The glue that separates us

by Edward Watson (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection India

I will never forget his little face – a moment that left me heartbroken yet so helpless. I’m in Amritsar, the heart of the Sikh community in the Punjab region of India, and I’ve spent the day at the Golden Temple. It’s a beautiful temple, especially at night. The lights underneath shine upon it to reflect the gold-plated building across its surrounding pond to thousands of pilgrims and visitors on the marble outer edges. It’s busy - a highly efficient kitchen of volunteers work behind the scenes to produce anywhere from 40,000 to over 100,000 meals given out for free every day. Some cut vegetables, others wash up, I offered my dab hand with a brush to the job of buttering the chapatis. I don’t know how important it is but I feel satisfied I’ve at least contributed to my free feed. I’m informed by a Sikh guide that it’s in their duty to contribute 10% of their earnings to the temple. The temple is rich and not just in financial terms but with life. It’s full of people and is impeccably spotless. Later on, I’m sat on the street at the foot of the stairs to my hostel with a friend I’ve just met – Joe from London, a drum n bass DJ, 5’9 tall in a camo green punk fabric jacket. I like him – enough to lend him some cash while he waits for his ex-girlfriend to send him some that he can withdraw. Joe’s having a smoke while I’m having a beer. It’s resting subtly between my legs as I’m not sure if I’m allowed to drink on the streets. Kingfisher red label, the big bottle, the only beer available. It’s starting to get dark. Our view to the road is blocked by parked cars either side of us when a little head pops out from behind one of them. A little Indian boy appears in a ragged red shirt, dusty jeans and no shoes. He looks no older than eight or nine. He puts out his hand beckoning a financial transaction from us with nothing in return. It’s made clear that you shouldn’t give money to the beggar children in India. As cute as they may look it doesn’t always help the situation and often encourages them to do more. His hand comes towards us again – Joe gives him a low-five as a joke and says "no" again. He smiles, then shakes his head and beckons his hand towards us again. His eyes are alive as he stands there playfully. It’s all a bit of a game in a sense, but a sad one as I sit there sipping on my beer refusing to give this poor child the equivalent of 10 English pence. He stands with us for 10 minutes, the same process over and over again. Hand out, we say no, we smile and laugh, hand comes back out and so on. “Go and play,” I say, “that’s what a child your age should be doing.” He doesn’t understand but smiles again. I wonder where the money I give him might go; for food, his family, or something much darker. Eventually he leaves. Joe and I remain outside for another 10 minutes when a head pokes its way out from behind a car. Our friend is back. This time, his eyes are glazed, a silver trail runs from down his nose and a plastic bag in hand. He puts his hand out like a zombie towards us. There’s barely any life in him at all as he sways side to side. The life had been drained from him, there was no effort at all to even ask for money, he just stood there with his hand out and his eyes closed. “He’s been sniffing glue,” I say. Joe agrees as we sit there in stunned silence. How do you even comprehend seeing a child in a state like that? I will never know what happened to that little boy. I will never even know his name but he will forever be in my memory. It’s a cruel reminder of the divide between huge wealth and complete poverty in India.