“Don't Give Money to Beggars”

Cities Joyojeet Pal Madras “Don‟t give money to beggars” I remember Paati, my grandmother, pointing out to me that the beggars on the streets of Chennai were all part of a larger mafia run out of Pudhupettai. “Even Sivaji can learn some acting from them,” she said as two sets of leprous fingers rubbed against each other in a fervent plea for a meal in exchange for the Lord‟s blessings. I disagreed. Sivaji Ganeshan, who owned the face of vibrating contortion of cinematic tragedy, could make Paati part with much more with a shuddering jaw, despite his flawless purple suit and clumpy mousse. Perhaps, I thought, the pleader ought to invest in ticket to a Sivaji movie for a few tips, or perhaps Sivaji had something other than his histrionic ability to evoke emotion in Paati. While the senior beggars moved us none at all, the kids got a bit further. Sometimes a kid would come up to us as we walked around the shops of Mylapore, attracted like a moth to her crisp Kanjivaram saree. “Mother, mother, mother, I haven‟t eaten for two days, mother,” he would say, tugging at her saree without actually touching it. I noticed then how his little hand would just breeze at the edge of the saree rather than grip it and pull. In my early indoctrination into untouchability, I realized that not only her skin, even her clothes were out of bounds. Had the boy gripped the sari enough to strain her shoulder, Paati would have had to reach for something to whack him without touching him, and thereby ended all possibility of continued dialogue. This instead would elicit the expected reaction, “Don‟t touch!” which made more headway towards annoyance than the elderly leper‟s plea did towards melancholy. Paati told me how back in the day, there was no problem like this. Beggars sat outside temples and did not bother you, you gave them money if you wanted to. “See the courage of this little boy! Shameless.” She was consistent in her policy towards beggars. She basically never paid. What was probably more interesting to me was watching her interactions. She did not really need to react, but she frequently felt the need to, specifically when I was with her. For her, this was a part of my education. Each retort was her way of arming me for life‟s inconveniences. “Great Actor!” she barked, “Stop pretending, you‟ve eaten very well. Now go away.” Over the years, I had learnt much: “He has eaten very well, just pretending.” “His mother is not dead, just pretending.” “She hasn‟t come from the village and lost all her money, just pretending.” Cities Joyojeet Pal “That plaster cast is a fake, just pretending.” “He is not a cripple, just pretending.” - “But Paati, he has no legs!” “Summa, these fellows cut off their legs so that they can make money begging.” As a six-year-old, I wasn‟t sure who „these fellows‟ were, but I learnt early that begging was an insidious business. It had drizzled lightly that afternoon, and groveling on the pavement was more inconvenient than usual. The boy knew fairly well how much near tugging the sari meant a dead end. He took a quick glance at me, his tragic face transforming slowly to one of indifference, as he turned his attention to me. In that first moment of Indian manhood, I realized for the first time that I was tempted to react, as my 6-year old equal, in what ought to be preparation for many years of shooing beggars away from women I accompanied. Before the pressure to react could move me to action, he scuttled off to another passing Kanjivaram, and made a pointed accident to leap through a small puddle, splashing the edge of Paati‟s saree with some fresh muck. “Ayogya! (useless one!)” she screamed in instinct as the boy made off without turning back. A policeman was standing just behind her, and she swiftly barked, “Oi constable, catch him - See he did it deliberately!” “Ay!” the constable shouted perfunctorily at the running boy. Then he turned back to her, “Let it go, mother.” Since we had picked up enough attention, the boy had to forego his next customer and just shoot for the alley to stay clear of attention. “Let it go? Decent citizens are being harassed and you want me to let it go? This is a big mafia, that is the problem. You must be involved too!” That afternoon was multiple initiations. Now, I had to react to the police officer, confront the degeneracy of the state, and find that I caught a striking pain at the base of my spine whenever deeply embarrassed. Not till I was led away in cuffs for software piracy seventeen years later was I ever as embarrassed in public like this. My grandmother had just accused a policeman of being involved emotionally or economically with a street beggar. Given that a good part of the street had stopped whatever it was doing to turn around and face the constable, he probably felt a good share of what I was going through that moment. Besides being a big mouth, my grandmother was also reasonably street-smart, and immediately estimated a few of the consequences of what she had just said. Luckily, the cop too would probably like a confrontation with a geriatric woman to go no further than this. Following a moment of brief silence in which both Paati and the cop stared at each other waiting for an escalation of altercation or conciliation. Paati made the first move, “Younger brother, you should help us, isn‟t it?” She shone like mother nation as she said it with the endearing vulnerability of an aged freedom-fighter just hit on the head with an imperialist baton by the British masters. Cities Joyojeet Pal “Please go, mother. He has run away now, but I will definitely catch him the next time,” he answered. And all was well with the world. As we walked away towards the Saree shop, Paati turned to me and said, “Nothing will ever change in this country.” ** Twenty four years later, I was back in Mylapore. I had to find „Amutham Fancy Store‟. It was supposedly by the temple pond, the most crowded part of an already overstocked neighbourhood. Despite the calamitous shock of populace around the Kapaleeshwar temple, I stuck out like a goiter. I did not like to stand out anywhere, but especially not in Madras. It was one thing being the only brown man on a street in Helsinki, but the feeling of being an outsider in your own home is thornier on several fronts. I am still not sure what scent emanated from my stonewashed jeans that made it so obvious that I wasn‟t a temple-going kind, but seemed to me that everyone around amply well saw me for the tourist I was that moment. Mylapore, one of Madras‟ central shopping locations, was something of what a city planner would call a mixed-use neighbourhood, with residences alongside businesses, public services, and God, frequently all co-located. Everything was built around a massive temple and its adjoining tank, one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city. It was the instant first image in my mind when I thought of the Indian urban ambiance. As far as the retail trade goes, it felt like the Indian tongue stuck out at the idea of the Walmart experience. There was no anonymity. Every transaction was a deeply personal exchange, everyone had to deal with people. A slip of eye contact would destine whether you‟d turn customer for flowers, for a temple guide, for bangles, or for alms. My goal at Mylapore would be to walk straight to the shop I needed to get to, and walk straight back to the car and out of here. This was my first time back in Madras in almost seven years, and probably my first time in Mylapore since Paati. Most of my time here since returning had been around the broader avenues of Mount Road and Nungambakkam and the redeveloped areas across the Adyar River. I was amazed, frankly, how wrong Paati was. So much had changed. Paati herself was dead. I was told it was the techie‟s city, and I believe it. I still remember the day I was leaving to go to the US for the first time seven years ago. The wounds of my public slapping at the hands of the police at the rarest of rare public round-ups of software pirates at Burma Bazaar, for buying a copy of Windows 95 still rang fresh in my ears. On the way to the airport, my father told the taxi to take a detour on Mount Road past the Life Insurance Corporation (LIC) building, so that I could see admire one last time. For a frugal man who would insist on the shortest route even where there wasn‟t one, it was a momentous gesture. At thirteen floors, the LIC building was the pride of the city. It was the insignia of the Madras jingoism of his boyhood, and that of every film producer in town, as Cities Joyojeet Pal commemorated through their featuring the edifice in almost every major movie from the sixties and seventies. The detour through LIC also meant we would drive over the Gemini Flyover, the first in Madras, the one superstars Kamal Haasan and Rajnikanth rode down on their Enfield motorbikes en route simulated daredevilry.

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