A piece of life

The beggars

A random morning in the summer, busy streets, bus overflowing with stressed habitants of the city, heads bending over small screens and a radio station filling up the awkward silence all these strangers are bound to share for a 30 minutes ride to the metro station. Lucky me, I have got a seat and next to the window on top of that. My mind escapes as my eyes stay fixed on the running landscapes and suddenly it all stops; terminus. We rush through the flipping doors, walk hastily to pass our cards, a click sound, a melody we become familiar to hear. Next is the moving staircases that so few of us patiently stand on. Only the elders have the luxury to enjoy their time although there is so little left of it. The irony of life, I guess.

As I am carelessly moving with the rapid flow of workers, lost in my thoughts, I spot this body on the groung. His head is tilted towards two poor hands resting on stretched out skinny legs. Dirty clothes, horrible smell, funny hair, worn out shoes, shoulders pulled inward, tired and desperate shoulders describe the beggar. However, this title does not suit him because, in fact, this recluted character was not begging the first time he caught my attention nor the following days. He just sat on the ground, his back leaning against the hard concrete wall of the metro wishing to be invisible, treated as invisible, but, despite his attempts, stood out more than any other being in the crowd. At first, i felt an unbearable sadness, my throat tighten, my theeth clenched, my mouth dried out, balls of tears formed in the corners of my eyes and embarassement covered my face. Consequently, just like him who never once lifted his eyes, I looked to the ground with a sense of shame. I felt bad about all my priviledges, but most importantly about the fact that I would never switch place with him. That last realisation proved how horrible of a person I was, just another egoistic being who dared called herself human.

I did not make an act of charity. Why? Because my entire wealth was virtual, secured in a bank account only accessible with a small interac card stucked at the time in a purse somewhere in my ernomous backpack. I guess making escuses is one of my strong point, this should go on my resume. That first morning, I had simply endured an unpleasant feeling and carried on with the rest of my day. The next morning, I made up the cash excuse and was okay with the denial. The third day, I pulled out my smartphone and hurried my steps trying to disappear in the mass, but feeling observed. Hours later, at another metro station, a group of beggars were actually begging at the bottom of the moving staircases. I had change, I lacked courage to stop following the majority, to break the social rule of ignoring the unpleasant outcasts of society. To justify my cowardness, I told myself that my actions stood for justice. Indeed, since I did not give money to the first one, I should not share with the others. That childish reasoning on equality put my mind at ease for quite a while. I preferred to be a ghost who closes her eyes to other ghosts because of my fear of being seen for what I truly am, my fear of keeping up an informal promise. Yes, once we start giving, we feel the need to do so every single time even if we know our 25 cents, 1 dollar won't do much difference in the life of the receiver. This simple action satisfy our consciousness, makes us feel like a better person. Yet we never ask the one sitting on the dusty and cold ground how he is doing, never offer a meal or a warm drink, never take the time to chat with him or her like we would do with a stranger in any other given social setting as the supermarket for example. It makes me wonder: do we really care about the beggars or rather about our karma, our place in heaven ?

An even I, til the very end, never cared about the poor man feelings. I analysed mine in depth, too deeply. I was lost in an unclear fog dealing with guilt unable to really see the one sitting on the cold ground asking for acceptance.