When beggars can be choosers
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Mahmudur Rahman
The hunch-backed young man had had enough. It had not been a productive morning. The constant tapping of the often dark windows of the expensive cars passing the Gulshan traffic signals had yielded little. The savings grace had been the CNG passengers who turned out to be more generous. The familiar gnawing pangs of a rumbling stomach told him that it was time to eat. He rolled in to Alam's snack shop with a familiarity that surprised the other passers-by snackers who were chomping on the limited fare that the shop offered.
His words slurred somewhat as he posed the question, "How much for the noodles Alam bhai?" Alam wasn't the least fazed at being addressed as "bhai" by the beggar. He was in a business and with no compunction about his clientele. He simply put out his hand and demanded the money. After fishing around in the pocket of a well worn and well dirtied pair of knee length shorts the hunchback came up with a fistful of coins. He knew exactly how much he had and eight taka exchanged hands. With a shrug of the shoulders the shop-keeper doled out a generous helping of noodles and sauce on a plate and handed it over accompanied by a spoon. The hunch-back sat on one of the dilapidated looking seats and quietly finished his meal. Soon it would be time for him to brave the searing Boishakh heat to pace his beat again.
One of the passers-by snackers was somewhat amused at the concept of a street beggar in a snack shop. Times certainly were changing. "How much does a plate of noodles cost"? The laconic reply from Alam was, "Usually Tk 10. But, he doesn't have any more". The rest remained unsaid. The hunchback would never get the usual square meal of rice and dal or vegetables with eight taka. Biscuits and bananas were so-old hat. Why indeed should he not enjoy something he watched others do every-day? It was a forced change of menu for one with little or no choice. It was the way of life. There were no complaints from the consumers present at having to share space with a street beggar. At least for the present he was the same as any other client buying a meal with hard cash and with as much right to occupy a seat as anyone else. Triumphantly crucial was that he proved without intending to or being asked to that he could use a spoon quite comfortably. Alam knew that the passers-by snackers didn't.
"What can I do? How can I say no?", was a question asked almost rhetorically by Alam to no one in particular as he looked out on to the busy intersection. No one ventured a reply either. One by one the customers finished their meals, paid up and left. The hunchback was quicker than most. He had little time to waste.
The amused one remained for a little while longer. His eyes settled on a young woman on the street with a baby nestled on her hip. "How much are the singaras?", she questioned, the tone suggestive of the fact that she couldn't afford it. Alam was as committed in his reply as he would be to anyone else "Five taka a piece". She grinned without any sort of malice but there was a strange appeal in the way she longingly eyed the singaras and almost unconsciously rolled her tongue over her lips. The passer-by snacker was no longer amused. The burger that he was eating had suddenly lost its taste. "Give the girl two singaras and ask her what the baby will have". Alam duly complied. There was no reply and Alam, without in the slightest being put out, put the Singaras on the plate, squeezed out some sauce from a container and handed it to her. He didn't expect an answer and the passer-by snacker realised he didn't either. The girl dived in to the singaras with a relish and calmly squeezed some of the softer filling of potato in to the child's mouth. The little 'un munched in silence; it had no demands or protests to make. The girl finished and for a split second met the eyes of the passer-by. No thanks were offered, no chanting of scriptures in return for the gesture. This was life in the present day.
"How much do you sell per day?" Alam smiled softly "About six packets of noodles, a dozen burgers, a dozen vegetable rolls and plenty of singaras". A little bit of mental arithmetic told the passer-by that just from these items Alam had a turnover of roughly Tk 1500 a day. Given that most of what he sold was made at home-wherever that may be, he was doing well.
The economy is moving with a little bit of help from these street people. As the passer-by paid up and strode out he was struck by the thought, "Time to change the adage 'Beggars can't be choosers'. They can now.
(The writer is a former Head of Corporate & Regulatory Affairs of British American Tobacco Bangladesh, former Chief Executive Officer of Bangladesh Cricket Board and specializes in corporate affairs, communications and corporate social responsibility.)
The hunch-backed young man had had enough. It had not been a productive morning. The constant tapping of the often dark windows of the expensive cars passing the Gulshan traffic signals had yielded little. The savings grace had been the CNG passengers who turned out to be more generous. The familiar gnawing pangs of a rumbling stomach told him that it was time to eat. He rolled in to Alam's snack shop with a familiarity that surprised the other passers-by snackers who were chomping on the limited fare that the shop offered.
His words slurred somewhat as he posed the question, "How much for the noodles Alam bhai?" Alam wasn't the least fazed at being addressed as "bhai" by the beggar. He was in a business and with no compunction about his clientele. He simply put out his hand and demanded the money. After fishing around in the pocket of a well worn and well dirtied pair of knee length shorts the hunchback came up with a fistful of coins. He knew exactly how much he had and eight taka exchanged hands. With a shrug of the shoulders the shop-keeper doled out a generous helping of noodles and sauce on a plate and handed it over accompanied by a spoon. The hunch-back sat on one of the dilapidated looking seats and quietly finished his meal. Soon it would be time for him to brave the searing Boishakh heat to pace his beat again.
One of the passers-by snackers was somewhat amused at the concept of a street beggar in a snack shop. Times certainly were changing. "How much does a plate of noodles cost"? The laconic reply from Alam was, "Usually Tk 10. But, he doesn't have any more". The rest remained unsaid. The hunchback would never get the usual square meal of rice and dal or vegetables with eight taka. Biscuits and bananas were so-old hat. Why indeed should he not enjoy something he watched others do every-day? It was a forced change of menu for one with little or no choice. It was the way of life. There were no complaints from the consumers present at having to share space with a street beggar. At least for the present he was the same as any other client buying a meal with hard cash and with as much right to occupy a seat as anyone else. Triumphantly crucial was that he proved without intending to or being asked to that he could use a spoon quite comfortably. Alam knew that the passers-by snackers didn't.
"What can I do? How can I say no?", was a question asked almost rhetorically by Alam to no one in particular as he looked out on to the busy intersection. No one ventured a reply either. One by one the customers finished their meals, paid up and left. The hunchback was quicker than most. He had little time to waste.
The amused one remained for a little while longer. His eyes settled on a young woman on the street with a baby nestled on her hip. "How much are the singaras?", she questioned, the tone suggestive of the fact that she couldn't afford it. Alam was as committed in his reply as he would be to anyone else "Five taka a piece". She grinned without any sort of malice but there was a strange appeal in the way she longingly eyed the singaras and almost unconsciously rolled her tongue over her lips. The passer-by snacker was no longer amused. The burger that he was eating had suddenly lost its taste. "Give the girl two singaras and ask her what the baby will have". Alam duly complied. There was no reply and Alam, without in the slightest being put out, put the Singaras on the plate, squeezed out some sauce from a container and handed it to her. He didn't expect an answer and the passer-by snacker realised he didn't either. The girl dived in to the singaras with a relish and calmly squeezed some of the softer filling of potato in to the child's mouth. The little 'un munched in silence; it had no demands or protests to make. The girl finished and for a split second met the eyes of the passer-by. No thanks were offered, no chanting of scriptures in return for the gesture. This was life in the present day.
"How much do you sell per day?" Alam smiled softly "About six packets of noodles, a dozen burgers, a dozen vegetable rolls and plenty of singaras". A little bit of mental arithmetic told the passer-by that just from these items Alam had a turnover of roughly Tk 1500 a day. Given that most of what he sold was made at home-wherever that may be, he was doing well.
The economy is moving with a little bit of help from these street people. As the passer-by paid up and strode out he was struck by the thought, "Time to change the adage 'Beggars can't be choosers'. They can now.
(The writer is a former Head of Corporate & Regulatory Affairs of British American Tobacco Bangladesh, former Chief Executive Officer of Bangladesh Cricket Board and specializes in corporate affairs, communications and corporate social responsibility.)