International Political Will

Walking through the streets of Mumbai and trying to avoid beggars can be a daunting task. Most of the really persistent beggars are children - usually no more than 10 years old.

The beggar kids are always extremely dirty with torn clothing, unkempt and matted hair, smears of dirt and grease on their faces, and barefoot. They know how to say “hello” in English, but that’s about it. The “hello” is just to get your attention; after that they simply motion with their hand to their mouth asking for money for food.

There is no minimum age for beggars. Many kids as young as seven or eight years old have a toddler tagging along, who has already learned to make the same hand-to-mouth motion (the younger ones sometimes are completely naked). They swarm intersections, where they can beg from people in auto rickshaws or those pedestrians waiting to cross the busy streets.

Parents encourage their kids to beg. As I pass a family on the sidewalk, I hear or see the mother telling her child to chase after me and beg, and as the child walks alongside me and I refuse, they glance back at their parents with forlorn looks. It is obvious they are being coerced into their role as bread-beggar for the family.

As the only white guy living in the neighborhood of Vashi, I can’t possibly be seen handing out even the first rupee, or rumors will spread that I’m a veritable ATM machine for the poor. American (and a white privileged male) I may be, but living on an Indian salary means I have almost nothing to spare.

My skin seems to attract them from across the street. I see them wandering the sidewalks, and hear the patter of their feet as they run to be the first to approach. The more aggressive ones will stand in your way, forcing you to walk around them, and others cling to your arms with grimy hands. Walking around them only seems to confirm that you acknowledge their presence and will encourage them.

Saying “sorry” or “no” doesn’t cut it - either they don’t understand or don’t care to. Western inhibitions about physical contact must be discarded; it is often necessary to push or even slap their hand away if they will not refrain from grabbing you. As cruel as it sounds, walking directly into those that stand in your way and forcibly pushing them out of your path is best. Of course, all this pales to techniques used by some locals. It is not uncommon for men to slap children’s face for begging, sneaking on the train, etc. Raising a hand like you are going to strike a child is a good way to scare off any kid; but it’s over the line of what I’m willing to do.

After several months, I have perfected my technique, adopting the Indian style: a cock of the head and quick click with my mouth usually stops them before they even reach me. If they persist I tell them the magic word: chalo (go away).

Early one Saturday morning I cut across an empty lot on my way to the train station. There was no one else around - except a group of six beggar kids going the opposite direction. The oldest was perhaps 10, the youngest maybe 2.

When they saw me, they swarmed. All at once. I couldn’t throw them off me fast enough. One grabbed my arm, another my thigh. Another came from the left side and grabbed my other arm. As soon as I pushed one of them off, another latched hold. Suddenly, they all backed away in unison and surrounded me, like a gang of old west outlaws. The oldest girl had disappeared.

I checked my pockets. My sunglasses - a $20 pair from Target - were gone.

I looked sternly at the kids and held out my hand. “Where are my sunglasses? Give them to me.”

One boy, evidently the Butch Cassidy of the bunch, stepped forward. “Sunglasses. Five rupees,” he said.

It seemed my sunglasses were being held for ransom. “No five rupees,” I said angrily. “Sunglasses. Now.”

Butch Cassidy repeated himself. “Sunglasses. Five rupees.” Then he reached into his pockets and pulled them out of his pants, showing me they were empty.

“Where are they?” I asked again. I bent over and frisked the leader. He was clean. Then I went down the row to each kid, turning them around and searching their pockets. One by one, the kids let me search them. I went through their pockets, felt their waistline, looked in the burlap sack one of them was carrying, and after I was satisfied they didn’t have my sunglasses, gave them a somewhat angry slap on the back. I made my way to the last kid: a little 2-year-old, who stood in front of me without a lick of clothing to his name. No need to search him.

My sunglasses were nowhere to be found, and neither was the oldest girl. I suspected she had snagged them and went and hid nearby, waiting for me to pay the ransom. Five rupees isn’t much - about 12 cents; it was the principal involved. I wasn’t going to reward these kids for stealing (as much as I admired their creative and ingenious tactics). They were too young to venture down a path of crime.

I tried to show more anger, and hoped I could shame them into returning the sunglasses or at least realizing what they had done was wrong. “You are all thieves,” I said, doubting they understood the word. “All of you.” I glared at each of them. The boy with the burlap sack bowed his head, unwilling to look me in the eye.

I started walking again toward the train station. One of them ran after me and grabbed my arm again, trying the same trick. I pushed him off angrily.

The burlap sack boy, who had hung his head as I called him a thief, came over and hit his friend hard on the back and reprimanded him.

I continued on to the train station unmolested, sans sunglasses, but feeling that I had my own little guardian beggar.

My sunglasses were too old and scratched to be able to sell to anyone else. I hope the burlap sack boy gets to keep them.

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