How Do You Give When There Are No Easy Rules?

Compassion, Scams, and Daily Choices on India’s Streets

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Where stories chase you down the street, and you must choose—again and again—what to believe, and how to give?

(Yes, I’m riffing on The Sound of Music’s “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”)

Many who visit India are troubled with the visible distress seen on the streets.

Desperate humans force you to confront a painful truth: some have so little, others so much.

Everyone has a story.

In developing nations, many of the stories relate to basic needs: food, shelter, security.

Which makes it hard to look away.

The problem is less self-inflicted—some perhaps from drink, rarely drugs—but mostly system driven.

Too many people. Too few jobs. Rural to Urban. Too little education. Generational poverty.

Then, there are the others, who defraud you with the strangest stories of hardship.

Difficult to gauge if you are new to the culture, or even if you’re not, though universal instincts often whisper: “Something’s amiss.”

Here, you learn to listen. To the non-verbals.

Question the stories. Why? What? How come?

Applying the Socratic method.

To determine if this is a genuine case, or someone out to relieve you of your money, and trust.

Consider these real examples.

(Most Indians carry stories of their own.)

At a bus stop, two schoolgirls approached by an average-looking man in decent clothing—nothing to arouse suspicion—claiming he had no money for a bus ticket and asking to borrow some change.

The girls hesitated. Though every instinct urged them to help—after all, it was only a small sum—they ignored his plea. Suspicious. Why us? Figuring someone else may help him.

What if he had genuinely been in need?

Later, recounting the incident at home, their uncles were firm: “He’s a scoundrel. Don’t trust such stories.” Lessons learned young.

Was he? They wondered for a long time.

Years later, far from India, a similar dilemma found me in an unexpected place.

In a small café near Hampstead Heath, on a spring morning, an elderly Indian woman approached me with a story of being deprived of food and money by her family.

She asked for five pounds—just as I ordered my cappuccino and croissant.

The first instinct was to listen. What if she really was deprived at home?

She didn’t want food, only money. I gave her the five pounds.

Let it rest on her conscience, not mine.

Up to a small limit, I’m willing to forgo the doubt. Risk a little at trusting my fellow humans.

Here, distrust of those who seek help is common. Trust is difficult to come by, as many will tell you.

People who give tend to minimize regrets, even as a small voice insists: foolishness!

Many advise: give to an institution.

But what of the hungry, frail man before you now?

Who will reach him? When?

You’re passing by him now.

Why impose strange rules when hunger gnaws at him in plain sight?

Some choose wisely.

Yes to the man with an amputated leg.

To the other dragging himself along the ground.

Difficult to watch.

The vendors around him will dissuade you from buying him a wheelchair. “He will just sell it. Just give a few rupees, Memsaab.¹”

Fear, by another name. Exuding from the man without access to healthcare and a life of dignity.

Even when offered one, preferring, apparently, to rely on his daily earnings: the compassion of strangers.

Systemic issues defying simple solutions.

People vary in their choices of giving.

Yes, again, to the wizened old man who can barely walk. To the child who cannot see. The emaciated adult. The exhausted woman whose face, wrinkled beyond her age, walks slowly to the car, escaping the cyclist, too tired to even speak, hand stretched out near your window.

No to the family of migrants splitting the proceeds at four traffic stops—as the child informs you, answering truthfully when asked why he’s not in public school, where the government also offers free lunch.

Choose what to give: Money, food, medicines, or clothes.

Even to the migrant child, but not money.

So, always carry something—in the car or your bag.

In-kind over money when possible.

Nothing beats real help over debates on fixing systems.

A new yoghurt cup. An apple. An orange. A burger.

A saree. A shirt. Shoes. In good condition.

Ask first: If ok, share. They know what they want.

If food—what kind.

Sometimes, a treat—ice cream for the kid forced to watch a baby while his mother sells flowers.

If not, a few rupees will do.

Others driving by will give too. Rupees add up. Ten gets a meal. A ginger chai.

They seek until their threshold is met—or patience runs out. Then they move on, hoping for kinder souls elsewhere.

Few are so hardened as to be unmoved by the sight of another human forced by circumstance to ask, swallowing their dignity.

Without judgement.

Charities do try to offer them a way out, though the scale of the problem is significant.

A man with a physical disability addressed me near a traffic stop at a major intersection—“Of the hundred who passed, only one gave me something. His face—I just knew—he was the one who would give. I just want a good meal.”

He had two that day.

These are the stories.

Daily.

Of acts that work.

Of Life. Existing Together: The rich, the not so rich, and the poor.

Rules people form—for giving.

Universal, perhaps.

That's the way it goes.

So, next time you see a distressed Indian on the street approaching you with a story, remember: it may be the 99th time they have told it, and rather than believe them, or walk away, you can experiment as well—offer them an in-kind gift.

Rarely money.

You get better at spotting the frauds—and the genuine hard-luck cases.

Not being fooled by the outer appearance.

It’s in the eyes, sometimes. Hope, or despair. Pain. Always, the pain.

Many families carry stories of their rags to riches (or at least, middle class incomes).

So, paying it forward is a duty.

Whether to an individual, a neighborhood group, or a charity institution.

Paths are many; help is custom.

When some feel overwhelmed—the lesson is simple.

Start small.

In your sphere of influence.

For the future is bright when the child of a gardener, whose education a professional sponsored, lands a scholarship because of their grades.

When the daughter of a cook gets a paid internship at an engineer’s foreign firm.

When the son, encouraged by someone to learn English, lands an office job in a startup.

In India, one person carries a generational family on his or her shoulders.

Rich or poor.

That’s the way it’s always been.

The rich do it with flexible assets. The poor consider children their only assets. Both invest in the future, in different ways.

So in helping one, you help the many.

One individual at a time.

Choosing a path to give recalls an age-old principle, best illustrated by a well-travelled Indian monk who said:

“Do not stand on a high pedestal and take 5 cents in your hand and say, ‘Here, my poor man,’ but be grateful that the poor man is there, so by making a gift to him you are able to help yourself. It is not the receiver that is blessed, but it is the giver. Be thankful that you are allowed to exercise your power of benevolence and mercy in the world, and thus become pure and perfect.”

In India, it is always about the soul … and the karma you accumulate, of course.

Today.

For tomorrow.

1. Memsaab (or memsahib): Term from British India. Combines “mem” (from “madam”) and “sahib” (a Hindi-Urdu word meaning “master” or “sir”). Source: Oxford English Dictionary. Implies ‘Madam.’