Soften Our Hearts

I have somehow kept my heart partially guarded from many of the difficult realities here in India. I've seen a new born baby, dressed in a dirty, pink, canvas rag lying on the pavement next to her burkah covered mother who was sitting on the ground in the middle of a sweaty crowd of exhibition goers, with her hands cupped together, begging for a few rupees. One night recently when I was reading by the window, I heard the terrible, bloodcurdling sounds of a goat getting mauled by a pack of wild dogs. I've been approached by a starving, bloody little boy with a wounded ear, and thick, sad bags under his eyes. Though I knew there was a chance he was hurt because it made the money come easier, I gave him some rupees. He stood staring at me for some time with a smile on his face as I was waiting in an auto, I touched his cheek lovingly, my eyes filling with tears as the reality of this boy's fate pierced though me, and forced me to asked myself just what the hell am I doing here, sitting in an auto with the handcrafts I just purchased like a selfish queen. This boy needs a home, needs a mother, not ten bloody rupees.

I don't introduce these experiences to sound like a bad ass or to announce all high-and-mighty, "look what a terrible world I've witnessed. Isn't it cool?". I say these things because I have to. I say these things because I am seeking to portray my trip honestly. I say these things because it feels absolutely profane not to.

The event that really tore through my guard, impaling my selfish shield was the day I saw the already one-armed man, covered in a bit of his blood, blubbering after being hit by a car. His body would be fine, but the realization of our vulnerability was shaking that man's core as he sat hunched over, crying on the curb. I could hardly breathe I hurt so bad for the man as he was being patted with a rag by a paramedic. What good was my breathing at that moment anyway? He needed the soft cooings and soothings of a mother, and more than anything I wish I would have had the courage to ask Goldy to stop the car so I could have held the man's hand and let the powerful force of love lead him quietly away from his fear. I was taken at my sensitivity since I have been so resentful towards the men here. But as a mentor of mine recently pointed out to me, these men are products of their narrow exposure, not bad people. And this man was not a stranger; on some ancient, inmost level, he was a brother.

Indians get very upset that India is known for its slums and extreme poverty. Of course India has their affluent families and middle class, fancy new technological devices and finely educated doctors and lawyers, but I cannot deny the fact that on my two-block walk to the coffee shop to write this, I passed several beggars and starving, sleeping bodies curled up in the nooks of the city structures. This is a reality that we simply cannot deny, and this isn't India's problem, but is a human problem. The lines dividing countries are invisible, and serve as illusions creating blind nationalism that corrupts the solidarity of the human heart. We are people, citizens of a world, not of a country. We must protect each other from the harsh rays of hatred and greed, and do more than pity the deprived.

Please advise.