The Beggar In The Street

The Beggar In The Street

By Rama Lakshmanan

I hate myself each time I see
A beggar in the street.
It’s not that I have placed her there
To beg within the street,
It is the way she makes me act -
That beggar in the street.
I will not even meet their eyes,
The beggars in the street
And not because I him despise
The beggar in the street —
There’s so much more that bars me from
The beggar in the street.

Through fogs of time I hark back to
The beggars in my street
Who broke my childhood heart in two
So helpless in the street.
I shared my pocket money with
Some beggars in the street.
It warmed my heart, just helping out
A beggar on the street.
No greater thanks than grateful eyes
Of beggars in the street.

So where on Earth is that kind child?
— A beggar in the street?
No! — clothed and fed, and roof o’er head —
Not beggar, nor in street.
Nor was it the small kindnesses
To beggars in the street
That hardened that young molten heart
Towards beggars in the street;
The reasons are as num’rous as
The people in the street.

“Don’t ever give your cash to kids
Who’re begging in the street —
You know they ought to be in school
Not begging in the street.
Their parents birth them only to
Be beggars in the street”
Such sage advice they give you for
The children in the street.
(How many kids I’ve schooled and fed
Not giving in the street!)

“Don’t subsidise the drugs and sloth
Of the beggar in the street.
’Tis for their good — they’ll overdose —
That’s why they’re in the street."
So there’s a pub not far behind
That beggar on the street —
I’ll have a smoke, a pint, 'cos I’m
Aux fait (not in the street).
Then once relaxed I’ll make a plan
For beggars in the street
— And someday maybe risk a glance
At a beggar in the street.

Then lightning strikes! A turnabout!
And beggars in the street
Became more human than the folk
Who pass those in the street.
Just one brief look is all it took
And "beggars" left the street!

A pause enough to meet the gaze
Of a being in the street.
She had the kindest eyes I’ve seen
In a beggar of the street
(But given I avert my glance
From people on the street,
I guess this does not say that much
— Or help those in the street.)

I see a sad and worn out face
Look up from in the street,
A lady — cleaned and cleanly dressed —
This “beggar” on the street.
Her skin was olive and ‘twas clear
Had weathered foreign streets.
Her lips and fingers, worn and cracked,
Told stories of her streets.
My mind is racing — "organised crime
Controls these in the streets —
It’ll go to them and not to her
A shivering in the street.”

Yet still those kindly haunting eyes
Compel me from the street.
Remembered wisdom surfaces
While standing at that street,
"Give food, not coin, to those who are
Laid low and in the street".

I kneel so that I line up with
This matron of the street
— Like speaking to a child perhaps
To meet her at the street.
How like my Mum she seems to me
Up close and near the street.
Her eyes are kind while tinged with fear
From begging in the street.
Her kids at home are missing their
Dear Ma who’s in the street.
At least for now she cannot hear,
While huddled in the street,
Their hungry cries (but in her heart)
That’s why she’s in the street.

How many children have I scorned??
In coldness for the street
How greater, then, the freezing chill
They’re feeling in the street.

My heart is broken and I weep.
For the beggars in the street.
— But is it really 'cos of them?
The beggars in the street?
Not really. No, it is for self —
Not for the aching street.
My stony heart still cannot feel
The pain that throbs the street.

I ask her what she’d like to eat
This matron of the street.
She looks at me and shakes her cup
— Her language for the street.
I seek to take another tack
To speak to far off streets.
I move my hand toward my mouth —
A smile lights up the street.
The universal shrug for “What?”
Speaks to her in the street.
“DaMahdapliss, daHmadapliss”.
She mumbles in the street.
Bewildered I can make no sense
Of ramblings from the street.
I ask again, the same response
Is uttered from the street.

Why won’t she understand my words!!?
I blame her homeland street.
I’m getting stressed! I want to help
A beggar in the street.

Then sudden understanding strikes
To meet this family’s street.
A shop’s nearby, I hasten on
My mission for the street.
Tomatoes in the basket go
As asked for by street.
But how can I who eat quite well
Not do more for the street?
I pick the fruit that give me joy —
In hopes to bless the street.
Bananas, grapes — and not a lot —
A token for the street.
The oranges have caught my eye
— I hope they’ll please the street.
Most wisely I decide upon
My choices for the street
Eschewing all but "healthy" food
To feed and build the street.
(For me, my fish and chips are fine
— I’m not down in the street.)
But then it blinds me as I leave
The store to meet the street.
This look of abject joy/delight
That smites me from the street
Is from another Universe
— That’s only on the street.
Her face is radiant — literally —
From a dark and dingy street.

My heart is once again a mess
— But I start to feel the street.
Instinctively, my mind cries out
"You must stay in the street".
Don’t look behind, not even once —
You’ll lose this precious street.

But like Lot’s Wife, I disobey
And next time on the street
I see an unkempt bearded man,
A "junkie in the street".
I hurry by then curse myself
For striding past his street.
How dare I judge this man in pain
Just 'cos he's on the street?
Embarrassment is now the block
Between me and the street.
I head on, rationalising that
Another’ll meet his street.

The next time, though, I am prepared
For the beggars in the street.
Five sandwich meal deals in my bag,
I stride into the street.
When those run out, I buy some more
Provisions for the street
From nearby shops each time I see
An hungered in the street.
They’re "cheaper" than a round of drinks
These beggars in the street!

A later date, my pocket’s filled
With fliers for the street.
I offer to make phone calls for
Each new friend in the street.
Like one I met near Burger King
His first night in the street
Reduced to tears, and helplessnes
Alone and in the street.
We made a call and thus began
His sojourn on the street.

Just one month later right in town
While shopping on the street
I saw a trader selling mags
While standing in the street.
And in a flash I knew the face
— That shipwreck in the street,
Whom I had met the very night
We hurled him to the street.
He shouts it out - "Hey man, it’s you!"
We stand tall in the street.
I’ve such delight in this fine man
Who’s fought against the street.
So full of life and strength and joy
This beggar’s crushed the street.
— With my help too, however small
A pebble of the street.
I did feel pride for helping in
This victory o’er the street
— And that’s okay, because I knew
The strength came from the street.

Did I press on with diligence
Attending in the street?
It didn’t last (not faultlessly)
My service to the street.
And when I tried to start again
To work the grieving street
It was not easy melting stone
Again to feel the street.
E’en thicker walls had grown between
My soul and Beggars Street.

So you chip and chip to break back through
To the beggar in the street.
Whatever “beggars” challenge you
— No matter what your “street”
You’ll have to battle in Your War.
(That’s why it is a Street.)
Emotion intertwines with graft
Not only in the street
But if one seeks maturity
To challenge deadly streets —
They will need “heart” — and so much more —
Those beggars in the street.
And discipline, above all else,
To Heal the Aching Street.