Was it or wasn't it?

I've been thinking differently about my trip the last few days.

I've been thinking about what I saw and who I saw. And I realise something now I didn't realise before.

I've been very judgemental of the Bengali people. I went there believing I was going to see poor people. But more than just that - I went there believing the people were poorly.

There's a difference between poor and impoverished. And it's both good and bad.

Sometimes when we describe people as poor I don't think we mean impoverished - we mean inferior. Poor as in quality - not quantity.

Was life in Kolkata as bad as I saw it? Or did I believe it was bad and then saw it that way?

I think I'm starting to see a difference between what I looked at - and what I saw...

Haunted by an image

It's been a few weeks since I last posted. Being a new parent is tough. Tiring.

It is (as K said to me) both much harder and much more wonderful than you are led to believe.

But my thoughts are slowly coming back to the trip now as I get (marginally) more comfortable negotiating the terrain of parenthood.

For the last week or so there's been an image in my head. An image of the old man. Sitting on the corner of Park Street, Kolkata. Withered and grey. Dressed in rags. We were coming back, from (F) maybe, and we were in a hurry.

It was getting dark. The streets and pavements were bustling-full of commuters and you're dragged along with them.

He was seated cross legged with his back to the traffic.

His arm was outstretched and he was wailing. Begging the passers by for something. Tears on his cheeks.

He was there and he was gone. As I moved on with the crowd I hoped for a fruit stall or a curry stall or something. I would buy him something and take it back to him.

Nothing. Fruit salesman every 15 feet for miles on end in Kolkata - but not on this street.

As the metres droned on it became harder in my head to reconcile going back to him. Should I tell the group to "leave me behind, I was going back?" I should... but I don't.

I made the decision to let it go.

I justified the decision. I can't give him money which is all I have. It won't really help him in any permanent way and it only compounds the problem. Maybe his cry is all an act - maybe that's his shtick? The group needs me - I'm one of the only men in the group and they need a manly escort.

Pathetic really.

In hindsight.

I only saw him for a second. But I will never forget him.

Do you suppose he'd forgive me?