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SOCIETY
MUMBAI - SIGHTS AND SOUNDS
BY JM
Beggars in Mumbai : Good, bad and the ugly
Afternoon, around 3.00 PM. A beggar boy, aged 7-10 years, is unwilling to board the train. His elder 'brother', standing beside him, eggs him on, but the boy keeps pulling back. Finally, 'elder brother' catches the smaller boy's hands behind his back and twists them. The boy winces, but makes no sound. Or if he does, it's buried somewhere in the barbaric noise of Borivli station. No one notices. The small boy finally steps in, just as the train starts to move. I look back at the elder boy. He draws a mobile phone from his pocket and starts dialling some number.
* * *
Rainy day, around 3.45 PM. I had previously noticed the bearded beggar, around 30 and his child, barely 2, on the slope leading down from Cotton Green station. There is a roof, but the rainwater sweeps in from the sides. He is huddled down. There is some food before the child, and some around her mouth and hands. Flies are buzzing all around. At first I think the man is dozing. Walking past, I notice the tin foil, almost falling off his hands. The unmistakable folding of the foil, so one can place ganja leaves and inhale after warming with a lit matchstick.
Next day, local channel is showing pictures of people being rounded up, around the same area, with narcotics. I haven't seen the beggar or his baby again. Is the baby still with him?
* * *
Night, 11.45 PM. Train to Panvel rolls into Kurla station. The first class coach stops beside me. There are three doors. In the middle doorway, three kids, wearing dirty & torn clothes are asleep, huddled together. Most first classers head for the other two doors. I take this, because it's closest. Train starts. The tallest child wakes up and goes to each seat, stretching his hand. In the other hand is a kerchief wrapped around a small bottle. Could be some medicine. He wears a long dirty T-shirt, so I dont know if he has any shorts on. At his age, I was aiming to be among the top ten in my class. There are 2 men seated in the same row as mine, and I am in the middle. When the boy reaches us, the one on my right looks up from a Marathi daily, screams at the child and waves to the door. The boy wanders way. He goes to the sleeping children on the floor and settles on the other side. When I disembark from the train, the boy's sleeping form looks like the letter "Z" with his t-shirt stretched all the way to his knees to avoid the cold.
* * *
ALL CASES MENTIONED ABOVE ARE TRUE. IN ALL CASES, THE AUTHOR LOOKED THE OTHER WAY.
* * *
I remember an argument I had with a senior colleague of mine a few years ago. He objected to my giving some coins to a beggar boy. I said the boy doesn't have an option but to beg for alms. He 'understood' their misery, but reasoned that I encouraged begging and the beggars should go to institutes meant for them. He accused me of trying to appease my guilty conscience by shelling out money. I said I am not capable of rounding up children and taking them to asylums. I asked him if he had ever taken beggar boys to rehab centres? At least one? No.
* * *
Whoever cares for destitute children? May be for the baby girl, having a drug addict daddy who brings food is better than not having one at all -- just the same way I felt that having a guilty conscience is better than having none at all.
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