In my life certain things are meant to be.
Like how I met my first love as he walked across the hall, time stood still for an eternity and a microscopic second. And how many years later when all has ended, our path crossed again in this tiny little café. Small words of hellos and pleasantries exchanged. Awkwardly. Suddenly I found my self gently holding on to this yellowing memory, frayed edges and all. It made sense there and then that it was all worth it.
It was the wedding season when I arrived at the city. The air was filled with sunshine, music and laughter. At every street corner were processions of women in their colourful saris, henna painted hand. An image of beauty.
He stood out from the crowd as he sat by the bridge of lake Pichola. I saw him from a distance and he acknowledged me by pointing at my camera and asking me to take a picture. I understood what he meant but decided to walk away without so much of acknowledging him with anything other than a faint smile. His legs were nothing but two stumps and he waited by the bridge for some spare change from any passers by who cared enough.
Most people did the same thing as I did. Walked away. After all this is India. You see beggars at every turn and in a little while your soul grew this calloused hard shell...if you're not careful. There was something different about him. Enough to make me walk back and rationalise that it is okay to exchange money for a photo. A picture of someone who makes a living through the mercy of his fellow human beings.
So I went over to him and gave him some money. I took a few steps back and a couple of shots of him. It turns out he spoke english well enough for us to be able to communicate (I learned afterwards that he also speaks French and German which he picked up on the streets). He told me his name is Hanuman. That he is not from this city but from the south. That he came here because it's the tourist season and he could earn better money here. That he used to be a bus driver until he lost his legs in an accident. That he is married. His wife works as a labour, but work is hard to come by. That when he is not begging here, he also drives auto rickshaw in his home town. That he is thirty years old.
He then asked me how old I was. I felt a strange sensation at the pit of my stomach. Mostly guilt, some part was sadness and another part anger. Rolled into one they hit me like a gigantic wave leaving me feeling uncomfortable.
It was only a few days before my thirtieth birthday. We may have the same age, but surely he has fought more than I have in our thirty-year residence on planet earth. He has lost more than I ever have, struggled more and perhaps, gained more, although what he gained is invisible to bare eyes. And for all of the above I have nothing but respect for him.
I asked him if he has any children. "Two daughters, and they go to school" he said with a smile and pride in his eyes. In a country where female infanticide is rampant, where bride burning and dowry practices is still a part of day to day life, his faith and love for his daughters gave me hope.
As I was about to leave, he offered to buy me a cup of chai. I politely refused, thinking how could I possibly accept a token of his generosity, a part of his hard earned income. It's funny how human thinks sometime. When in fact he has given me so much more than the little money I have given him.
