The Beggar Gang
Not everything is as it seems
Calcutta, 1991
It was a hot morning, and I was sitting with my small dog Afrika by an open-air chai station in the Calcutta Maidan. We had arrived ten days before, but five were spent in the room due to some contaminated food I ate on my first lunch. Everything still baffled us – people’s clothing, face markings and jewelry, shops and touts, wandering cows and their excrement, holy trees and ancient shrines, political and Bollywood posters, plus the beggars of course, pestering me every inch of the way. We had been in warzones filled with limbless beggars, and we had been in filthy overcrowded slums, but the level of poverty we encountered in Calcutta surpassed anything we ever witnessed before. Especially the sick beggars: the lepers, the limbless, the deformed. Many seemed to live a sub-human existence, and there were rumors about the worst-looking ones being part of a criminal ‘beggar ring’ which abducted children, purposefully deformed them, and then forced them to beg.
The tea at the stall was spicy and sweet, reminding me of the chai I used to drink along the east African coast. Pakoras were being fried, and Afrika was eating the second one. It was a busy week morning, with rivers of people walking the dusty park lanes to and from a nearby tram station.
Along one of these lanes lay a man without legs. Or rather, his legs were folded over his back so that his feet rested on each side of his face. He lay belly down, his arms straight to the side, his face scratching against the gravel as he moved it from side to side. Next to him was a large tin plate full of coins, and he was singing what sounded like a delirious tune. Some people dropped a coin, but most passed without even looking, and when the crowd was thick, some people actually walked over him as if he was a piece of wood.
I wanted to help, but what to do? He must be one of those crippled slaves, I thought, how else would he get in and out of the park? Giving him money was only going to enrich the gangsters—I had to do something different. Food? I could buy him some pakoras, but it didn’t seem enough. After much thinking, I decided to take him to Mother Theresa, whom I knew by fame only. She would take care of him, I was sure, give him a new life.
Walking over, I knelt to the ground and asked him if he was interested to go. He didn’t understand, so I stopped a passerby who translated my request. The reply was exuberant, “Yes! He would like to go to Mother Theresa.”
I went to a parking lot full of auto, cycle, and human-powered rickshaws, where I tried to convince the drivers to give me a hand. They were uninterested, but I insisted until a cycle driver agreed. He was expensive, but I was now on a righteous mission, and didn’t care. In fact, I paid him extra to pick the man up, hiring a second driver to help him.
They walked over to the man, asked again if he wanted to go to Mother Theresa, and brought him to the rickshaw, positioning him upright on the floor, back against the bench, legs curved backwards on one side. I sat on the bench, and we took off, the driver pedaling slowly, then faster.
Meanwhile, I felt exceptionally proud of myself—the heroine saving a tormented human being. Actually making a difference, so early in the journey.The rickshaw driver stopped to get some paan to chew, and while he was gone I asked the beggar: ”Mother Theresa?” His eyes shone with expectation, and his nodding clearly indicated a yes.
When the driver came back he gave us a sardonic look, barely containing a smile. We resumed the journey, cycling for half an hour at least because it turned out that Mother Theresa was on the other side of town. Throughout it I felt like a queen on a parade, my ego hitting new highs.
We arrived in a quiet alley, one side of which was taken over by a long brick wall. There were some steps leading to a door, and I went to knock, and knock, and knock, until a nun opened it. I explained my mission, she replied that they didn’t take beggars, and tried to slam the door in my face. I exploded, keeping the door open by force, insisting that mine was a special case. She came outside reluctantly, and spoke to the beggar.
“He’s a professional!” she said after a while in a I-told-you-so tone. “Has five children to send to school, and one daughter is about to marry. He needs money for dowry.”
What? “But he was happy to come,” I stuttered.
“He thought we were giving things away, that’s why! And now he’s angry, because, look at all the money he lost. You have to bring him back from where you found him, and pay him for the time he wasted coming here.”
What? “But it’s on the other side of town, I already spent a fortune bringing him here!”
“That’s your problem, He wants 200Rps for the trouble, and you pay for the rickshaw,” she concluded quite roughly, then turned around and left.
I paid the beggar, and asked the rickshaw driver to take him back. He sniggered, and took my money with glee. He probably knew all along. I walked aimlessly for about an hour, then caught another rickshaw home.
The whole thing cost me four days rent, but I learned that even the most degraded-looking beggar was a human being who could be proud of himself, and that If I wanted to understand India I had to look beyond appearances. The process opened the door of the heart, through which I bypassed my cultural preconceptions. This opening, this movement beyond prejudices, is one of the many invaluable lessons I learned in India.
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