There are distinct sorts of beggar-units.
There are the old women who’ve suffered enough for their blessing to be worth something.
And the disabled men.
And the disabled men who are led around by their wives.
And the old men.
And those that sing.
And the children.

The children are of different sorts too.
There are children who beg, and those that make desultory swipes over the windshield of your car with a rag before they beg, and those that carry around a baby and beg.

I almost always give child-beggars some money if I can spare it.
Stupid, I know.
I’ve heard it all before.
I’m feeding the alcohol habit of their fathers, or whoever it is that have charge of them.
I’m feeding their glue-sniffing habit.
They have more money tucked away somewhere under those rags than I do.
I’m encouraging the development of begging, as an industry in central Calcutta.
And they probably rented that baby.
Yes.
Cynicism is such a comfortable state to exist in.

I was walking to the Moulali bus stop when I saw this beggar child. She was about twelve, I’d say, and she was sitting on the pavement. She had a baby on her lap. I had seen her before, with a baby at her hip.
They were looking at each other. Suddenly she raised her finger and started tickling the baby. It was laughing. Then she put her mouth to the baby’s stomach and blew. There was a loud farting sound, and the baby laughed some more. She looked up from the baby and smiled, I don’t know, at nothing in particular.

As I passed them, I gave her a tenner, before I got on my bus.
I had to walk home from the bus stop, and it was hot;
And they sniffed glue, or bought their guardian some alcohol, or even, perhaps, bought some food.
I think it was worth it.