The psychology of giving

The first time I saw them, it was their physical likeness that struck. A boy and girl, not more than eight or nine years old, obviously s...

The first time I saw them, it was their physical likeness that struck. A boy and girl, not more than eight or nine years old, obviously sharing a common genetic legacy. High cheekbones, the skin stretched taut across, hollow cheeks, big blank eyes, thin lips. And then the slight frames, the stringy hair, those torn clothes, that peti in his hands, those two flat squarish stones in hers. Nothing genetic about this.

This brother-sister singing duo were a familiar sight at the bus-stop. I8217;d be waiting for the bus to come along, and there they8217;d materialise. Soon, the mehfil would set. The boy would start. And he8217;d always begin with either Dil To Pagal Hain or Kuch Kuch Hota Hain. What he lacked in talent, he made up with his rather robust rendition.

Fingers flying over the peti bars, the lyrics would receive a severe beating. As for the tune and the pronunciation, well8230; His hain would sound like heen and his tum would mutate into tuhum. Sure, it was no great music, but it was a reliefnonetheless from the unrelenting cacophony of horns, tyre screeches and noise. His sister, stones beating together in tandem with the song, would go around collecting money from the onlookers. I8217;d always pray I had enough small change for them.Fact is, I do not like encouraging beggars, especially those who are physically in one shape. I especially dislike those who think that by crowding your space and tugging at your sleeve insistently, you8217;d be compelled to pay up. It8217;s blackmail, of course, but in their case, all8217;s fair in poverty and war.

Then there are those who are really cocksure. Very high on confidence or is it bravado?. I once happened to encounter such a soul. He was small, with the usual grubby look matted hair, black fingernails8230; and a huge white grin cutting his sooty face in two. He came sauntering to my friend and me while we were waiting for the red to turn green. 8220;Saab, dus rupaiya do na!8221; Not bothered with small numbers, I guess. And when we refused, he shrugged hisbony little shoulders, as if telling us, 8220;Your loss.8221;But the ones I truly shy away from are those wasted specimens of humanity. With ragged clothes that do not really clothe, epidermal manifestations that make you cringe, odours that almost gag you8230; they are the truly forgotten. They are also the voiceless, they just stare at you, their eyes watering, mumbling something pitiable, not insisting you pay.

And I am scared of them, because every time I see them, I want to hightail it from wherever I am. Run away from the guilt and shame I feel when I look at them. How does such dehumanised life actually survive? I sympathise, yet, when they come asking, I look the other way, re-fuse to meet their eyes, take the coward8217;s way out. Not because I mind the buck or two I have to shell out but because there is always a nagging fear that by giving to one, I8217;d be encouraging the multitude of beggars hidden in the city8217;s crannies. And if a voice inside me taunts, I quash it by saying, 8220;Anyway, one is never too surewhere the money ends up.8221; Following which I proceed to tell my stoutly capitalist soul to stop straying into the 8220;greatest good for the greatest number8221; arena.

Then I look at the brother-sister duo. No mendicants these. They have no business working at this age, but work they do. You pay them for a service rendered 8212; a song heard. It8217;s the same with those blind guys on the Pune-Mumbai trains whose songs ring through the compartment, those types who scrub the compartment floor, those ladies who sell gaudy plastic trinkets, those cock-eyed fellas who peddle orange candy. It may not be much but it is work. Free enterprise. Bravo!

Best of all, they do not make me feel shamed. Guess that8217;s why I really like them.