It's the same waifish urchin I met on my first day in Delhi. Her tight braids stick out Pippi Longstocking style and her complexion is whitish and shimmering--the symptoms of a heat rash. Reena's blank stare indicates she hasn't recognized me, so she is a bit startled when I address her by name. I continue filling out my visa application for Pakistan, while she performs her perfunctory gymnastic walk-overs. Back and forth she goes like a indecisive slinky.
It's interesting how the street kids here have a distinct modus operendi from those in Ahmedabad for attracting tips (or begging). Reena isn't the only girl on the streets of the capital doing the very same gymnastic routine. Sometimes the child will be accompanied by a parent or sibling who will beat out a monotonous rhythm on a simple drum. Dum-thuka-thuka-dum-thuka-thuka. Other times a steel hoop, maybe ten inches in diameter, is passed in every possible way over the body, or in the absence of a hoop, the hands are joined and the arms are used instead. There is also a sizable group of boys working the city that will paint outrageous handlebar mustaches on their faces and wear caps equipped with a ball on a string. One will approach his tourist prey using a pimp walk and undulating neck motion to send the ball whirling about his head. First one hand is held to an ear and then the other hand to the other ear, in what is likely a rough approximation of a rough approximation of a Michael Jackson dance. Virtually all the children--whether dancing, flip-flopping or head twirling--do their routines unsmilingly, the outcome of mind-numbing repetition and repeated rejections. In Ahmedabad the scene is far less creative but equally grim. The child beggar will haul out a pot-bellied younger sibling sans clothes, and then make a pained face while bringing joined fingers to the mouth again and again. The appeal is simple and direct if not entertaining: "I'm hungry. My baby brother's hungry and sick. Give us money."
In the hopes of engaging Reena's wonderment I take a break from my application to pull my thumb off, pop my index finger against my cheek and slap my hands together to form a finger ballerina. Reena doesn't quite know what to make of my display of digital dexterity, but gradually a cautious smile emerges. The half smile of the Reena Lisa. I shake my hand, palm upward, in front of her, and ask for a paisa. "Sirf ek paisa, memsahib! Only one paisa, maam!" I plead.
The nearby machine-gun-toting embassy guards are all teeth-bearing grins watching the interaction. They leave their sandbagged booth to get a better view and I am able to pick up snippets of their commentary.
"I'm sure he spoke Hindi to her. He spoke in Hindi when he asked for my pen too."
"Did you see the girl's face?"
"What country do you think he is from? Germany?"
"He is like a clown."
Against my better judgment I pull a couple 2 rupee coins from my wallet and balance them on my elbow. I feel that the offering is justified by the one-girl circus I have been treated to--even though I've seen and paid for it once before. As in my first meeting with her I snap my hand down catching the coins in my palm and present the prize before her. She clearly remembers me now and her smile grows to full strength.
A few hours later I am rattling, elbows to knees, in the back of a rickshaw headed for John's and my hole in the wall in the Pahar Ganj. When the vehicle slows at a crowded intersection, one of the resident beggars that has staked out the area catches sight of my white skin and sends a member of her crew scuttling after my vehicle. A dramatically hunchbacked girl in her teens appears alongside the rickshaw and sticks her hand in for spare change. I shake her hand and ask her name. Her face lights up hearing me speak Hindi and I imagine a barely detectable blush. "Anita," she says quietly.
"Mera naam Mark hai. Main America se hoon," I say. All of my Hindi is of the see-spot-run variety, but it's still fun to be successfully communicating in another tongue.
"Kyaa?"
"Mark," I repeat.
"Aapkaa naam kyaa hai?" she asks confused. The rickshawala repeats my name so softly that I can't make it out, but Anita immediately picks it up. "Mark," she says satisfactorily. She has completely forgotten her original mission now and is clearly enjoying our elementary dialog. I am trying to formulate a sentence to inquire about the condition of her back when I hear the roar of an engine from behind. Anita's companions scream and scatter in all directions into the narrow spaces between the jam packed trucks, cars and two wheelers. Anita turns with horror before dashing just inches ahead of a growling yellow Enfield carrying two policemen. They shake their fists and shout threats after her as their motorcycle lurches in the slivery cracks between traffic. The rickshawala grins at the spectacle and looks to me to see if I am enjoying the show as well. I am feeling slightly nauseous and look away.
Six months earlier at a small train station somewhere between Mumbai and Ahmedabad a policeman had crept up behind two boys that approached the train for alms and cracked one on the skull full force with his fat lathi. The sickening thud echoes across the vast expanse of time and distance and reverberates anew in my mind. I remember how the boys ran in panic, the injured one slowed by having to hold his head wound. A neighboring witness smiled then too.
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