Kamal by Paul Delgado

 Kamal

In 2012, my wife and I flew to Bangalore, India on business. 

After a long week at work, we decided to fly to New Delhi for a few vacation days before returning to our home in the Philippines.

Despite the many years of living in Southeast Asia, I was never prepared for the level of poverty in India. I find it hard to put into words. 

The beauty of the countryside and warmth of the Indian people was delightful, yet the endless crush of impoverished masses we saw driving through the city on the way to our hotel was soul crushing. 

Late that afternoon at our hotel, the venerable Imperial…a historic bastion of British colonial grandeur, we were sitting on the veranda of the Polo Bar, surrounded by a refined and gracious staff. It was easy to imagine life as a British Raj of a bygone era, with our waiter crisply dressed in traditional costume with a neatly wrapped turban and handlebar mustache. I mused to myself, “This must be one of the most exotic places I have ever visited.”

The following morning, touring the city with our driver, we enjoyed the sights and sounds of Delhi. 

The streets teemed with life. 

Women in brightly colored Saris and the fragrance of innumerable spices filled one’s senses. Some of the sights were amusing, men having a shave and a haircut on the side of the road. Women balancing woven baskets on their head loaded with an impossible amount of fruit, laundry, or other wares.. However, it wasn’t long before the reality of poverty on the streets began to weigh heavily on me.

Even after twelve years of living in the Philippines and having traveled extensively throughout Southeast Asia…nothing prepares you for the level of poverty in India.

The following day, my wife arranged for our driver to take us to Accra and the Taj Mahal. 

Initially, I was not keen on the outing as the drive would take over four hours. But my wife was adamant we make the trek.

The drive was indeed long and arduous. Traffic was terrible and the highway was crowded with trucks, farm equipment, and overloaded buses. Elephants and camels easily paraded alongside overloaded lorries of men on their way to work, or motorcycles balancing an entire family with children on their way to school.

The sky was an omnipresent hazy grey from the smoke of cooking fires and burning fields. Along the road, the poorest of the poor lived in small hovels constructed of dried cow patties, eking out a meager existence. The brightly colored saris of women in the city were a contrast to the worn muted tones of the women in the country.

Watching a woman cook over a small wood fire while her children played in the dusty street under a sweltering sun, I couldn’t fathom such a bleak life. 

As we inched along the highway in heavy traffic, people mobbed our car at every intersection, knocking on the windows, begging for money. 

The poverty was overwhelming. 

Looking in the review mirror, the driver said, “Do not mind them. They work for street gangs. They do not keep the money, they will give it to those who control them.”

Incredulously I asked, “Surely not everyone is working for a street gang… are they?”

“You are correct,” he replied flatly.

“How do you know who belongs to a gang and who doesn’t?” I asked.

The driver shook his head. “You do not know,” and proceeded to overtake a lumbering farm truck piled high with stalks of cut sugar cane. 

As we drove further into the countryside, the number of people swarming the car and begging at every stoplight was emotionally draining. 

They all appeared so desperate…yet how could you help everyone?

A few hours later we arrived in Accra, and as we came to a stop at a crowded intersection, a little boy in a worn, dusty cotton tunic ran to our car from the side of the road. He franticly tapped on the window and held out his hand. 

His face was dirty from the heavy vehicle exhaust, and sweat covered his forehead. His cheeks were stained with tears.

Exhausted from the drive and numb from the constant onslaught of hopelessness, I started to reach for my wallet to give this poor child some money. Before I could open my wallet, the light turned green, and our driver accelerated through the intersection. Within a few seconds we were on the other side, moving further away from the boy with his outstretched hand. 

There was no turning back.  

I looked back and I saw him. I will never forget the look of sadness and futility in the little boy’s eyes as we drove off.

He waved sadly and then disappeared into the smoke and dust of the traffic clogging the road.

It was a heartbreaking moment.

I was angry at myself for not reacting faster. 

What would twenty USD dollars have meant? 

What would a hundred USD dollars have meant?

To us maybe the cost of a lovely dinner at our hotel, but for the boy and his family, an amount of that magnitude would mean they would have full bellies, enough rice to last the month, perhaps even a life-changing moment for his family.

A bit later we approached the Taj Mahal, and as we crossed the bridge over the river Yamuna, the Taj looked as if it was floating on the morning mist. 

Its majestic architecture of white marble blushed pink in the early morning light while a flock of gulls swooped low over the water.

We spent the afternoon walking among the manicured gardens, and marveled at the architecture of one of the seven wonders of the world. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment we pulled away from that dusty boulevard.

Later at dusk and driving back to Delhi, we reached the intersection we had crossed that morning and I decided that if we saw him, we would give him money for his family, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

I couldn’t stop thinking...what if only I had reacted faster.

Maybe I could have made a difference.

The look of sadness and futility on that little boy’s face still haunts me today.

I imagined his name was Kamal and have prayed for him and his family over the past many years. 

I hope that perhaps he found a way out of poverty and a better life. 

I will never know.