You Are No Better Than Bankrupt Drug Addicts
One day, a long time ago in India, a young girl of about twelve pawed her grubby hands at my uncle’s blue suit jacket. She was begging for money for food, her dress torn and knotted at the end, and her hair grimy. On one hip, she balanced a boy, no older than five, skinny but with round cheeks and dark, tear-stained eyes. I was also twelve years old at the time, trying to convince myself to be okay with the poverty in India, the poverty I was told we could do nothing about.
Back then, I took piano and tennis and singing lessons. I was in Calculus II, I taught algebra to students years older than me, and I researched in astronomy at the community college I took classes in. My uncle was proud of me because I was everything. It was two years before I’d work at CERN and three years before I’d go to UC Berkeley on a full merit scholarship.
I was everything and she was nothing.
But still, she was human. So I looked at her and she looked at me, her hand gesturing back and forth from her mouth frantically. She could spot wealth. She knew a few rupees — a few thousand rupees — would have meant nothing to us. I thought we’d give her something. But my uncle shoved her off his arm and told her to scram.
