Charity Does Not Pay
I have always believed in contributing to causes. Earlier I would donate to government run charity funds, and leave the spending to someone else. But this time during the COVID-19 lockdown, I decided to DIY my charity.
The first opportunity came when I was standing in line at the neighbourhood grocery shop. An old woman wearing thick glasses and a grimy saari was asking passers-by to buy groceries for her. She held a white cloth bag with little pink flowers on it, which looked like it was made out of an old sari.
“What do you want?” I asked her.
“Some wheat flour, sugar, lentils, and cooking oil. Just this much, and I will be very thankful to you sir,” she said.
I relayed the message to the shopkeeper, who delivered the stuff into her cloth bag. She thanked me and we went our separate ways. That was quick and easy, and I felt good about doing something for another human being.
The next time around, another woman was standing near the same shop. She had covered up her face completely with the pallu of her saari, and only her eyes were visible through a slit. She cupped her right hand in front of me in that universal sign language of alm seekers, and I asked her what she wanted.
“Sir, 1 kilo millet flour, half a kilo sugar, 2 liters of cooking oil, 1 kilo gram flour…” she went on.
I got the feeling this was too much. But I took one look at my own list, which was filled with fried snacks and fizzy drinks, and decided to let my opposition pass.
The shopkeeper interrupted, “I don’t have the flour she wants. You will have to go to the next shop.”
Something went “grrrrr” inside. “Give her what you have, and I’ll see about the rest,” I said.
She put her things in a little shopping bag made out of blue tarpaulin, and said to me, “Sir, let’s go to the next shop? I need some more things.”
More “grrrrr” inside. I mumbled a thank you to the shopkeeper, and followed the woman to the next shop.
The sight of five people ahead of me in line there meant that I would have to endure her company for a while. But I quickly forgot my anger in online dog videos, and by the time our turn came up I felt normal.
“Now tell me quickly, what is it that you really need?” I said.
“Sir, two bars of soap, one kilo of millet flour. And the previous guy gave me only pav kilo sugar, tell them I want another pav here. And…” she stopped to think. I used the chance to pass on her order, along with my own.
Our things arrived in a big pile on the table. By this time, she remembered what else she wanted and was trying to tell me, but I ignored her and told the boy to total it all up. I turned to her and asked her to open her bag, and dumped her stuff in it quickly. I wanted to get away from this woman, fast.
I paid up, bagged my stuff, and got out of the shop. I did not look at the woman, but she seemed to be rummaging through her stuff (loot?). As I walked away, I heard her say, “Sir, one more thing!”
I turned around, joined my hands in namaste, said thank you to her, and jumped into my car.
The next time around, I was much better prepared. Two women came up to my car window when I was at the tyre puncture shop, and asked me for some money. Luckily, there wasn’t a kirana shop nearby. I said loudly to no one in particular, “no thank you!”, and looked away from the two. This went on for a while: the two going on about what exactly they wanted and how it was not a lot, and me pointedly looking away from them.
“Twenty rupees sir,” the tyre guy said to me from the passenger window side, as he dusted his hands off. I had to open my wallet and fish out the right note, and I could feel two pairs of eyes boring into it the entire time. I gave him the note with a muttered thanks and drove off. But I could not take my eyes off the two women in my rearview mirror. Well, until I rounded a bend and they went out of sight.
All things considered, we should help out people in need. We may never know whether the money is reaching the right people. But I have made my peace with that.
