Never Enough

Sutter Street is the "backpackers" ghetto of Calcutta. Along with all of the requisite guesthouses and restaurants offering "western fare," the Sutter street area is also home to many of Calcutta's destitute who must find tourists and volunteers an attractive source of income. The Lonely Planet's guide to Calcutta had warned me about the scams involving mothers who say they don't want money, but ask instead for milk for their babies – a request hard to refuse, which they then sell back for money; but simply being aware of the scam did not make it much easier to resist these woman when they were standing next to me, babe in arms. My travels had been dotted with experiences with people begging on the streets since I left Thailand and it hadn't gotten any easier to experience even armed with the knowledge of begging "scams" and the fact that many of these woman and children are thought to be employed by gangs of criminals who exploit them to glean money from tourists.

After my second day at Shanti Daan, I was eating lunch on my own at one of the nearby restaurants that served actual Indian food and I decided to take my leftovers with me to give away on my way back to the room. As I was making my way back to the hotel, I remembered the numerous families who had made their homes under tarps on the sidewalk at the far end of the street and thought that I would likely find someone who would be interested in a free meal who hadn’t just received handouts from groups of benevolent tourists.

As I walked by the first make-shift home, a woman sitting under the tarp caught my eye and motioned for me to come over. As I walked up, I was greeting by a charming little man of about three, who flashed me a camera-worthy smile and took the bag from my hands before running off and settling himself on the floor in the back corner of the eight by six space of sidewalk that was his home. As the boy began to eat, a young girl walked up to me and introduced herself as Shundore (Shun-do-ree), explaining that the woman under the tarp was her mother, the man, seated with his back to the wall, smiling amicably, was her father and the young boy, happily eating my food offering, was her little brother. She told me that her parents spoke little English, but that they wanted to welcome me to their home.

Shundore’s mother, who had been preparing a meal by washing vegetables in one pot, cutting them into smaller pieces on a wooden board, and transferring them to another pot to cook, motioned for me to come in and join them. Surprised by this show of hospitality, I accepted her offer and bent down under the tarp, seating myself behind Shundore's mother, against the wall. After I was seated, I offered to help her with the vegetables and began cutting greens into strips as Shundore began chatting about her friends on the street and her brother, having finished his meal, danced about from one person to the other, coming back to me to give me a big hugs around the next with his tiny little arms.

Not long after I had settled in, I was confronted with the request for money that I had presumed was coming. After answering my questions about where they were from and what she liked to do, Shundore asked me if I could give her mother money for a new sari. I had been expecting a request for money, knowing that while Indian people may be the hospitable sort, that I was most likely seen more as a potential benefactor than merely a welcome houseguest. Remembering how much Sari's had cost in Bangladesh, I asked her how much a sari would cost her mother. She replied that she could purchase one for 100 rupees (about $2.50 US). I told her that I would be happy to provide her mother with 100 rupees, but that I did not have the money with me and would have to bring it back to them after I had been back to my room to get more money. Satisfied, she settled back into her friendly chatter and asked suddenly if I would like her to draw a henna design on my hands. I said that I would, gave Shundore 10 rupees for the henna and chatted with her mother in rudimentary English until she returned from the nearby market.

For the next 45 minutes, I watched as she squeezed the thick brown paste out of a tube and worked it into designs on my palms, much like one would draw with icing on a cake. As she worked, she intermittently looked up at me questioningly and I would give her an encouraging smile or tell her that it was looking really good. She seemed to be enjoying herself and when she finished with my palms she asked if I wanted her to keep going and then went on to draw designs up and down my fingers and around to the front of my hands, topping off by covering each nail with a think brown covering off henna paste. When she was finished, she told me that once the henna was dry, I should come back so that she could cover my hands in cooking oil to set the stain. I agreed that I would come back and that I would bring the 100 rupees for her mother, which she reminded me that I'd promised to do. At this point, the her little brother, who did not appear to share his sisters mastery of the English language, but at least understood the word "money" or had seen enough tourists come in and out of his home and asked for money to know what was going on, grabbed my hand and started shouting, "Auntie! Auntie! No Money! No Money!" He then began walking around and around continuing his chant, coming back to give me an affectionate squeeze, while his mother tried to shush him and Shundore flashed me an embarrassed grin. I scooped the boy up and tickled him until his shouts dissolved into giggles and gave his mother a reassuring smile. Because they had welcomed me into their home and been so kind, even if it was something that they did for everyone, they had given me a window into a part of life in Calcutta that I would otherwise not have seen and I was more than willing to give them what they asked, knowing I could easily give even more. I asked Shundore to thank her mother and father for allow me to visit with them and headed back to my hotel room, accompanied by Shundore, who followed me, I presumed, to be sure that I returned.

As we walked down the street, Shundore began warning me not to talk to the other women and children who asked me for money because they “would say anything to get money” from me and that that weren't "good people." By this small comment, Shundore revealed to me what must be a fierce competitiveness between the people living on the street in their area fighting for handouts from tourists and volunteers. While I had grown quite fond of Shundore and her family, I didn't believe that any of the other families on the street were any more or less deceptive than they felt they needed to be to obtain money necessary for their survival. I wondered what children were told about begging and if there really were conversations between parents and children on how to be most successful at their task.

At that point, a woman come up to us and began with the line on the street of telling me she needed milk for her baby. Shundore grabbed my hand and told the woman to leave us alone, but the woman would not be deterred. The woman held a stout, healthy looking baby in her arms and held the hand of another boy of about four. As I fell into my now familiar response of head shaking and apologetic refusal of her pleas, I realized that I had already marked myself as an easy target by giving anything at all. To cease her begging, I began to talk to the woman asking her about her children. She immediately appeared to lighten and smiled as she told me about her children and introduced herself and her two little boys. At this point, we were at my hotel and I found myself in the awkward position of having promised money to Shundore while having refused anything to the other woman, who I was now sure would be waiting for me upon my return. Feeling guilty, I told her that I would give her a little money for the boys, but that I didn't have much and left them standing on the street, while I climbed the three flights of stairs to our room on the roof of the building.

When I returned, I discretely handed the woman 50 rupees and began to walk back with Shundore to give her mother the money I'd promised and to receive the final treatment on my now drying henna. Shundore alternatively picked the dried henna off my hands and flashed disapproving looks at the woman who continued to accompany us as we made our way back to her home.

When we reached our destination, so as not to make it obvious to the other woman that I was handing out money to others as well, I quickly slipped the 100 rupee note to Shundore's mother, who flashed me a grateful smile. As the other woman admired my hands, Shundore poured cooking oil into my palms and rubbed it in until my hands were shiny with oil. When she was finished, I excused myself and thanked them all again for their hospitality, promising, in response to Shundore's repeated pleas, to stop by again to visit before I left town.

The following afternoon, after leaving Shanti Daan, Mark and I were walking towards our now regular spot for lunch. As we walked, we were approached by a young girl of about 11, with her younger brother in tow. She immediately began asking us for money for food. Now used to these entreaties every time we left our room, we both shook our heads and continued walking. As we walked, she continued to implore us to no avail.

As we neared the corner, I felt a small hand fit into mine and I looked down into Shundore's smiling face. She said hello and I introduced her to Mark. She then began talking to the other children in Bangla in what appeared to be a challenge for them to leave. My conscience, which had not made peace with my selective acts of charity, refused to let me let this go on and so, relenting, I invited them all to lunch with us.

The children were thrilled and happily followed us into the restaurant. As we went to sit down, the waiter started to chase the kids out, but hesitated when I told him that it was okay, the kids were with us. Shaking his head, he went back for more menus. When he returned for our orders, the kids asked if they could have fish curry and, after determining that it was no the most expensive thing on the menu, I agreed. When the waiter returned and asked for our drink order, Shundore asked for a coke and looked questioningly at me. When I nodded, the other two children ordered cokes as well.

While we waited for our food, with Shundore acting as our translator, we asked the other two children a little about themselves. The younger boy seemed to speak no English and his sister spoke only what was necessary to acquire handouts, but Shundore translated our questions and answers until I ran out of questions that I thought were polite to ask. So many that I would have liked to ask were left unspoken because of my fear of seeming intrusive or of coming across as thoughtless to these children who were growing up living on the streets while I spent my nights in the comparative luxury of my hotel room.

When the food arrived, I noticed how mothering the young girl acted towards her brother, making sure his fish was cut and that he had enough of everything, while Shundore continued to impress us with her impeccable table manners, even using a knife and fork while the other children ate traditionally, with their fingers, and her seemingly total mastery of the English language.

While we were eating, a woman holding a baby came up to stand outside the door and began to beg for food and money. I noticed that she exchanged looks with the older of the girls, imploring her to give her some food, while the girl turned back to her food with a look of intense guilt. I had ordered naan for all of us and it was already apparent that we had too much food, so I made a mental note to box something up for this woman, while slowing shaking my head in her direction. When we were finished our meal, I made sure that each of the children had leftovers to take home and I boxed up my portion for the woman outside. As we made our way outside, the kids thanked me for the meal and I thanked them for their company before parting parting ways at the door. The woman who had remained standing outside began immediately to ask us for money. In response, I tried to hand her the bag of food, but she simply looked at it disdainfully and continued to ask for money. Feeling bad that I was expecting someone to be grateful for my leftovers, but annoyed at the same time, I told her that I was not going to give her any money, but that this food had not been touched and she was welcome to it. Reluctantly, she took the bag, but continued to ask for money. I continued to tell her that I was sorry, but I was not going to give her any money, again feeling pangs of guilt at my selective acts of charity, until she finally walked away.

The next day was our last day in Calcutta. I wanted to say goodbye to Shundore and her family because I'd promised I would stop by before I left, so we packed up our room and made our way down Sutter Street. Unfortunately, she was not there when we arrived, but I told her mother that we were leaving and asked her to please tell Shundore that we stopped by. Her mother told us that Shundore would be sad if she missed us and encouraged us to wait until she came back. Not wanting to leave, but knowing how hard it had been to leave the previous time even with repeated promises to return, I told her that I wished we could wait, but that we had to leave in order to catch our train. I gave her brother a last hug, saddened by the frown on his handsome little face, and made my way out to the street, but not before her mother could ask me for more money. Their tarp, she said, was old and beginning to leak and could I just give her enough money for a new tarp? I returned her helpless look, realizing at that moment that nothing I gave would ever be enough, but confident that once I left there would be countless others to be implored for money.

Once we turned off Sudder Street, we ran into the children that we had had lunch with the previous day. They immediately smiled when they saw us and again began asking for money. They followed us almost all the way to the train station, the young girl pleading with me to buy shoes for her brother, when Mark, knowing that I would never do it, told them gruffly that we were not going to give them any money and to please leave us alone.

While I had become sadly accustomed to refusing pleas for money, I hadn't been able to bring myself to tell anyone to leave me along or to shout at them to go away, as I had seen others do and am glad that I hadn't. As common as begging might be on these streets of India, I never wanted, intentionally, to treat another human being like an unwanted pest, although I suppose now that my mannerisms and refusals may have been seen as doing just that. I thought that I would feel better by giving the little that I had given, but ultimately I felt worse knowing all that I had and how little I had offered to give, but also not sure whether what I might have given would have ultimately helped or simply served to encourage the culture of begging. Ultimately, I left Shundore and her family, the young siblings, and thousands of other families living on the streets of Calcutta, while I caught a train to the next destination on my trip and ultimately, a plane, while would take me back to a comfortable lifestyle of which many, if not most of them, would never know.