Clenched fists and swirling saris

My sleep pattern has taken on a convenient rhythm:  I'm going to bed early, when it's too late to be outside anyway, and getting up between 5 and 6, long before our day starts, giving me time to write.  At this time of day my mind is active but I'm still quiet inside; these early mornings are giving me the space to collect my reflections before another day unfolds.  I hope I can carry this home!

This morning as I lay in bed I was thinking of the group of kids I met yesterday. My pursed lips in the photo, my clenched fists.  My stiff body posture.  The whole issue of begging children is uncomfortable on so many levels.  I need to engage some but the modus operand is to ignore the begging children and shoo them away.  I can't ignore children or shoo them, nor will that make for a very useful research project.  I'm conscious of making those with me uncomfortable, of drawing them into a situation they don't want to be part of simply because they're with me.  France and I had an awkward moment in Mumbai.  A young girl of about 8 had smiled and waved at us, and to me she was the epitome of a gorgeous Indian girl: slight frame; huge eyes; long wavy hair; pierced nose; bright red and purple little salwar kameez; only the dirt and grime all over it gave away her social standing.  We were trying to find this store we'd been looking for so I started talking to her and asked her if she knew where it was.  Of course she did, she said, pointed a street on the other side of the traffic circle, and I offered her 10 rupees for her help (about twenty cents).  Off to the side France said out loud in a scornful tone, "Oh Kim...."  The little girl refused the money and wondered away, but quickly reappeared as we began to cross the street, my hunch telling me that someone told her to go back to us and ask for rice, which she was now insistently doing using the now familiar song and dance:  my mother (or I) needs it for the baby; I'm a beggar and can't go in to stores: there's a store right there you can go in; 50 rupees please, for rice, for rice, why no? why no?  I was completely at ease with this child; I trusted her. She said she'd take us to the store and I bent down and looked her in the eyes and asked gently, "are you telling the truth?" She said she was, and so we began to venture across the insane traffic circle to the other side, following the lead of a young girl as she confidently negotiated us through traffic and held her small hand up to stop the flow.

France is very mindful that begging is a business, and that the money doesn't go these kids.  She works in Children's Aid in Ottawa and so of course is very in tune with child abuse and exploitation.  I looked at her somewhat apologetically and as we began to cross the street I said to her, "I have to talk to the kids for my research.  I don't mean to make you angry but I kind of have to do my thing." As we teetered on the meridian waiting for the moment to make our final crossing to the street the store should be on, I told her I would pay her and then time to say goodbye.  She still insisted on rice and I said no but I will pay you.  As we got to the other side she finally resigned and said ok money.  I gave her 50 rupees and she took off, like they all do, which I find kind of cute.  As soon as money is in hand they're gone in a flash.  We wandered down the street a ways, looked down a side street just as we were becoming convinced we'd been had, and sure enough, there was the store.  I knew she was telling the truth I thought to myself, but having no way to know for certain we were both still pleasantly surprised.

After a lengthy shopping session in the upstairs room of this store, where we were shown table cloths, pashminas, table runners, and served delicious chai, France made her purchase and we made our way back to the street.  Not far away we round a bend in the market and there's our little girl lounging cross-legged on a small cloth with three other girls her age, playing a game I think.  She sees me first and I hear hi! hi! and I'm so pleased to see her smiley face looking up at me.  I thank her again, we share a long smile, and wave goodbye.  She doesn't follow us; is that because there is no authoritative adult with her at present to send her?  Or did she leave us be on purpose?

Back to the picture I was reflecting on.  In Ahmedabad, I'm out walking and looking in shops with Tonya and Anika, my closest friends in the program.  We hadn’t seen any children all day, but that changed when we wandered down a busier main road with the kind of shops that attract tourists.  We spotted two girls and boy on the meridian and, of course, they spotted us.  I’m not very good whatsoever at avoiding eye contact and what you’re “supposed to do” and immediately I have a little girl holding my hand, pressing herself up to me, imploring me with her big eyes for rupees. (Or did I grab her hand?  I think I did.) Tonya and Anika were walking up ahead and I thought let’s ask them for an exchange. I showed them my camera and then gestured at each of them that I would pay them.  Tonya took my camera, suggested I show them the money first, and took the picture.  When I see the picture later my feelings are written all over my body, head to toe. It’s like a no-win situation:  ignoring feels wrong, engaging feels wrong, paying a child feels wrong, everything about it feels wrong.  This is the first time I feel so uncomfortable and ill at ease.  I lean forward stiffly in a semi-embrace, my lips are pursed, and my fists are clenched.  The kids are hamming it up, and nearly rip the 10 rupee bills in half they grab for them so hard from my hand.  My strategy didn’t work though as they kept following us and after a brief reprieve (strategizing I think) one of the girls takes the little boy in hand and works me up again, the other little girl following a ways behind.  Obviously I can’t understand a thing she’s saying but going by tone and gesturing I’m guessing it was quite close to, “this is my little brother and we need more money because she (the other girl) took it all and now we don’t have annnyyyyyyyy...we need more...she took it alllllllll...” A man sees this and shoos them, with that hand gesture that looks like you’re going to strike but have no intention of doing so.  They take off.  I quickly apologize to Tonya and Anika and they quickly dismiss me saying no, we totally understand.  Later, walking down a side street, we see a little girl sent after us by an older woman.  She’s more timid, maybe less experienced.  Anika follows the lead of the man earlier:  hah! + hand gesture.  She takes off.  I laugh at Anika saying whoa, you’re tough, I just can’t do that.  “Yeah, well,” she says.  “It worked when he did it...” We are all trying to find and do what works for us here, whether it’s how we cope or how we have fun.

And speaking of fun, we were allowed to take part in the most amazing street dance festival last night, the 13th.  It is the 9 Days of Dancing right now, which is a celebration of one of the Hindu gods, who I learned is revered for killing a devil.  I watched that dancing, having not had time to go shopping for mid-riff baring apparel (fine with me!) for this enchanting evening.  I completely enjoyed being spectator and watching the colors, sparkle, swooshing, dipping, twirling, rushing by me, and the little girls coming up to MJ and I asking our names, and telling us we are so beauteeeful.  The children were unbearably cute in their outfits, and I think to myself, this is the other side; these are high caste children.  We were in a gated community with many guards allowing people in and out of the party.  It was a privilege to be there, and we were all blessed by a priest, again, and got a third eye dot.  It doesn’t bother me doing this, but a couple of the girls felt strange doing it since they don’t worship that god and it’s not their religious ceremony.  But I think locals realize their god is not my god and that I probably have no idea who the god is anyway and what’s really going on, but they like the participation and the respect, the intent to take part with them in something sacred.  One woman teasingly pointed at me to continue clapping because I had stopped, her eyes playfully winking at me.  I laughed and dutifully continued and at just the right rhythm in her clapping and swaying she gives me the “perfect” symbol with her fingers, and the other kind of head bobble, the quick one side nod.  It cracks me up and I love that I’m experiencing another side to what overwhelmed me in Mumbai.  Later a small baby is staring me down like I have two heads and the grandfather and I are both chuckling; she smiles a bit when I tickle her hand but mostly just can’t seem to figure out what I am.  At this street festival there is beauty, love, and real smiles, for nothing in return except for maybe a shy request for a photo with you, the white woman.