“Dont touch me, your baby doesn’t need milk powder”
This girl seems happy, not exploited.
But looks aren’t always what’s important. Read on for more thoughts on exploitation and my growing cynacism.
The above child is making bread on the streets of Rishikesh. While Akalu and the story I am about to narrate truly saddened and angered me, I find myself becoming slightly jaded, and cynical, able to ignore beggars whose stories I think false. Ironically, or perhaps, realistically, as part of me is able to scurry past a man with one arm, or learn to look out for potential followers, the other aspect is able to take great joy from buying ice cream cones for rag-pickers, or other such smal l gifts, that, in the past might have been overshadowed with worrrying about the greater political implications of their conditions and my reactions.
Today i saw the saddest thing i have thus far in India, along with Chottu, the main two children whom I’ve allowed to touch me. We were in a rikshaw from the Delhi Train station and slowed at a light. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a girl, maybe 8 (thus probably about 12 in reality) years old catch a glimplse of our white skin, her eyes going wide. As our rikshaw sped on i signed unconciously, not having to deal with a barefoot child running into the 6 land traffic after us, to beg, as is occasionally the custom. At the next light I saw her next to us on the grass. Her dirty hair in braids, face painted in messy blotches with circus-esque face-paint, a big red smudge on her chin in the remains of a cicle. She did a panicked routine for us, before the light changed, her eyes in a panicked, wide state, starring alternately at us to make sure we watched, and at a nearby adult, to perhaps gain approval. First she bent backwards in a quick backhandspring, slightly off center, twirled in a cartwheel and did some contortion bringing her whole body through a medal ring. She then did a quich hands-on hip up and down dance move, made pittifully pathetic without music, performed on the street corner. Then she ran over to us, expectant. She wanted money of course. When she approaced our rikshaw i saw that under the paint her skin had rough rashes or pimples.Her hair was matted light brown, as only occurs to neglected children, whose black shine disappears. I offered her the two mangoes I’d been craving since that morning (big deal) she looked disappointed, vasi gave her some crackers. It was easy to follow the rule of not giving money to beggars, and though not technically a beggar, should I support this? Would she be punished for not bringing in money? Would giving her money send the message that watching exploited children is a favorite pastime of foreigners? Most likely a parent/other adult would take the money and for their own good (or bad as the case may be). Whatever the situation it broke my heart, and I pushed it out of my mind. The idea that watching a small girl jump around and twist her body would provide us entertainment is so ironic, when we would only want to pay out of pity, to make it stop. For a pathetically and sickenly appropropriate anology, it’s like pet stores that sell dogs. I know that the puppies come from puppy mills and supporting such terrible practices and yet on an individual level you want to pay to help just one puppy, or to make one girl happy and not think about “the system”.
In the past the idea of vacationing in INdia seemed blasphemous. There is so much need, that eating, shopping and sight-seeing would fill me with guilt. Now, im ashamed to say, I don’t have a problem eating at nice restarants and quickly walking past beggars. If I can I buy them fruit or bread or use my hindi to tell the woman begging for milk for her baby that I know she will sell the powder. compared to other trips, or perhaps because now I can communicate better, I really havent been lied to that much this trip, but still find myself feeling somehow entitled “why wont they leave us alone? Okay, quickly walk over to the left around that bull, yeah, I think we can avoid being hassled then.” I dont feel guilty walking home with my bags of vegetables and a pair of 2$ pants (well maybe i little or i might not be writing this)– perhaps a self protection mechanism to make it from one end of the street to the other, or just time in INdia? .
Yesterday we walked down the ghats in Haridwar as thousands of pilgrims in a fair-like atmosphere bathed/swam/partied in the ganges. A 15 year old boy, healthy by any measure kept shoving an equally healthy baby at me telling me it needed milk and then he put his hand on my arm as I tried to ignore him. Finally the pushing and lies and shear overwhelm of the maze got to me, I turned around sharply, threw his arm off of me and VERY stearnly told him “NO.” He got the message and disappeared in the crowd. I dont think my behaviour was necessarily out of line, but my anger surprised me. I want to be compassionate, even to those i give to. Many INdians make a good example of lovingly giving to those in need, and my welling anger at the boy, or the way I’d started to dismissively hand out fruit, afraid of being asked for more are disturbing. Conscious of this, when i gave out a mango to a woman at the train station, i made sure to look her in the eye and try to smile. She didn’t, in this case smile back,but that shouldnt be my concern, I should smile first.
Tags: India, Travel
nabrams
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