The Little Girl

Haridwar is a place where India hits you right in the face. So much pain, suffering, and joy all intertwined. The colors, the music, the dirt, the filth, the grime, the Holy Ganges, the noise, the food, the smells, the cows, the Virgin Mobile signs, the temples, the rich, the poor, the barely existing on this earth, gathered together all in one spot. Kind of like an Indian version of Hollywood Boulevard.

There’s much more to Haridwar, but the beggars stand out to an American. Jezuz, looking at these guys made me want to smack the beggars I see in San Francisco and tell them they’re just pathetic posers.

Kovi surprised me by buying a bunch of beggars some tea a couple of times. He’d admonished me that I was giving too much money away when I gave 100 rupees. But this was good logic, he was buying them food directly. Even in India beggars sometimes just use the money for drugs.

The beggars in Haridwar seemed to come in three denominations. The first were the Sadhus, the holy men. With their robes and brightly painted faces they were the top level of beggar. But none of them struck me as particularly holy. Their aggressive begging and superior attitude put me off. They all looked healthy and strong. I never gave any of them money.

The second level were the general beggars, those who would hassle you continuously, follow you around, watch to see if you gave anybody money, and pounce if you showed any sign of weakness. This might include children as well. But I always looked at the clothes and health. Some of them were well fed or had clean colorful clothing. These too I generally avoided.

The third level were the mind bogglingly lowly semi-human refuse who’s presence made you feel ashamed to be so filthy rich. I saw one old woman absolutely covered in flies, and I mean a hundred flies, sitting with her palm out, in true need. Sweet death lurked nearby.

The next day I had purchased a carrot and I passed by her while she slept. She was covered up in her rags, but one hand stuck out. I figured putting money in her hand would be stolen or blow away, but perhaps a carrot would be a good gift when she awoke. I placed it in her hand and the other beggars watched me. Would they steal her carrot?

Nope. I ended up passing by the same way an hour later and the old woman was still asleep, carrot in hand. I guess there’s honor among beggars.

I saw no less than two crippled guys on what could only be described as large skateboards, making their way through the crowds. One guy was lying face down, moving a small begging bowl in front of him, then pushing himself with his arms forward through the crowd. I believe he was reciting prayers. This was the only guy I saw Indian’s giving money to.

There was one blind beggar singing songs and strumming on an instrument. He reminded me of my Eastern Religions instructor in college. He’d been in seminary school and just before graduation had taken an Eastern Religions class that had opened his eyes. He’d quit everything and made his way to India, living like an Indian, not an American.

At one spot he’d seen a blind beggar woman holding a bowl, smiling, and singing hymns to Krishna.

“In her face, was a joy that I’ve never known”, he said, obviously jealous.

He’d made his way to a famous guru who had literally thousands of people showing up for a special gathering. He’d been thinking that morning that things were crowded, he’d seen what he came to see, and he should leave the next day, but he didn’t mention this to anyone, besides he didn’t know anybody anyway.

The guru had come by giving some blessed cow dung ash, vibuthi, to everyone as they knelt in rows. Yes, you read that right, the ash is holy apparently, I forget, but I think you’re supposed to eat it.

When the guru got to my instructor he stopped and said, “I understand you’re leaving us tomorrow” and smiled. My instructor was dumbstruck and the guru moved on. Some gurus are genuine.

My instructor eventually embraced Buddhism got married and settled down. He told his wife that he loved her unconditionally, there was nothing she could do that would change his mind. Then about five years in, he converted to Catholicism. He said he had to get back to Christianity by an Eastern route.

At about the same time his wife told him she wanted to have sex with other men, after all, he’d always said she could do anything and he’d love her. He was shocked and couldn’t give his consent.

“I liked you better as a Buddhist”, she said, and left. I guess even unconditional love has it’s limits.

I made sure to give the blind beggar coins so he’d know what he got.

How much to give people weighed heavily on my mind. Crossing a bridge I’d seen a guy missing both hands. I held out a 100 rupee note (only $2, but again, a day’s pay in India, I didn’t dare give away more or I might be torn limb from limb, plus I didn’t carry much cash myself) and he pinched it between his two stumps.

“Your parents cut off both your hands so you’d be a more successful beggar”, I thought, “Good God, aren't you the lucky one”.

Walking on the bridge out of Haridwar I saw a young disheveled girl, possibly six, who looked maybe four, working like a dog creating small ochre colored trinkets for the tourists. She was the same age as my cute, little, slightly spoiled, blond haired, blue eyed, niece who lives in Palo Alto, a few blocks from Steve Jobs, and who’s biggest care in the world is that her shoes match her dress.

I asked the little girl for permission to take a picture and she gave me the Indian head bob. I took a couple of quick pictures, and gave her some rupees, but it is hard to even take pictures of such suffering. It seems such a violation of people’s dignity.

She did not look happy. I doubt she ever played much. She had probably been working as soon as she was old enough. To quote Neil Young, this little girl will never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool. She will be doing this her whole life. She’ll be married off to somebody else in the same straits as her, probably immediately after puberty, and have some kids who will end up working just as hard as her at just as young an age. I saw no sign of her parents, she knew her job and was doing it.

I never tried to look away, but I never stared at anybody’s misery either.
But when you’re looking at a little six year old girl,
working in one hundred degree heat,
covered in ochre dust,
doing the same thing she did yesterday to be able to eat,
and you know she’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow,
and she won’t have a day off from her toil,
because when you’re poor there are no weekends,
or holidays,
to relax,
kick back,
pop a coke,
and enjoy a birthday party;
you can’t actually stop to think about it,
because you realize there’s virtually nothing you can do,
you know she’ll haunt you the rest of your days,
but you can’t sweep her up in your arms and rescue her,
it’s not allowed,
she has a life,
parents,
a culture,
a government;
so you have to close down your heart,
swallow your anger,
sigh at the futility of it all,
and walk away,
otherwise you would just sit down and cry.

And never stop.