A quarter of the Indian population is deemed to live below the poverty line – “bpl” is the largest social category now. But the line itself is arbitrary, probably a statistical index based on some international standard of fixed income. Millions of people don’t reach that standard in a country where labour is plentiful and cheap, but they manage to get by under their own steam. Small trade, hawking, contractual labour or domestic help are usual modes of earning, and returns may be also in kind.
But for many others, poverty is the business project, milking the universal stereotype for all it's worth. After every natural disaster, scores of victims appear in localities. One such group of adults and children took up ‘residence’ on a busy street corner and soon began to terrorize passersby for alms. Encouraged by the adults with them, the small children ran on to the streets after auto-rickshaws, and other vehicles, to accost anybody alighting. Emboldened by people’s self-conscious compliance, the children grabbed hold of people’s hands, legs, bags, or clothes, refusing let go until some money changed hands. It had become an easy method of extortion.
But in size, the children were mostly under eye-level, and drivers couldn’t always spot them coming on to the road. In exasperation one day, I confronted the adult man with them that seemed in charge, about their antics. I began to tell him off soundly for his completely lax parenting skills, causing them to run wild and endangering the little ones. In the midst of my strident lecture, the man muttered that they were not his children. These people were not related to one another at all. They were professionals, con artists simply playing at being a destitute family, to profit off the national disaster.
On another day, I noticed an old woman standing alone at the crossroads. She was small, and the length of sari she had wrapped around her body and head, was well worn. Considering her age, it seemed a little odd that she had come out that early in the morning. Passers-by glanced at her as they went by, mildly curious as to whether she was lost or turned out of her home.
After sometime, she shuffled up to an older man that seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, a piteous expression on her face. The man was a little startled with her approach. She stood with drooping shoulders, but all the same, in his way. He fished in his pockets for some coins that he dropped on her palm and hurried away. She was not lost or anything. She was in her element, in the begging business. This crossroads was her beat for the morning, and she was working it well, getting several people to donate to her cause of being old.
I watched with interest. She told a white-haired man the poignant story of how she was forced to beg because her sons, controlled by their wives, had stopped caring for her. She went up to a young man next. But it was a mistake, and in a moment, she tried to get away from him. But he wasn’t about to let her off so easily. Why not, he called loudly after her; a little work won’t hurt you. You want money, don’t you? Come, sweep the floors, wash the bathrooms, you’ll get money. No work, no money. She turned away, pretending to be deaf.
She tottered over to a corner to regroup. Surreptitiously, she counted the money she had managed to collect. The notes in her hand might be enough for a couple of meals. She seemed to debate whether to push her luck or call it a day. The mean young man had lost interest in baiting her and was gone, so she turned around for another foray.
In the end, she encountered a lively young woman in a bright red and orange sari. She embarked on the tale that now that she was old, she couldn’t find work any more, nobody would employ her. You’re telling me, mother, the young woman said laughingly, I work too, you know. She reached inside her blouse and pulled out a small coin purse. She pressed some money into the beggar’s hands. If we don’t help one another, who else will help us?, she said cheerily to everybody else as she went on her way.
That empathetic sentiment must be counted on in target choosing. The art of begging in India seems to me to be somewhat like that of selling refrigerators to the Eskimo! Poverty is as universal here, as ice must be out there, hence to be convincing is not an easy task. The old woman didn’t go after anybody that was clearly well off, the joggers and walkers, for instance. No, her targets were the people of the harder working class, like the lower level office staff or domestic help, hurrying to get to their place of work before their employers arrived or left for theirs. She probably felt that they had more heart, and in most cases, she read them right.
I’m sure few on the beggars’ radar in India are particularly fooled by the sob stories dished out to them. They know the score, and yet they give, willing to share, although nigh have-nots themselves. If the rest of the world would look beyond the poverty in India, they could find juxtaposed with the dirty and ugly, an ample measure lesser know cultural traits of India to be really impressed with.
Firstly, social collectivism exists among the general populace, characterized by the truly hospitable spirit. They may be shy at first, but there is little hesitation to include others seemingly worse off within their universe. Ask them, and the gods will provide, they say with karmic conviction. And finally, deeply ingrained in the psyche is a stronger spiritual belief. They are brought up not to turn away anybody that come to their door. Who knows, God may appear at any time in the guise of a stranger. Every such encounter is a test, and none want to risk failing it.
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