I feel you tug on me sleeve. Looking down, I see your dead eyes and moving hands cupped like a bowl.
I can't help but look into your eyes. Where do you come from, little one? Do you have a mother that loves you like my mother loves me?
I ask myself why it's you and not me. I know you ask yourself the same thing.
I don't have an answer.
I'm sorry I ignore you. I'm sorry I don't give you rupees. But I know it won't help you. Because it does not go to you anyways.
I wish I could take you away from it all. I would give you the bed I sleep in and the clothes I have.
When you start to follow me around everywhere with your little sister on your hip, I become more and more frustrated. Sometimes with you, but mostly with life.
It's seems unfair.
Please forgive me.
Because I don't know the answer to that impossible question.
India is a place that surrounds you and suffocates you in every way. I feel so small, surrounded by the masses of people. I feel so blessed, surrounded by the poor and disfigured beggars. I feel exhausted, surrounded by constant chaos.
I feel responsible when I am suffocated by your constant pleas, little girl. Please remember me. Not for the rupees I didn't give, but for the prayer that I silently offered for you.
I'll be thinking of you, little one.