Beggars

I loathe beggars. Maybe I've lived in the city so long, I've lost my compassion towards suffering, but they really drive me nuts. They have little respect or compassion for themselves; how can I feel compassion for somebody that doesn't even love themselves. I can be a charitable person for those I love and those that are at least putting effort into their lives. Sadly, most beggars are offering me nothing but a hand. As a white man in India and Nepal, many expect that I have to give them money because they learned how to say "Hello." It is not as if they see, think I have kind eyes and try to find charity. They beg indiscriminately, I'm just a White face who has money, and they expect me to see the individual humanity in them. If I gave to beggars as indiscriminately as they beg, I'd give all my money away.

When walking back to Kathmandu from Bodha, an India woman with a baby and an empty bottle followed me nearly a kilometer, pleading for me to buy milk for her family.

"Please sir, help me. Help my baby."

I looked ahead, ignoring her like everyone else who talks to me; they all are finding ways to rip me off.

"Please! Look at my baby. Look at my hungry baby!" I looked at the child at her face, almost bursting with tears and I cracked.

"Where is the supermarket?"

"Oh, it is right here!" We were standing right outside and she led me to the milk section. First she tried to get me to buy 1000 rupee milk, which seemed nuts since milk should never cost so much. She settled on a large bag of milk powder for 200 rupees. We went to the counter, but the milk rang up as 400 rupees.

"Excuse me, I thought this was 200 rupees; that's what the tag said."

"No, 400 rupee," the clerk said.

I complied, a little confused, but fine.

"Ok friend." The Indian woman said, "Come to my bamboo hut. Come to my home."

"Oh no, I can't. I have to meet a friend in 20 minutes in Kathmandu."

"Only one minute. Please. It is so close. Come." Her demeanor had changed drastically in a minute. Her slouched over weak walk became a trotting gait. "This isn't really my baby; it's my sister's child. I have no children myself. Her husband is worthless, does nothing, drinks too much. No money, but too many kids."

I followed her south, through two narrow buildings to a shanty town on a field. Children were playing, paying me no notice as if tourists wander behind the large building, visiting slums all the time. Her hut was nothing more that some bamboo supports, holding a roof made of scrap metal and cardboard, walls nothing but blankets that were rolled up in the day.

"This is my home."

"Very nice, cozy, lots of air." I didn't really know what else to say.

"Have some tea."

"Oh I can't. I really need to leave now and meet my friend, but thank you for showing me your lovely home."

"Only one minute. Have some tea, you are a friend, you helped me. I make you Indian tea, not bad Nepali tea."

"Ok, but I can only stay for quick tea."

I sat on one of the two large beds with a group of five sniffly children, watching as the woman made tea over a small fire in the corner. Every few moments, she would stand up, go to a nearby hut and grab ginger or some other ingredient. While waiting, another woman was leading a young white girl through the shanties to another hut.

"This is my kitchen." The woman said, regaining the quivering quality to her voice. The kept making the tea. "Look!" she moaned. "Look at my kitchen." Over and other again, shaking empty can with her bottom lip sticking out. Finally, I couldn't take her over-dramatization of her poverty any more.

"I just want to make chapati." she cried, shaking another can. "Come tonight for dinner, you could bring more food." She had food.

These people were not starving. The slum dwellers were poor, but hardly emaciated. All the food was stored in the next hut where she kept going, leaving these, "show" huts to pity the tourists out of their money. She overplayed her hand and seeing the other tourist led to another open hut, while most had their walls down led me to their scam.

She poured me a large cup of tea, but seeing as everyone else sipped on half glasses, I poured half back into the pot. I quickly drank my tea, which was admittedly delicious, while the Punjabi woman kept shaking cans with mopey eyes.

"I have to go now, I'm already late and shouldn't leave my friend waiting any longer."

"Please, give me some more money."

"I can't, I need money to get back to Kathmandu and I already paid double price for your milk. Goodbye, thanks for the tea." I left as fast as I could. On my way out of the shanty town, some more Indian men stopped me.

"You want some hash?"

"No!" I yelled. I was getting sick of everyone trying to get my money, especially being offered drugs every five minutes.

The next day, waiting on the bus, another Indian walked up the aisle, holding her saree out to collect money for people. She stood next to me holding her saree.

"Give me money!"

"Sorry, I've no change." Which was not a lie. She kept standing above me, staring. I started talking to Himalay again as I was before she interrupt us.

"Give me money!"

I ignored her and waited for her to go away. She then shook her saree as I kept talking. Then she started hitting me.

"Give me money!"

"I HAVE NO CHANGE!"

"Give me money!"

"NO!" I screamed. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Give me money!"

Finally Himalay yelled at her and she still stood above me staring. The bus driver then arrived and forcably removed her from the bus.

"I hate it how they expect me to give them money."

"It's the Indians, they are a real problem," replied Himalay.

"I gave some money to one yesterday. Or actually, I bought them some milk."

"Never do this Aaron! It's a business."

"A business?"

"Yes, how much you pay? 400 rupees for 200 rupee milk."

I sat in embarrassed silence.

"They have a deal with the store, they overcharge the tourists, then the store gives them have the money. This is a job for people here.

As if I wasn't already jaded by the exploits of beggars already. I now vow to never give even a rupee to anyone on the street again. If you are person who really needs me money, you now know who to blame.