seemed to say. Perhaps she thinks she can change the world. 

Vaishali reached home on a high. She was happier than she'd been in a long time. Not only was she rid of Sandeep, she had watched a young child finish half a vada and put away the other half for later. For the first time in a long while, he would've been too full to finish what was on his plate.

*****

Jeevan, for that was the young child's name, didn’t remember feeling so full and content. He slept. Waking up at around 6 pm, he fished out the other half vada and hiding it in his beggar’s cloth which was normally spread out before him to collect coins flicked down by one or two passers-by, ate it. He knew his minder would come around dusk to take him away and he didn't want to have to share even a crumb with anyone.

So that's how batata vadas tasted. He had always smelt them but this was the first time he'd had one. It was delicious. His minders only gave him watery daal. He normally went to bed hungry. But not tonight. In fact, he couldn't have eaten a morsel of that daal, so full was he.

The young lady came every day after that. She was careful never to give him money but always brought him a slice of bread or roti with a dry sabzi in it. It was packed in newspaper. It was half her lunch. She liked to think he looked forward to their little tryst as much as she did. Within a couple of days, she thought she saw a change in him. His pallid face now looked like it had a bit of colour and his eyes were definitely brighter. Whenever he saw her, he stood up in anticipation and pleasure. They exchanged smiles. With tenderness in her eyes, she gave him the packet she'd lovingly prepared for him.

The other beggars kept away. It wasn’t food their minder was interested in. It was money. And she had none to spare.

Vaishali watched as the little boy opened the packet and peeked inside. With a shy smile at her he bit into his little wrap, his beedi-bati. She waited patiently as without looking up again, he finished it. Bending down, she patted his head. A spring in her step she went on her way.

Vaishali knew she wanted to do much more for this child but didn't know what else she could do or who she could approach. These were the seventies, well before the internet revolution. Her wish remained locked away in her heart, pushed to the back of her mind the minute she reached college.

Over the weekend, with so much on her mind, Vaishali forgot the child. She didn't remember the little boy until the weekend was gone. Her mind on what she would tell her best friend about her break up, she started out for college on Monday. 

I can't keep it a secret much longer, she thought. I'll have to tell. 

As she reached the bridge, she knew she'd forgotten something. With a sinking heart she remembered what it was. She hurried back home, picked a sheet of newspaper and hurried out again. Out of sight of her house but still within the boundaries of her housing colony, she opened her lunch box with fingers that shook and rolled some of the sabzi into one roti for the little child. Her heart hammering, she wondered how she could have forgotten the boy. She tried to imagine his reaction. He would've felt so let down. Perhaps, she thought without hope, he didn't beg over the weekend. Thoughts of Sandeep had all but flown. Her breath escaping on a sob she thought, to have given someone so young, hope, and then to let him down so badly. 

She hurried back to the bridge. With an anxious heart she rushed to the spot where he normally sat. He wasn't there. 

She traced her steps back. He wasn't there. 

He is so tiny he's easy to miss, she thought, not wanting to give up hope. Eyes beginning to fill with tears she crossed the bridge, uncaring of the squeal of brakes and angry honking from a car that almost ran her over. Of course he wasn't there.

I'll be late for my lecture. He must be on the other side. That's where we've always had out evening trysts. Trysts! 

She laughed, aware that she was drawing attention to herself. It had been what? Four whole five-minute encounters? No, meetings? No, definitely trysts. Minutes full of love. And concern. Vague fears at the back of her mind for when she had to leave him every day. She rubbed hard at the solitary tear that had run down her cheek unnoticed, but was now tickling her nose. Those minutes spent with the tiny boy had impacted her more than two whole years spent with Sandeep. 

I'll find him on our side. I'm sure I will. Just further down the bridge. I'll spot his dear little face searching the crowds for me, and when he sees me his eyes will light up with hope and excitement. I'll scold him for not being at our usual place. Then I'll laugh to show everything is fine. 

With fear deep in the pit of her stomach she crossed over. He wasn't there.

She reached college on feet that felt like lead. Her friend, who'd heard Sandeep talk about his break up with Vaishali, took one look at her pain ravaged face and knew with a sinking heart it was all true.

***

The child sat on the new road his minder told him was much better than the old bridge. His stomach hurt with hunger. He knew he would get his daal only if he earned his keep. With desperate and beseeching eyes he touched the feet of a passerby. The woman expertly twisted her legs to avoid his grubby little fingers and having succeeded, triumphantly walked on

                                     ***  

       

                                      

This story was written as far back as 2012. It is easy to give a coin and feel good about ourselves. Life is busy and it is harder to prepare a newspaper puda of something to eat and give that instead. Who knows, if the idea goes viral, it might bust the Dickensian gangs that exploit these young, vulnerable kids.

Here's an article in The Hindu to help you decide if sometimes you'd like to make an exception.

Vaishali's face: Thank you Brooke Cagle at Unsplash.com

Child Beggar: (Help me find and acknowledge this photographer, someone)

Photograph of Tilak Bridge: The Asian Age.

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