Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief
View(s):The rich are not like us. They have more money. Their lives and lifestyles awe, amuse, and admonish us. “Work hard, play hard!” “Get a life!” “Be a man!” (Their words, not mine.) The poor are playthings for all our wounded psyches. In pitying them, we purge ourselves of psychological traumas of a hundred shades. And thieves of every stripe, from crooked politicians to corrupt priests, provide us with bread and circuses. But it is the beggar who bemuses me the most.
Have you ever met a beggar who didn’t have a story to tell? I haven’t. But the ones I’ve met who had have kept me entertained for weeks afterward. A few were plausible. Others outrageous.
Those rare few invent fiction or faction which is no less real to them in their fevered imaginations than some of our facts and figures and fantasies are to many of us. Democracy. Socialism, or capitalism with a human face. Republicanism, religious pluralism, real peace and proper justice.
But I ramble. Maybe a few examples? Here goes…
Take the man who claims his brain was surgically removed. (He has some scars to prove it.) Or the woman whose folks went missing overnight and left her destitute. (She invited me to phone on her mobile once a month to arrange a regular handout.) Or the young chap who says he has heart, liver, and lung problems all at the same time. (I advised him to stop smoking those cigarillos gasping for breath from his torn shirt pocket.) There was also a wheel-chair bound shyster who died of cancer, came back from the dead a year later to the same spot no less, and having apparently recovered from the rude shock of his resurrection, spun me another yarn about going to die of a rare disease in exactly seven days.
One’s family and friends offer a mixed bag of commonsense, platitudes, and aggravation. “All beggars are lazy good-for-nothing scoundrels.” “Be careful they don’t take you for a ride, ah!” “Could you worry less about those vagrants and invest more in real people, please.” “That fellow looks like he could or should be working, so why can’t he find a job and leave us in peace I don’t know, men.” “Where have all the nice, clean, decent, genuine beggars gone these days?” “What is the world coming to when you can’t go to a hotel or on a holiday without those botherations bugging you!” “Why should I fork out my money, aney? That’s the blooming government’s business, no, aiyo!”
With well-wishers like this, the harried and the hapless need all the succour they can get. Their suspicion that there’s a sucker born every minute does not help anyone. Well meaning, yes. Well intentioned, maybe. Do-gooders, not. For what good does it do to preach abstinence and all the old virtues to a person with bodily hunger in their eyes? On the other hand, lending a local dime (ten bucks) won’t ruin the nation or compromise your future. So just do it.
Be a Spartan, sir, but spare a rupee while you shop for your stuff. (A rupee will win you many creative insults these days.) Be a Stoic if you so please, madam, but purchase and pass on from the supermarket you haunt a packet of milk.
(Human kindness will no longer do with the state of the world economy.) Be a Sceptic, child, if you must at this early stage and fast losing innocence while you’re influenced by cynical elders and betters; but feed a starving fellow kid for a day and stave off that temptation to parrot proverbs about teaching beggars to fish for a lifetime. Because you may think you have a lifetime ahead of you. We may not have a rest of today, let alone any tomorrows…
By the way, every time someone tells me to beware of being ripped off by that beggar pretending to be standing in the scorching sun to evoke my sympathy, my mind burns with the thought of that same beggar having to repeat his cunning and devious performance thousand times a day simply to earn a pittance. Doesn’t your heart go out to such performers? Work is hard enough when one has to labour mightily to earn a decent wage. Imagine the plight of these men, women, and children – lame, maimed in myriad ways, dehumanized for life – who are owned by mudalalis; disowned by the stone-dropping state; thrown on the garbage heap of fate, karma, kismet, destiny, and eternity…
Excuse me, dears. There’s the front doorbell going. And the man who got run over by a train and who was miraculously rescued, resurrected, restored to our incredulous midst needs my ministrations – yes once again.
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