Little People and Children

May 22, 2008 - 22:42 PM PST



Is it not true that these "little people"
whose prescience precedes their inhibitions
might just be children too.

~the story behind the embarrassingly brief poem~

The age of innocence and fantasy has decreased to near nonexistence for many children. I recently formed an unexpected attachment to one such, "little person," and I am frustrated with the rational I used to justify my actions during the brief time we knew one another.
It began as it always does with these poor souls forced to forgo their childhoods, "please sir, some moneys."

I had taken his photograph in an Islamic mosque of Old Delhi, and in return for the image that I will never be able to erase from my mind's eye he wanted something. Something more than I understood at the time. Though I believe that giving money to beggars is not always helpful. In some cases it's even detrimental. I felt that I was in no way capable of judging his circumstance. Because I had no food I opted to give him a paltry number of rupees.

As the note left the solace of my wallet eyes darted towards its glint. Feet shuffled and a small mob of "little people" appeared in front of me as I handed the smallest of the lot some rupees. As the little one proceeded to stow his earnings in a safer place another of the lot, not much older than he, lunged for it and attempted to wrest the note away from him. They tussled for a moment and quickly realizing that he would be overpowered, if not now than later in front of fewer - less interested - spectators, he furiously - begrudgingly returned the note to my ignorant grasp. I took a moment to comprehend the repercussion of my generosity and returned the money to my pocket where I hoped it would do no more damage.

As I walked down the steps leading out of the mosque, I could not stop thinking about the look of utter despair I had seen briefly, as this little person relinquished control of his note, placing it in my capable hands. With a sudden tug at my right arm my eyes shot out from the back of my skull. They fixated on my little person, now clutching at the sleeve of my shirt. I was oddly happy to see him as I could not stop thinking about what had just happened; however, I was not about to repeat the error of mistakes so recently past. I intensely desired to help my little friend and yet did not want him mugged either.

He followed me for ten minutes through the crowded streets of Old Delhi, in front of the mosque. My three friends and I hopped on two bicycle rickshaws and left to see the city. We traveled through streets and alleys until we reached the veritable main drag of Old Delhi, at which point I noticed my little friend staring at me from the center of the road. I did nothing.