Beggars On The Street Essay About Myself

The Beggar Essay

The Beggar Our car stopped at the intersection and waited for the green light. My boyfriend and I were very excited with the beautiful Friday afternoon. The wind was blowing on my face. My body was swinging with the sounds of drums and clarions from the radio's music. Out of the window, I stared at the strange people who were walking down the street collecting donations. A lady came up to our car and with a smile on her face, softly said, "Please! Would you mind giving us some money so that we could have enough food for the animals in our zoo?" I didn't respond immediately because I was remembering an incident that happened two years ago in Viet Nam.

The scenery of the New Year days was so lovely. Birds flapped their wings, twittering in the green trees, and people went in flocks to watch the exciting display of the regatta. My friends and I were talking in front of my house while watching people passing.

"Look, girl! Do you see him? The man at the corner is your father, isn't he? You look like him"¦ha"¦ha"¦ha," my friend, Tom, was laughing at me.

My face turned red. I said, "What's wrong with you, people? Don't joke like that"¦please." I was really embarrassed and mad. I knew they were still teasing me and assuming an untrue relationship between him--the beggar--and me. But I didn't care much about what my friends said; my mind was now pointed to that beggar.

The presence of the old man sitting with arms clasping his knees broke the noisy atmosphere. I didn't know his real name, where he came from, or who his family was, nor did anyone in my small town. He was a very mysterious man. Once in a while, some spoiled children saw him; they threw sand at him, yelling, "Beggar man"¦beggar man"¦." From that time, "Beggar" became his name.

*He looked so different from everyone else. Immediately, at the first glance, anyone could recognize he was a poor beggar. Beggar wore a threadbare, faded brown shirt. Especially, while he was sitting, his back was bent like a thin C. His long, disheveled and tangled hair was full of dust. The bushy beard all over his black face curled and covered around his black and blue lips. He was just like the weirdest prehistoric person I had ever studied in my history class. He stared at his empty, small, ragged bag, empty except for a few cents. He stared at that bag with his soulless eyes. He was silent like a shadow.

The people living near there were shouting at him cruelly, clapping their hands, and saying, "Beggar! Get out of here! "¦Beggar! Get out"¦," but he still sat there quietly. They did that because they thought he would taint their homes. It seemed he didn't hear anything. I wondered why he didn't move to another town that might have a better life for him, or maybe he wasn't welcomed anywhere he went. At the same time, a lady wearing a dress with a...

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Its afternoon already. The sun is blazing on my face and my throat is parched. But I cannot stop talking. I have to sell all the 20 pens in my hand by sunset. Clearly, I have no option but to continue to walk from car to car, auto to auto, persuading people to buy a pen. There is no place I can get a drink of water, so I see no point in sitting down somewhere or looking for a way to get water and wasting time.

I walk from window to window, thrusting the pens in the faces of the memsahibs, hoping they get attracted to the bright colours. I linger around longer where I see children, in the hope that they will see the pens and urge their parents to buy them one pen, if not the stack. But like every other car, the memsahib ignores me and pulls up her window. She is afraid I will nick something from her car. What will she lose? That rich woman, if I do take a small shiny thing from her hand anyway? She is capable enough to buy another, I am sure. “Selfish, heartless men with money”.

My own mother is nowhere to be seen. She must be somewhere on the other end of the road begging for money. The ‘badha sahib’ tells her to drag herself on a low chowki across the road. This, he says will bring more sympathy and thus, more money. I don’t like to see her like this, but I have no choice. Sometimes, I tell her to just walk normally. But she says she is so used to this that tiring her feet makes no sense. “The badha sahib is right too. And what if he sees me on my feet? He will surely kill me, or break my legs for real”, says Amma.

Sometimes I get scared, that she too will be crushed like Abba under a speeding car. The loons in their big cars have no sense and often drive over our friends and the other beggars at the crossing. Then we have to endure the kids’ cries of pain for months as they moan their loved one’s death or tolerate a broken leg or hand. Work doesn’t stop of course. Sometimes, it comes as a boon when occasionally, a kind-hearted man gives us 10 rupees when he sees a bandaged hand. But very rarely do we come across such people.

I look at these people in their big cars and think to myself, if ever I will be able to rise up to their level. Maybe someday I will run away and sell all my pens for a better price and get a better deal somewhere. But that is not easy. The ‘badha sahib’s’ men will beat up Amma and dump her in the river if they find out. Maybe I will run away without telling her. But then, who will take care of her? My sister already has to carry around 3 more brothers all day, and see to it that they get a morsel of food. I don’t know what to do right now, but I will figure something out. Someday, after Amma goes away, I will run away and make more money. I will drive a car just like these badhaa people. But I will have the heart to give away a few rupees, maybe even a hundred, to the people on the street. People like me.

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