Her lips quivered, her eyes moistened, her hands trembled. She was drenched in rain and cold wind made her shiver. Her bosom was exposed as she tried to satiate the infant inher arms. Both of them so frail that bones threatened to rupture the thin layer of skin that covered them. The infant's lips were dry and chapped. They had made a small home at the end of the railway platform. The home consisted of a rug on which she sat, an alluminium pot with a muddy liquid inside it, a tattered cloth bag and a plastic plate with some coins.
I tried to avoid looking in that direction. If I did not see her I would feel less guilty of doing nothing to alleviate her suffering. What could I have done? I asked. Yes, even though I was single, I was earning enough to feed a family of four. I lived in a spacious two bedroom flat in an upmarket suburb and I spent more money in one weekend than what that poor woman might have seen in an year. But there were certainly millions like her. I could not help everyone. That was my argument. I purposefully ignored the fact that I could not help everyone, I could have helped her, somehow. But looking in the other way was easy. Not that anyone was asking questions but there is a word in English dictionary called conscience. And we sometimes need to think of excuses to pacify the little bugger. Well anyways, what could I have done?
She looked old, but if you looked into her eyes you could tell that she was not more than twenty six. Though I looked away, she continued to be on my mind. I wondered what was her story? Was she born in poverty and was living through it? Had her husband run away or died? Or was she an unmarried mother? Did her lover betray her? Was she a girl from a wealthy family who had run away and come to this city to become an actress, got into bad company and ended up pregnant and impoverished? Why did I think so much? I tried to fill my mind with other thoughts. The train was late today, boss had been rude to me and there was a cricket match I had to catch on TV. Who could win today?
The infant started to cry. Many heads turned, mine too, first in her direction and then away. Some did not turn away. Some looked on in pity. Some looked on in lust. There were men who found that display of cruelty and misfortune attractive as they watched her exposed bosom. Her eyes showed that she was not unaware of their lusty gaze, but she had resigned to it. She had to feed her baby who was crying for milk. I could not stop myself from looking at her again and again. Not because of her exposed bosom, I found the heroines on the TV more attractive. But something inside me kept telling me I could help her. Could I give her money? I had enough to spare some for her. Maybe enough for her to get a dwelling in a slum. Definitely I could give her enough money to buy herself a decent meal and maybe a blanket to cover herself. But my hand did not move towards my wallet.
Well I could have helped her in other ways. I was a busy man, a young banker who worked late hours and studied part time management course. Yet I did find time to party with my friends, shop with my girlfriend, go to cricket matches and movies and have an occaional barbeque. Maybe I could spend some time for her. I could take her to some NGO who worked with destitute women, they could find a women's home for her and take her out of her misery.
It started to rain, water poured incessantly at her end of the platform. People shifted in their seats where water leaked from the roof of the platform. Not a soul stirred to help her as she tried desperately to shield her baby from cold water. I looked at her again and looked away again. Maybe I could help her find her family and take her back to them. Maybe she was abandoned by her family and I could reason with them and convince them to take her back. Maybe I could make a difference to just one poor lady if not millions of poor. And it would be an inconvinience but would hardly make a dent in my cosy life. I shuffled my feet in indecision.
In my mind I walked over to her, touched her hand and covered her with my jacket. I saw myself lift her to her feet and help her walk along with me as we came out of railway station and got into a taxi. I decided I would buy something for her to eat on the way. Then we would go to an NGO whose building I had passed many times. I imagined an old woman running the show there. The old woman thanked me profusely for doing a good deed. The poor woman looked at me with gratitude as tears welled up in her eyes. I shifted in my seat awkwardly, ready to get up and act out what I had seen in my mind. I shuffled my feet in indecision.
There was a loud sound as train entered the station. Everyone sprung to action and started running towards the train. There was a rush to get into the train, I joined it. Call it practice or call it instinct. I ducked, I pushed, I heaved and I got into the train. I watched the poor woman again as the train left the station. Rain was still pouring. But I thought I saw tears in her eyes as rain water drenched her face. The baby suckled hungrily, unaware of the cruel world around it. And I was unaware of who I really was.
Sometimes just being good at heart does not matter if that goodness does not translate into action.
I tried to avoid looking in that direction. If I did not see her I would feel less guilty of doing nothing to alleviate her suffering. What could I have done? I asked. Yes, even though I was single, I was earning enough to feed a family of four. I lived in a spacious two bedroom flat in an upmarket suburb and I spent more money in one weekend than what that poor woman might have seen in an year. But there were certainly millions like her. I could not help everyone. That was my argument. I purposefully ignored the fact that I could not help everyone, I could have helped her, somehow. But looking in the other way was easy. Not that anyone was asking questions but there is a word in English dictionary called conscience. And we sometimes need to think of excuses to pacify the little bugger. Well anyways, what could I have done?
She looked old, but if you looked into her eyes you could tell that she was not more than twenty six. Though I looked away, she continued to be on my mind. I wondered what was her story? Was she born in poverty and was living through it? Had her husband run away or died? Or was she an unmarried mother? Did her lover betray her? Was she a girl from a wealthy family who had run away and come to this city to become an actress, got into bad company and ended up pregnant and impoverished? Why did I think so much? I tried to fill my mind with other thoughts. The train was late today, boss had been rude to me and there was a cricket match I had to catch on TV. Who could win today?
The infant started to cry. Many heads turned, mine too, first in her direction and then away. Some did not turn away. Some looked on in pity. Some looked on in lust. There were men who found that display of cruelty and misfortune attractive as they watched her exposed bosom. Her eyes showed that she was not unaware of their lusty gaze, but she had resigned to it. She had to feed her baby who was crying for milk. I could not stop myself from looking at her again and again. Not because of her exposed bosom, I found the heroines on the TV more attractive. But something inside me kept telling me I could help her. Could I give her money? I had enough to spare some for her. Maybe enough for her to get a dwelling in a slum. Definitely I could give her enough money to buy herself a decent meal and maybe a blanket to cover herself. But my hand did not move towards my wallet.
Well I could have helped her in other ways. I was a busy man, a young banker who worked late hours and studied part time management course. Yet I did find time to party with my friends, shop with my girlfriend, go to cricket matches and movies and have an occaional barbeque. Maybe I could spend some time for her. I could take her to some NGO who worked with destitute women, they could find a women's home for her and take her out of her misery.
It started to rain, water poured incessantly at her end of the platform. People shifted in their seats where water leaked from the roof of the platform. Not a soul stirred to help her as she tried desperately to shield her baby from cold water. I looked at her again and looked away again. Maybe I could help her find her family and take her back to them. Maybe she was abandoned by her family and I could reason with them and convince them to take her back. Maybe I could make a difference to just one poor lady if not millions of poor. And it would be an inconvinience but would hardly make a dent in my cosy life. I shuffled my feet in indecision.
In my mind I walked over to her, touched her hand and covered her with my jacket. I saw myself lift her to her feet and help her walk along with me as we came out of railway station and got into a taxi. I decided I would buy something for her to eat on the way. Then we would go to an NGO whose building I had passed many times. I imagined an old woman running the show there. The old woman thanked me profusely for doing a good deed. The poor woman looked at me with gratitude as tears welled up in her eyes. I shifted in my seat awkwardly, ready to get up and act out what I had seen in my mind. I shuffled my feet in indecision.
There was a loud sound as train entered the station. Everyone sprung to action and started running towards the train. There was a rush to get into the train, I joined it. Call it practice or call it instinct. I ducked, I pushed, I heaved and I got into the train. I watched the poor woman again as the train left the station. Rain was still pouring. But I thought I saw tears in her eyes as rain water drenched her face. The baby suckled hungrily, unaware of the cruel world around it. And I was unaware of who I really was.
Sometimes just being good at heart does not matter if that goodness does not translate into action.
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