Little Girl in Red

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MAY 26, 2007 -- Yesterday we visited every historical site in the city of Agra. But as I got ready for bed that night, all I could think about was this little girl. Leaving Itmad-ud-daulah's Tomb, we were surrounded by the usual mosh pit of vendors and hawkers. But this time these salesmen were flanked by a small band of street children who simply wanted money or food. Their faces were stained with dirt; their eyes unusually large juxtaposed against their skeletal frames. One girl in red caught my eye. I knew about these child beggars before I came to India; I was expecting them. But it is one thing to hear stories of begging children, and quite another to stare one in the face.

Quick sidebar: I can hear some wheels turning in certain cerebrums out there, so let me address your thoughts. For those of you who think that these children are pulling one over on the tourists and I should never mind my heart strings and closely watch my purse strings, go ahead and think that. To a degree, you're right. Some of these children have slippery hands. But who do you think has taught them to do these things, and do you think they were given a CHOICE? Do you think that after a long, hot day of begging on the streets and being shooed, ignored and cursed at by adults, these children return to a well-balanced, loving home to count their rupees over a nourishing meal? Of course not. They are victims of a merciless cycle in India. If they're not answering to their parents who have sentenced them to a hard life of begging in the streets, then they're likely answering to a "street boss" who exploits their vulnerability in ways you'd rather not know. According to a 2007 study on child abuse in India by the Ministry of Women and Child Development http://wcd.nic.in/childabuse.pdf, which interviewed almost 17,000 children, young adults and stakeholders in 13 Indian states (the largest study of its kind in the world to date):

• Two out of three children are being physically abused.
• 50 percent of the abusers are persons known to the child and are in a position of trust or responsibility.
• 50 percent of the children are put to work seven days a week to supplement household income.
• 53 percent have experienced sexual abuse or have been sexually assaulted.
• Street children, child laborers and those in institutional care reported the highest incidence of sexual abuse.

So, when I tell you that I give these children money because my heart hurts for them, don't smugly tell me that "that's exactly what they're counting on." I WANT them to have my rupees. Nobody's conning anybody here. Now back to my story about the girl in red...

When our eyes met, I subtly motioned for her to break from the crowd and follow me; I didn't want to dig in my purse in front of the masses. She quickly responded and came right to my side -- her four quick steps to each of my two longer strides. Together, we walked away from all the fuss. I slipped the bills into her tiny fingers and then, without really thinking, I ran my hand over her dusty black hair -- a gesture that suddenly made me think of Mom. She looked up at me and smiled, and then it was over. I moved toward our awaiting bus and she fell back into the crowd of beggars and hawkers.

As the bus engine revved up, everyone took their seats. I found a seat by the window. She and the other children were still standing outside on the sidewalk, calling to us with outstretched arms. I watched her eyes scan the contents of each window until she reached my window. Again, that beaming smile. I waved and blew her a kiss. She did the same. As the bus wheels pulled away from the curb, she suddenly broke into a run, laughing and waving to me, her little legs pumping to keep up with the bus. I raised my camera and snapped a couple photos, then stopped to blow her another kiss. As the bus merged into traffic she stopped and waved one last time. I turned to face forward in my seat, tears in my eyes.

That evening I took out my camera to review the photos I'd taken that day. When I got to the photos of her, something cool and uncomfortable ran through my body. A lump grew in my throat, and then everything I had been feeling that afternoon came rushing to the surface. I cried because she looked so grateful, so innocent, and I didn't do anything but give her enough rupees for a soda or a bag of chips. I should have given her more. But then what? I wish I could have held her or spent more time with her. But then what?

I thought about these things and more - that image of her running so clear in my mind. I don't know how long I cried, but after a while my thoughts replaced the tears, and then dreams replaced the thoughts.