I used to walk by foot to my work. It started at 6 in the morning so I had to head out at 5. At the time I had no money to afford taxi rides and it was too early for any other kind of public transport to circulate the city veins.
With people still blissfully sleeping their time away in warm beds it was only for the three of us to share that long silent street. Me, her and her kid. Me, the generally breakfast-less workforce. Her, young gypsy woman in a colourful artificially dirty dress. Her kid would shapeshift own appearance, gender and age depending on the day of the week. On some days she'd have blonde Russian-looking kid around her. I gave her nothing but sound of my footsteps. I can respect her for not having the guts to ask, for avoiding eye contact with me when I knew I'm seeing her for the last time, after I quit that job. I was paid 1 buck an hour, less than a parking lot earns for allowing a single car to take a space. Gypsy girl? I wouldn't give a single hour of my labour to her. I had a mouth to feed.
Fast forward to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. Arabic bazaar bustling with eastern activity. They call you 'brother' from behind their stalls as you pass them by. They secretively reveal dull silver jewellery, stun guns and perfume smiling at you with faint hint of menace. They cry out "Doler, rubl, tenge, som" almost in your face. Some of them want you to think that they can predict the future of an uncertain character such as yourself. Experienced bargainers. Cheaters, scammers. Hypnosis practitioners. Highly socially skilled individuals, that's for sure. Pickpockets too.
With this thought I fill the spare space in my pockets with my hands and keep my gaze down onto the ground in apathy as I'm being pulled away by her through the crowd. I see sandy dust at my feet. Then I see him. He has no legs and his arms end around the elbow area. He has a shabby wooden plank platform with wheels as his transport, carton poorbox as his fellow passenger. It is my turn to have to look the other way. Having 'oh-my-god-no-girlfriend' is bad. Daydreaming getting out of hand is bad. Not knowing if men perceive you solely as a sex subject is bad. Criminal abortion is bad. Being religiously brainwashed to kill innocents is bad. Waking up to find your dealer on top of you is bad. Heroin withdrawals is bad. Having to crawl for the rest of your days is different kind of bad. Always having your face so close to the ground. The first place I'd be crawling to would be nearest pool of water.
She is browsing wares displayed on the stall, I'm thinking about the encounter. Arguments we had? Fights between me and her old friends she was instigating? It's rainbows fairies and ponies.
I used to call homeless people 'druids'. In a degrading way.
I did not stop my 'friend' hitting a druid.
"Look aren't they cute?" She brings tiny silver earrings shaped in form of bears up close to my face.
"Huh? Yeah. I guess." I get sort of scolded by her for not paying attention to the trinkets she enjoys checking out. Our money would be more useful to buy those for her. She'd feel great.
I wonder how much money that limbless person would need to feel as good as she would.
Can anything be done to help him? People tend to not notice somebody like him.
Most of you don't want to. Most of you didn't even bother to read up to this point. Why? It is unnerving to know that such a level of hopelessness exists. Most people are ashamed to bend down to his height and put their currency into his poorbox. They are ashamed to look at him for too long. They can even be ashamed to know about him. They'd just rather discard the memory if they were to look at or know about him.
"These or these? Or maybe this necklace?"
All of them that you'd like. No need to choose, just one life, remember?
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Sorry if it was overly sentimental or disturbing. Or if you feel like I'm underestimating your issues. Sometimes I think that everyone who's not dead yet bears or will bear just about enough suffering that he\she is capable to endure. Just felt like sharing a story. Haven't slept for a day and a night, insomnia.
To answer the OP, no I only gave alms for the poor as an ignorant child when my religious mother made me to. To commit a 'good deed' she said.
But if I lived in Denmark or other place where rapists and murderers have free gym and faster Internet than me, I'd consider charity. Besides charity doesn't work very well in Russia. I'd rather not donate to the rich.
Where is that song about world being wonderful? I feel like shitting all over it.
