People would rather give a few rupees than spend a few precious minutes listening to others’ bad luck stories
Do we have time to talk to people? Above all, do we have time to listen to others?
Yes – for productive time, seminars, lectures, professionals with loads of experience packaging their knowledge and selling it. I remember overhearing an advertising agency executive at a café, telling his friends over lunch how he managed to talk to one of the big names in the field for a few minutes.
“Worth more than two or three lakhs,” he exulted, and that was at the 1990s currency rate for a few minutes of pro advice.
This is about professional advancement, and getting ahead in life. What about giving a few minutes of your time to a stranger who wants to tell his life story to you?
Most people wouldn’t have the time for that. We have always been so busy – education, job pressure, kids, pets, vehicle(s), garages, movies and entertainment, weddings, funerals, eating out, and that precious holiday somewhere.
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Helping someone in need
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And now, living in a ruined country, people are too anxiety-ridden, whether they have jobs or not, to avail themselves of that one essential quality necessary to spend one’s time doing something which won’t provide a return – which is what listening to a stranger’s life story is – and that quality of empathy and compassion. It’s in short supply.
I have always been pretty busy myself. Family, job, car or bike, garage, house repairs, pets, eating out, that occasional holiday, social engagements (though no seminars on getting ahead in life), reading, studying music and creative writing. It’s hard to believe I squeezed in so much into 24-hour days, and still got enough sleep.
But I like to talk to people, and listen to them – unless they are boring. It may be because I am a novelist. Novels are made of conversations, and real-life experiences re-shaped in the imagination. No matter how busy I am, I like talking and listening to people.
These days are somehow different. I am tired of endless days of dark despair in a bankrupt country. People are wary of strangers. They avoid eye contact in the streets for fear the other person might ask for a little help.
That was a busy day and I was very tired. I was sweeping the front yard when a very small, old man in a white shirt and sarong stopped by the gate.
These days, you have people asking for food or handouts. This man said he had never begged before but was forced to do so that day.
They come with all kinds of stories. You can believe them or not. You can give a few rupees or you can turn away. I was unlocking my parked bicycle near a supermarket when a middle-aged woman, obviously not a beggar from her clothes and appearance, stood by hopefully with a few children’s storybooks. She was looking through the window of a parked car. But the occupant avoided looking at her.
I bought a book because I felt sorry for her, not because I happened to have surplus money. The occupant of the car, obviously embarrassed by what I did (after all, I was riding a bicycle), rolled down the window and told her he didn’t have change.
Few people would have money to help the needy after buying petrol or servicing and repairing their vehicles.
I gave the man at the gate a few rupees because he looked cadaverous, and a victim of circumstances beyond his control. He thanked me but, instead of going away, stood there telling me a story.
I turned my back and began sweeping but something made me stop and listen to him. He spoke in a low tone, with his head lowered, but his soft voice was compelling.
He was talking about a daughter.
“I told them not to go. It was late at night and raining badly. But my son-in-law wouldn’t listen. My daughter didn’t want to go but he scolded her. When I told him riding in that rain was dangerous, he shouted at me, too. An hour after they left, someone called me and said both had died in an accident with a lorry.
“I was a lorry driver. I’m 75 now but had to give up driving ten years ago due to bad eyesight. Both our daughters were small when my wife died. I had some paddy land and sent them both to university. My elder daughter had three children when she died. My younger daughter couldn’t control her grief over her sister’s death and had serious mental health problems. I had some paddy land and sold it to treat her. Once she got better, she quit her job and stayed home to look after her sister’s children.’
This man, once a hard-working working-class professional, is reduced by circumstances to begging. But, more than money, he wanted to tell his story. He wanted a sympathetic listener, and that’s harder to find than money. People would rather give a few rupees than spend a few precious minutes listening to others’ bad luck stories.
People tell me many such stories are made up, that those down and out would go to any lengths to get money. But that’s professional begging. What that old lorry driver told me rang true, and it’s still ringing.
Many old people begging at traffic lights and the like are now not hardened professional beggars. I met an old farmer from Badulla who had given his land to his sons and migrated to Colombo to beg. These are people totally ignored by our power-hungry and greedy politicians and the self-serving professional classes who worked so hard to bring them to power.
