About beggars and begging...

The traffic light displayed a red-lit hand, which meant 'Don't cross the street’. This was for the pedestrians like me, trying to cross the street of the Minneapolis downtown.
The cold winds of sub zero temperatures blew lightly, slithering amidst the skyscrapers of the downtown, brushing against my face, leaving an unpleasant cold feeling.
My hands were getting colder by each passing moment, in the below freezing surroundings. 'Do I just run across the road? Anyway there was no car approaching this way,' I thought, but did not dare to do that, because the speeding American cars appearing at a distance, were moving at high speeds.
"Excuse me, sir," I heard a gruff voice at my back.
I turned to see a huge man, unkempt white beard, a bashed nose emerging out of a pockmarked dusky face, leaning on a pair of crutches. He wore huge, heavy jackets, and had one leg in a wrapped around bandage.
He murmured something at me.
Eh? Was he asking me money????
"Whatzat?" I shot out the question at him.
"Can you spare a dollar?" he raised his voice. This time, it was very clear.
WHAT THE...??? He was begging.
‘Boss!!! This is the US. Don't you know??? This is the richest country in the world. ‘
Nope, I did not say any of those words.
I turned back towards the merciless traffic light. It had not yet permitted me to cross that empty street.
Suddenly, a girl attired in long, black coat whizzed past me, onto the street, crossing it at quick steps.
I had been standing here all the while, respecting the traffic light, and this girl just does not care???
And I always thought that girls are more docile.
"SAY YES OR NO," the gruff voice of the man was raised this time, behind my back.
I was surprised by his egoistical cry for help. I turned back to him, and threw a 'no'.
As I got down from the pavement, to cross the street even at the 'red hand' of the traffic light, I began thinking 'Where was his car?'

'Where was his car? Where was his car? Where was his car?' A random question was circling amidst the network of gray matter in my brain. Why should I care about where his car was? He was a beggar. He would not even have a car. He was using crutches to support himself. Would he have a car?
WHY SHOULD I CARE? WHY IS THIS QUESTION HITTING MY HEAD?
Well, before I confuse you more with these lines inspired by Ludlum's 'The Bourne Identity', let's go a bit to the past.

Twenty years deep down the memory lane.....

The gang was seated in a circle. Owner Dwarka (because his father was the owner of our rented houses), kalla Loki (he was popular for stealing), gonne Smitha (you guessed it!!! she had a flowing nose), jagalganti Sandhya ( we fought tooth and nail), and Vidya (the good looking good girl, so what if she was an year senior to me ;-) ), and the new kid on the block, me, all under 10 years of age, were seated in a circle discussing current events.
The event was the fat desi doctor, who had come to take his mother back to Canada. The mother was a nice old lady, who had been our neighbor, for the whole of my life.....err...which was six years.
"Where's Canada?" I asked owner Dwarka.
"America kano," uttered Loki.
"Oh!" I said, not to appear ignorant. Who the hell knew what America was? Atleast Canada sounded familiar, as it rhymed with my native language Kannada.
"What is special about America?" Sandhya asked, displaying her ignorance. I looked at her with a 'don't you even know that' stare.
"Lots of cars," said Loki. "Everyone has a car, even the poor," he said.
Ah! This was interesting. "What about beggars???" I put in a question, just to appear inquisitive, and intelligent.
"Even beggars have cars," Loki uttered with a tone of finality.
Oh!Gawd!!! This had to be an awesome. America!!! Even the beggars had cars!!! This is one place I had to visit, I decided then. I could already picture myself, wearing yellow shirt, dark sunglasses, in a green Premiere Padmini, going around begging with a dented aluminum bowl.

That summer, on an evening, I found myself in the Premiere Padmini. But no, I was not dressed in any of the handsome attires I mentioned before. I sat in the passenger seat of my grandpa's car, along with my cousin, as he drove around the unkempt roads of the beautiful, little town of Sagar, in Karnataka.
Due to the popular festival celebrated there, the 'Maari Jaathre', a lot of people were scampering around in the ocean of humans on one of the narrow, but busiest road of the town.
My grandpa, who was declared by the local junta to be an ace on the wheels, the first person to have bought a 'Ford' car in the Shimoga district of the past, was deftly handling the old car, honking occasionally (most of these legends about him were secrets, only known to few in the family..heh heh ). And suddenly, a light thud was felt.
A lean, dark man in plain clothes was getting up, bathed in the bright lights of the car's headlamps. Had the car just hit him?
"Get out, get out," screamed another man, who appeared from nowhere, amidst the crowd, and started thumping on the front of the car.
Grandpa asked my cousin and me, to remain calm in the car, and got down to talk.
"Horn maadbekuri ('You should have sounded the horn')" the vociferous man screamed, as the one who was supposedly hurt stood watching blankly, as though he was the third umpire.
"I was honking throughout," my grandpa said, politely.
"Look, look, how badly he is hurt," the rude man pulled up the leg of the other (hurt?) man, caught off guard.
"Where?" my grandpa asked.
In the diffused light, reflected by the light clothes of the dark people, who had gathered in front of the headlights of the car, everyone was examining the exquisite foot of the victim.
Nope. The crowd decided that his foot could not match the beauty of Sridevi's. (She was the hot favorite then).
Then, the million pairs of eyes turned towards us, the caged duo that had been scared to the bones.
"I am not very much hurt, sir," we could hear the man saying. "Just a little hurt here."
"What is there? Nothing," declared my grandpa.
"He needs to go the doctor, give him hundred rupees," the loud man screamed.
"Why? Doctor charges ten rupees," my grandpa argued.
"What if he has to go to another doctor, if first doctor is not good?" the man argued.
"Let him go to the second doctor first," my grandpa raised his voice.
The rough man banged on the car in frustration, and disappeared into the crowd.
Now, the he-damsel in distress had no one to help. The male-damsel with the hurt foot turned to my grandpa. "I can adjust with ten rupees," he said.
"I will give you nothing," grandpa declared, as he got into the car.
"Sir, please," the man appeared at the window, "give me ten rupees. I will go to only one doctor."
"I said, I won't give you anything," my grandpa said.
"Ok, give me at least two rupees for a coffee," he begged.
Grandpa started the car, and honked his way out of the crowd.

Small town fool!!! He would never have had the chicanery to beg in style. May be, one day, he would visit the 'onsite' of beggars, the place of the 'gold rush' of all the beggars of South India, Bangalore. I did read it somewhere in the recent past that, Bangalore's tolerance towards beggars has attracted vagabonds from all the neighboring states.
But, none can match this one guy, with a weird had, coat, and a shabby suit in Lalbagh, ten years later.
I always expected to meet some beautiful people on my early morning jogging sessions at Lalbagh, but always ended up meeting late Dr 'H Narasimhaiah', the then President of the board of my high school, in my teens. But, my persistence paid off, on this sunny Sunday of Bangalore's typical winter, when a beautiful lass in tracksuit was catching her breath, seated on one of the benches beside the lake.
Suddenly, I calculated her distance from me, and incrementally decreased the pace so that it appears natural that I look exhausted by the time I reach the bench.
As I sat on the bench, I observed that she was smiling at her Nokia, reading some message.
Now, that was an old model of Nokia, or my question would have been, "Nice phone. Is that the new model?"
"One rupee please," I heard the melodious voice on my other side. With a sudden jerk, I turned, to see a man in a shabby suit, and other descriptions above, holding his hat, asking for money.
He even had a friendly smile pasted on his lips.
This man, however shabby, was wearing a SUIT!!! Dear god!!! I never had a suit in my life.
And as a matter of fact, at that moment, I DIDN'T HAVE ONE RUPEE IN MY POCKET !!!
Suddenly, I saw a hunk appear in blue tracksuit. He threw himself beside the girl, who looked at him with such an extreme smile, that it could not be sisterly love which the optimist in me was hoping for.
The beggar in the shabby suit immediately turned towards the hunk, and held out his hat, with the same 'One rupee please' and a smile.
Even the beggar had dumped me!!!
'The one with the beautiful girl by his side, grabs all the attention' the thought for the day.

Many more years later, it was yet another day, when such a group of beautiful girls of my high school class team were playing basketball. The ball went out of the court, but was caught by one of the hoodlums of the neighboring college, ogling at the girls. After verbally harassing the girls, the ball was given back to them.
This angered the gladiator in me. But, I kept my calm.
The girls exit the court, and stood at the side, as we boys began to practice.
Once again, the ball went to one of the hoodlums. The lanky guy holding the ball, wanted to show off his masculinity in front of the girls team.
I marched ahead and grabbed the ball.
SLAP!!! Suddenly, I felt my head whirl, as I realized that it was due to a swing by the lad at my face.
I swung my hand with a reflex at his face, which caught the lad off guard.
The next moment, I realized what had happened, and I regretted. He had a gang behind him!!!
The lad took sometime to recover from the shock, and then came out to flog me. But my team held him back, and pacified him for the day.
A few days of alertness, not going alone and other 'careful actions' followed. But, one day he caught me alone.
Nope, he did not hit me.
He fished out a battered watch. "This is original branded watch. It costs 250 rupees in America. Please take this, and give me 250 rupees." Was he asking me money?
"I do not need the watch. I have my Indian watch," I said, showing my cheap Chinese imitation from the sweaty shops of Hong Kong bazaar.
Then he fished out worn out photocopies of some receipts. "My mother is admitted to a hospital. Can you please buy this watch for me?" he begged.
It was a privilege to be begged by the KCBR (Kalaspalya Certified Bangalore Rogue).
Suddenly, an idea out of an old Kannada movie struck me. "No. I will not buy the watch. But, you can have 50 rupees, as loan. You can repay me when your mother is out of the hospital," I said.
He was full of gratitude for my loan. The risk was just fifty bucks.
In the next few days, I realized that the lad had no plans to return the money. But, one of the girls in the team, who had adored my valor, helped me out by letting me into the network of local hoodlums, through her boy friend. The leader of the gang (college dropouts) wanted to help me out, as he did not believe in harassing innocent students.
He said that he could not order the lad to return the money, because they were on the same side. But, he let me on the info that the lad had taken up employment in a neighboring cloth store, and also enlightened me about the lad's glorious past with previous employers.
I used the information of 'historical significance' to blackmail the hoodlum lad to give me back my money.
Also, I got a free coffee along with the return of my money.

It was yet another day in the life of a software engineer, on a dusty evening, when I got down from my company vehicle, at the hundred feet road. As the vehicle moved away, I planned to cross the busy road (yessir, in Bangalore, you need good plans to cross the roads). Just then, a bearded man in sleazy clothes appeared beside me.
He gestured that he was hungry and needed something to eat.
His face was weathered, with thick eyebrows and a beard, which was beginning to gray.
This man could not have been more than in his early forties. He would have the strength to earn his bread, wouldn't he? Was it so very difficult to earn two square meals in Bangalore, while the Prime Minister was eating up the microphone with his long speeches about Bangalore spearheading the economic boom in India?
Ok, lemme not boast about my knowledge towards economy and finance, as I knew that if all my credit card companies wanted to settle my accounts on the spot, I will have to join this noble man as an assistant.
"Come," I said, "I will get you something to eat," as I led him towards a nearby bakery. I bought half a pound of bread, and turned to him.
"Oota," he mustered to say, gesturing as before. Oh! He did not want 'something' to eat. He wanted a full meal.
I was getting a little suspicious.
I led him to a hotel beside the bakery. "What will you have?" I asked him standing at the cashier, with my wallet ready.
"Give me money. I will buy something," he said.
"No," I said, "I will not give you money. I can get you something to eat here," I said firmly.
"Money," he changed his gestured.
"No, I can get you something to eat if you want," I said.
Sulking, he turned the other way, and walked away.
Though there could be a hundred possibilities, which could be attributed to his behavior, I felt that I had saved a few rupees from going into the liquor store, incidentally, just beside the hotel.

I do not hate beggars.
In a country, which has been told to dream of becoming a 'developed' nation in a few years, since more than a few decades now, where development in economy is sheer numbers and not the development of the quality of life of its citizens, where the money has been flowing in, only to increase the disparity between the different social sectors of the society, I cannot hate beggars.
As I cannot expect them to borrow, and am not comfortable to support stealing, I am in agreement with their begging. As I have been lucky enough to get a better life, and a few rupees more than I need for my basic existence, I can afford to lend a bit in my own way. But just take in a few precautions not to be cheated.


Often, I have been told that I am not helping anybody by encouraging begging.
Yes, I am a fool. I am no revolutionist. And I have no illusions that I had ruined the chances of the beggars, building a 'Reliance' or a 'Tata' out of vengeance, if I had not helped them. Life goes on for them, whether I help them or not. The difference is, for me. The acts of kindness are for my satisfaction.

I never had felt better, than when I was able to help out an old couple that had approached me during a hectic event that I was attending. I took them over to a nearby bakery, and bought them a pound of freshly baked bread. The smile of gratitude from the couple had made my day.

I am just a normal person, as selfish as anybody, but do not hesitate to lend a rupee to the poor lady at the traffic light, carrying her kid, if it would help her lead a decent life rather than getting into the indecent world.

Let me know what you think.

Have a great day.

With warm regards,
Teju