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South Bombay: Evening Pollution
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“Ok! Next time!”
I will never forget those words.
Mumbai, India. Relocated there. Like many expats, we started our move by staying at the gated fort known as the Grand Hyatt. After which, we found our serviced apartment. Later, we carved out our reality amidst the noise that was Bombay.
From the outside in, it was not a hard life. We had access to restaurants, shops, spas, and the escape route via the airport. And we had cars with drivers. I know how it sounds. When it was first promised as part of the package, I thought it was pure luxury and a status symbol. We later learned how common it was among the middle class and up. Beyond that, it was also necessary. It was not for nobility, rather, mobility, and was also a respite from the incessant buzz of the city. Especially during the notorious traffic jams. The car was also a capsule where you could watch life go past. IPads with movies were unnecessary in a city where real life drama was happening every second of the day right outside your power window.
It was through this window that I encountered a little girl, who was barely nine years old. She would peer into my car, asking me for money. Every day on the way to and from work, and every time the car stalled and moved in inches during the commute, she would be there.
She was of course stationed there. She was just one of the many street kids whose job from birth was either to be cradled in the arms of a teenager who was begging, or later when older, to walk the streets herself to beg for money.
Yes, the horrors of Slumdog Millionaire and the even more realistic semi-docu movie Traffic Light, are all real. You get warned very early on the downside of giving in to your uninformed ethics to help someone in need. Giving money perpetuated a social issue that you had no control over.
This was a place where everyone wants to be a Maharaja, and the pimps and minders led street children like the Pied Piper of Hamlin. They were the ones with the flutes, the kids were the rats. And the more pathetic the rats appeared, the better it would be for business. It was Oliver Twist, except that this was not Charles Dickens’ world, and this was current times.
Not every kid was disheveled or purposely deformed though. Some kids actually had wonderful brown highlights in their hair. Others even had golden blonde locks. Later, I learned that this was due to exposure to car and city pollution. The city had literally stripped them not just of their childhood, but their hair color as well.
The kids would beg in packs. They were like a family; a family by circumstance. They played and fought together, and conducted their business together. When the traffic lights turned red, they would target cars together.
After a while, like good sales people, they learned to recognize the occupants of each car and the car itself, and they knew which kid among them would have a higher chance of getting something.
For me, it was that cute little girl who had a smile that could light up a room. She was at once Eponine and Cosette, street savvy while still having a child like exuberance. I often wondered how long it would take before the city killed the latter quality.
It did not take long for her to recognize me. Heck, I was Chinese by appearance and driven by a local. That alone was an anomaly in Mumbai where the Chinese were stereotypically servers in Chinese restaurants. Yes, even in India.
Each time she tried to get money, I would in turn try to make her laugh. And for that moment, she seemed to forget her job. She returned to being a child. I asked my driver if it was alright to give something. He gave me a politically correct response of ‘if you like’ and only after being pressed did he say it would make things worse. Even he did not.
Once, when she realized she was not getting anything, she uttered those words in English. It took me by surprise. She ended our meeting that day with words of hope and positivity. Poverty forced her to be creative. And while she did not have the luxury of compulsory education, she learned a few phrases that would hopefully help get her job done. It was targeted education, purposeful learning.
While I was impressed somewhat, it severely upset me.
In a city known for its constellation of multi-millionaire entertainment types and home to some of the richest people in the world, the education system was under serving. In spite of this, the little girl had learned a few foreign words. She understood the meaning and contextual usage, and applied it in her reality. Imagine if she had been blessed with even more knowledge, what she could become.
I mooted an idea to start an education fund for the street kids. Almost immediately the idea was shot down. Not because it was not good but the execution of the fund would be challenging and questionable. Apparently in Mumbai, even charities were run by corrupt people who benefited from contributions. Corruption feeds into the mouths of the unworthy, nurtured by the blood of those without choices.
In Mumbai, even a middle class family had drivers, servants, cleaning ladies, nannies etc, just because, and to put it bluntly, life is cheap there. Still, these ‘service providers’ had it good. They were employed, albeit almost like slaves. And even if they lived in slums, they had a home. They were still better than the people living on the streets, people they too in turn, could ignore with indignation.
The levels of poverty forced me to reassess how I saw my life. It made me question how much was enough, and what happiness really meant. The rich in Mumbai, who were driven around in luxury cars with dark tinted windows, did not have to question anything. Their lives revolved around society parties, foreign travel, hair appointments at the Four Seasons salon, and being picked up and dropped off at exclusive shops. One society lady I got acquainted with, someone who had been covered in Vogue India five times, told me that everyone had Birkins and it was boring to see all the bags on display during their ‘lunches’. She was clueless about how crazy that sounded when right outside those ‘lunch’ venues, there were people who were living on street dividers.
Yet, these were people who proudly claimed their Indian heritage and their ownership of being a resident of Mumbai. But like other parts of the world, those most proud of their residency, are also the most unconcerned about how the rest of the 99% lives.
One day, from my car window, I saw the little girl get into a white Mercedes. The occupant closed the door quickly and the car drove off. I feared she would be taken advantage of. I heard about how little girls were raped and/or forced into prostitution. I told my driver to follow them, but we lost them in traffic. An Indian colleague told me this was common. They even had a term for it. Sometimes the wealthy Mumbai residents would give the street kids a joy ride. Pick them up one place, and drop them off at another. She told me not to worry. I did not see her for days afterwards. I was worried. No. I was terrified.
Around this time, I witnessed something outside a shopping mall. A beautiful little girl with gold highlights went up to a tuk tuk, and asked the passenger for money. She scored. She got something. The joy on her face was amazing. But then she went to a corner, and deposited the money into the hands of a lady in a sari. That lady took the cash and walked away quickly, as if trying to disassociate herself from the child. The child went back to the streets. And she went around the corner where another bunch of kids were waiting.
I learned that the warnings were true. The kids were part of a bigger crime ring. One that exploited the children, one that may have been too overwhelmingly large to overcome in the short term.
After a while, it just got too much. The kids were everywhere. It became easier, and even necessary to put blinders on. A colleague said that if we did not, we would go crazy. It became almost vital to do what the Mumbai-kars had been doing all their lives: desensitize themselves to the environment.
Part of being desensitized was to be surrounded by things that reminded us of home. And there weren’t a whole lot as India was controlled by family dynasties that prevented foreign competition. So when we spotted a Pizza Hut, we were thrilled.
During one of our lunch visits, we were approached by a little boy as we were leaving the restaurant with boxes of leftover pizzas. He wanted money. We gave him the food.
We didn’t give it a second thought. We were more concerned about where our drivers were to bring us back to the office. Something caught my eye. In front of some planters, this barefooted child was sitting on the dusty ground with the boxes of pizzas opened. He was not used to the toppings, and took all the bits off, leaving behind what was similar to a roti with gravy I suppose. With dirty hands, crouched over the box, he attacked the food. Later some other kids came over. It was like some crows trying to steal from each other some bits of bread on the floor.
I often asked myself and others, whether being desensitized meant that we were giving up our humanity. How could we ignore what was in front of us? Someone said if their own people was not actively searching for solutions, how could foreign imports help. Especially when foreigners were never going to choose to live in Mumbai for too long, or long enough.
Fallacious as that argument was, the truth was we were there for a short time. Was this an acceptable justification for withholding help? A Spaniard, whom we learned later was a millionaire author, and had moved to Mumbai to do charity and social work, told us that short term volunteers would do more harm than good as there was no continuity. And the social problems in Mumbai needed constant work and attention.
So what were the chances for that little girl who was part of my daily commute? Eventually I saw her again. Still with her buddies, still going from car to car asking for money. We went through the same routine of her asking for cash and not getting anything except for some attempts to make her laugh. One day I saw a reaction I had not expected. I saw anger in her eyes. She user her palm to slap my window. My driver, shocked, yelled at her as she stomped away.
It sank in. It may not have been the city that killed her child like exuberance. It may have been me.
I never saw her again after that. I could only assume she was sent to another location by her minder. I think about her from time to time, wondering if she somehow managed to escape the poverty cycle. She was clearly a bright child, and through her eyes I could see such amazing possibilities, if only she was given the opportunity.
When I think of my nieces, I cannot help but think that by the grace of God, they were born into families that could provide them with enough opportunities to kick start their lives. For this little girl, her birthright was to come into poverty. The realization that she was born ‘without’ will sink in eventually as she grows older. The city will then take over to reinforce the notion that her life will have little hope for change, and that she is not expected to be more.
For me though, she will forever be the ‘Next Time’ girl with the smile that could light up a room, who had the promise to be exactly that: more.
