Giving to Beggars

As the bus rolled past the market, I strained my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the fruit being sold today.  Tumba bisilu – jasti bisilu – idde (it’s so hot – too hot) and the last thing I wanted to do was to walk 1.5 km carrying my week's worth of fruit. On the other hand, if I didn’t buy it today I would have to buy from a grocery store later on in the week, and I much prefer buying it direct. Plus, I tell myself, what would be better on a day like today than an ice cold fruit smoothie when I get home?

We rolled through the signal and around the corner, and I was the first to hop off, dodging the passengers overeager to board. I retraced the bus’s steps and my fruit farmer spotted me before I spotted her; there was no turning back now.  The table was plain fruit; nothing too exotic: 2 pineapples, 3 cantaloupes, 20 sweet limes (Uffda! 20?), a plate of black grapes, and – finally – bananas.   

Halfway through our conversation, I became aware of an old woman in a red sari behind me. Standing, watching, waiting. She had her hand extended, quietly, and I knew what she was asking for.

Knowing how to interact with beggars is often a struggle for me in this “developing” and “corrupt” country, as it probably is for others, too.  Foreigners are told to ignore begggars; they may be pimped out, they may be enslaved, they should be in school instead and giving to them only encourages the system. However, Scripture says not to shut your hand from your brother in need; and, may I add, once you look into the eyes of a beggar, your life will never be the same.  Bananas are some of the most practical foods to share, and today my farmer friend had given me more thank I had asked for.  When I turned around, I placed the bananas in the woman’s hand.  She lifted her eyes to mine in thanks, and I smiled into hers, then walked away.

I often struggle after giving to the poor – how am I supposed to feel? Proud of myself for doing something good? Down on myself because I know that I can never do enough?  Because I fumble for a 2 rupee coin with one hand while holding my iPhone in the other? After buying some spinach I began my walk home in the dusty evening light and reached up to finger the pendant hanging from my neck: the widow’s mite.  I bought the mite in Jerusalem nearby the temple ruins; it is a relic of the story of the widow who came to the temple and was giving her offering at the same time as the Pharisee. The Pharisee gave in all his gold and his glory, but the woman gave humbly and gave everything that she had to live on. The Pharisee gave out of his excess, but the widow gave out of her poverty.

I gave this woman a bundle of bananas that I didn’t need; they were extra.  Because of who I am, where I come from, the manner in which I am employed, giving of food isn’t a sacrifice and, Lord willing, never will be.  I eat simply, yes, but never have to wonder where my next meal will come from.  Heck, I have the luxury of deciding if I am going to buy my produce from the farmer or the grocery store, and the choice of shopping later if I am feeling too lazy to lug it home.  How – how – can I give out of my poverty? Give sacrificially? Give in a way that is not self-centered, give with wisdom and love? That is the question of my heart this Palm Sunday. Because the widow at the temple isn’t the only one who gave – Jesus did, too.

Gross but Beautiful

I recently got an email from a friend that included the text "I've never been to India, but I hear it's both gross and beautiful just a few blocks apart."
This made me stop and think.  and I've been thinking ever since.
Yes, this could be right.  In fact, I think it's the idea that most people have of India - they get it from the media, from others' experiences.  India is colorful, rich in culture, beautiful in people and architecture, but at the same time is dirty, impoverished, loud.  India is ripe with contradiction, and one lives in the midst of disparity.
Every morning I walk through the slum on my way to and from the gym.  I love this area - there are vivid colors, children laughing, a pure simplicity and vibrancy of life and community.  It is beautiful.
But as I walk, I pass babies toddling around naked.  I pass children squatted on the sidewalk, on the side of the street, taking care of their morning business.  I pass men standing on the other side of the wall, urinating.  Some may consider this gross; I can imagine some people I know turning their head, repulsed, saying something like, "Oh thanks, I really needed to see that."  And I am very conscious of the fact that the puddle on the ground aren't from last night's rain.  Yes, it may be gross, but I consider it injustice and  a lack of dignity for these human beings.  I pass fathers bathing their children, mothers washing clothes, both rationing water carefully.  I look at my water bottle and realize that what I take for granted, consider a right, even, is a privilege. (Not to mention the fact that I am on my way to the gym.  Where I pay money to exercise.)
When I walk through the slum, I am invading lives.  But I have no choice; they have no choice.  I'm embarrassed, try to avert my eyes, but everywhere there is life; life that is not mine, life most would consider private, life I should not observe.  And it is hard.  Every morning, my heart breaks.  Every morning, I ask why.  And every morning, I wonder what I am doing that makes any difference.
I have even found myself anticipating the day I have a two-wheeler so that I can ride through without looking.
But then I chide myself.  Just because I don't look doesn't mean it doesn't exist.  I don't ever want to become so unaware or calloused that I don't look.  And, even more, I don't want to live my life looking without seeing.

Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. (Mark Jenkins) 

Clash of Cultures

Today, two worlds collided.  And lest you be deceived by the title of the post, please note that my own personal American culture had nothing to do with the clash.  Rather, it was a clash of two Indian cultures; two worlds that I experienced within 5 hours.

I spent the day at my old NGO, and it was a joy and a privilege to surprise the girls when I walked onto their campus this morning.  As I got close, I could hear the murmers and questions, “That looks like Jen-aunty - Is that Jen-aunty?” and then, running: “Jen-aunty!”  There were lots of hugs, some tears (none from me), and much happiness.  One of the first things that Rajeshwariya did was start combing my hair, and don’t worry mom, I’ve already checked for lice.  They have moved to a new dorm, still living around 20 to a room on bamboo floor mats, rotating kitchen shifts, doing chores, and studying during every free moment.  The homework the 16/17 year old girls were working on?  Learning the parts of a computer (monitor, speaker, keyboard, CPU, hard drive, etc.) and duplicating them in a poster board sketch.  We had a very rough medical information session on high blood pressure (which was pretty inapplicable since most of the girls are rail-thin and they don’t eat anything but the rice of the day...they don’t even have access to the soda, fried foods, etc. that were being warned against in the session as the causes of “the silent killer”), and came back to eat rice and chicken curry (a Sunday treat) with our fingers out of tin plates.

Fast forward through an incredible, fun, and exhausting day to my evening meeting at the apartment of a girl who wants to go abroad but whose father has his doubts.

We parked the car outside of the gate because there was no room in the underground parking lot and walked in to a posh apartment with music blaring (Queen and the Rolling Stones).  Were offered whiskey and wine (whiskey seems to be the Indian drink of choice), nachos, finger veggies (that we ate with a fork), sausages on toothpicks and fried cheese balls.  The father talked about his time working in fashion merchandising (and when I say fashion, I don’t mean Hanes her Way.  I’m talking Oscar de la Renta here), and the daughter’s iphone rang during our conversation.  We gave her a hard time for being 16 and having an iphone...at which she told us that she has had a phone since 5th grade, all her friends have iphones, and her father interjected with his opinion that mac is the best and that is why they all need their iphones, macbook pros, ipads, and macbook airs.  And how wonderful it is that we can now run a Google search for finding study programs in the U.S. instead of needing to go to the library to look through the college board review.

Wealth - and lack of it - in India is absolutely mind-boggling.  We’re looking at 16 year old girls who live just a bus ride down the road from each other living such vastly different lives and anticipating completely different futures.  I think that is the part that is incomprehensible is not that there are people who are filthy rich, and not that there are people who are more than dirt poor, but that these two groups live side-by-side.

P.S. Today I also met the new batch of students from the program I worked with last fall, AND played my first game of cricket today.  For our at-bat, I was the first batter.  And stayed batting through to our very last out.  I bowled pretty well too, and have determined that I have finally found my athletic calling.  Several also say it confirms that I really am an Indian...who just happens to be white.