I rolled up the windowslowly,
the lever allowing separation
from what I saw and
what I felt: shock, surprise,
then a desire to protect myself.
I shook my head and said,
NO, I have nothing for you!
(What if lice jumped in?)
Hands and arms extended into the taxi--
street beggars, children pressing forward,
touching, asking for anything
as they gesture to their mouths
for something to eat,
brown from head to toe
from living on streets with
no separation between clothing and skin--
all dusty, all dirty, all
hungry
and so different from the down-and-out
in my American city.
I rarely look anymore--
My indifference is my confession.
A taxi ride in India is not
an easy affair
with unexpected, jerky stops, with
cows, dogs and goats wandering
and citizens in thousands navigating
a controlled chaos
for destinations unknown to me.
I have seen this many times before
here in India,
my tears welling up as I see
stricken children and lepers.
But you have to be careful.
And, yet, I felt annoyed and startled
by what happened this time.
Seated next to me
my mother-in-law in her sari,
so sweet and petite.
What did she think of my response?
My excuse
I can no longer recall.
A gift of a rupee is all that was needed.
But what I really didn't have
was the patience to care that day.
My indifference is my confession.
Once you start
giving
crowds will appear, grabbing for more.
Next time I'll come prepared
with biscuits and pre-packaged food
for any unexpected stop
that honking can't repair.
By Cynthia Ann Kerby
Edited by Ignatius Valentine Aloysius
Chicago
