Here I am once again, chilling at home and writing to all of you who're reading this. Hope you're all havin' a great time and I wish the subsequent speculation makes you want NOT to be having that 'great' time, and for the better, make you more insightful than you were.
No, I'm not going to talk about the so-not-fair life of people, nor am I going to exhort-ate the bitter and somber certainties of life. I'm sure not going to sermon any grief of unfulfilled wishes or broken friendships. Perhaps, I'll leave you heavy-hearted. But, I strongly wish to make you cry.
The "Detroit of India", Chennai is my home for another two and a half years. The fourth metropolis of India. This one time, in the noon I was travelling by the local train, wanting to reach Central. I was happy and my ordinary self that day when this happened: A beggar lady with probably a five/six months old child in her arms and another girl, probably 4/5 years old sat down on the floor of the train. The girl looked cold and pale and shriveled. The mother had but a face enervated with indifference. She wanted pity, sympathy and of course money. She had a duffel kinda bag hanging on her right arm from which she removed some paraphernalia- a steel bowl and a long thin metal rod. She began to tap the bowl with the rod, trying to make it sound systematic and rhythmic. Slowly she caught a tune and played it while her 5-year old daughter danced to the composition. She performed child stunts like wheelcarts, rolls and flexing her entire body through a metal ring. Once the show was over, the mother handed over the bowl to her and this girl with her forbearing eyes started to ask for money from the audience travelling. I continued to stare at her thinking and only thinking. I slowly took out a five ruppee coin and put it in her bowl. She smiled.
Perhaps, that is my enunciation this time. Helplessness. That girl was helpless, so was her mother and so was that tiny little baby in her arms. With great introspection, I kept looking at her, thinking of whether 'the dancer girl', I'd call her, will ever be able to wear good clothes, taste rich food, travel the world, maybe use a good phone or learn the Alphabet. I wondered if she will ever share her dreams or express her love for something. I wondered whether she'll ever know about the Internet or whether she watched movies or read books or listened to music. I wanted to know what was happiness to her. And for that moment I wished I had all the money in the world to give that innocent little child things she never even knew existed. I was helpless. The world is a helpless place.
For all one knows, this may not be a big deal because these are not rare sights in our country. But have you ever noticed, or reflected or contemplated or wished you could do something great for such people? I have. I say, don't be selfish to think you're too lucky you are not in their place.
That reminds me of Walt Whitman's poem from the Leaves of Grass, titled 'I sit and look out'. The last few lines are:
No, I'm not going to talk about the so-not-fair life of people, nor am I going to exhort-ate the bitter and somber certainties of life. I'm sure not going to sermon any grief of unfulfilled wishes or broken friendships. Perhaps, I'll leave you heavy-hearted. But, I strongly wish to make you cry.
The "Detroit of India", Chennai is my home for another two and a half years. The fourth metropolis of India. This one time, in the noon I was travelling by the local train, wanting to reach Central. I was happy and my ordinary self that day when this happened: A beggar lady with probably a five/six months old child in her arms and another girl, probably 4/5 years old sat down on the floor of the train. The girl looked cold and pale and shriveled. The mother had but a face enervated with indifference. She wanted pity, sympathy and of course money. She had a duffel kinda bag hanging on her right arm from which she removed some paraphernalia- a steel bowl and a long thin metal rod. She began to tap the bowl with the rod, trying to make it sound systematic and rhythmic. Slowly she caught a tune and played it while her 5-year old daughter danced to the composition. She performed child stunts like wheelcarts, rolls and flexing her entire body through a metal ring. Once the show was over, the mother handed over the bowl to her and this girl with her forbearing eyes started to ask for money from the audience travelling. I continued to stare at her thinking and only thinking. I slowly took out a five ruppee coin and put it in her bowl. She smiled.
Perhaps, that is my enunciation this time. Helplessness. That girl was helpless, so was her mother and so was that tiny little baby in her arms. With great introspection, I kept looking at her, thinking of whether 'the dancer girl', I'd call her, will ever be able to wear good clothes, taste rich food, travel the world, maybe use a good phone or learn the Alphabet. I wondered if she will ever share her dreams or express her love for something. I wondered whether she'll ever know about the Internet or whether she watched movies or read books or listened to music. I wanted to know what was happiness to her. And for that moment I wished I had all the money in the world to give that innocent little child things she never even knew existed. I was helpless. The world is a helpless place.
For all one knows, this may not be a big deal because these are not rare sights in our country. But have you ever noticed, or reflected or contemplated or wished you could do something great for such people? I have. I say, don't be selfish to think you're too lucky you are not in their place.
That reminds me of Walt Whitman's poem from the Leaves of Grass, titled 'I sit and look out'. The last few lines are:
| I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; | |
| All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon, | |
| See, hear, and am silent. What more? The dancer girl and the mother with her young one, with their money, I'd like to call it their piece of pie, got down the train as it halted, waiting for another. |
