Colombo is the capital of Sri Lanka. It is trying to be a modern, cosmopolitan city. There are shops and hotels, and some of them are pretty expensive. There are cars and motorcycles, and more tukk-tukks that you can count. There are rich people, nouveau riche, and poor people. And there are beggars.
We were having a bite for lunch at a local restaurant. Around the corner from where we were seated, there was a woman sitting on the curb, looking at the people passing by her with a gentle longing in her eyes. I'd seen beggars before. They have them in New York, and Philadelphia, and Chicago. There was one in Decorah, once, I think, but I'm not sure. I have always been told to ignore them, to look the other way. To give them money would be the same as encouraging their bad habits. They would buy drugs, and booze. So to soothe our guilt at passing them by, we would give them food. Perhaps an apple, or a muffin. At least it wasn't drugs.
But in Colombo, it is different. I watched the people approach this woman, and give her some money. They would greet her, and look at her, not look away and pretend to be busy. Business men in nice suits would reach into their pockets and find some rupees to donate. I watched one man give her a larger bill because he didn't have a small one. He asked her for change, and she held out her hand with her money in it, and he took a couple of smaller bills. She smiled and nodded at him, grateful for his honesty.
She was unfortunate. Somehow misshapen in an accident of birth, or of life. Unable to work or create a living for herself, she was dependent on the kindness of others. And they stepped up to the plate. As I watched, hardly anyone went by without acknowledging her. If they didn't have the money to give her, the greeted her with a nod, a smile, a gesture or a touch. As we got up to leave, we all went out the other door, so that we could give to her. I didn't have much, maybe 20 rupees. I nodded, as I didn't know the correct greeting in Singala. I gave her the 20 rupee note, and as she reached up to me, the white guy, she smiled at me in thanks. Her eyes were dark chocolate brown, and her face was contorted from whatever had affected her. She put her hands together and gently bowed her head in the traditional greeting.Yet through it all, she smiled. There was a gentleness there. She didn't ask for pity. She didn't look critically at the few who passed her by. It seemed that the sun shined on her, and she returned that glow, reflecting the warm rays back into the people on the street.
We were having a bite for lunch at a local restaurant. Around the corner from where we were seated, there was a woman sitting on the curb, looking at the people passing by her with a gentle longing in her eyes. I'd seen beggars before. They have them in New York, and Philadelphia, and Chicago. There was one in Decorah, once, I think, but I'm not sure. I have always been told to ignore them, to look the other way. To give them money would be the same as encouraging their bad habits. They would buy drugs, and booze. So to soothe our guilt at passing them by, we would give them food. Perhaps an apple, or a muffin. At least it wasn't drugs.
But in Colombo, it is different. I watched the people approach this woman, and give her some money. They would greet her, and look at her, not look away and pretend to be busy. Business men in nice suits would reach into their pockets and find some rupees to donate. I watched one man give her a larger bill because he didn't have a small one. He asked her for change, and she held out her hand with her money in it, and he took a couple of smaller bills. She smiled and nodded at him, grateful for his honesty.
She was unfortunate. Somehow misshapen in an accident of birth, or of life. Unable to work or create a living for herself, she was dependent on the kindness of others. And they stepped up to the plate. As I watched, hardly anyone went by without acknowledging her. If they didn't have the money to give her, the greeted her with a nod, a smile, a gesture or a touch. As we got up to leave, we all went out the other door, so that we could give to her. I didn't have much, maybe 20 rupees. I nodded, as I didn't know the correct greeting in Singala. I gave her the 20 rupee note, and as she reached up to me, the white guy, she smiled at me in thanks. Her eyes were dark chocolate brown, and her face was contorted from whatever had affected her. She put her hands together and gently bowed her head in the traditional greeting.Yet through it all, she smiled. There was a gentleness there. She didn't ask for pity. She didn't look critically at the few who passed her by. It seemed that the sun shined on her, and she returned that glow, reflecting the warm rays back into the people on the street.
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