She was always there at the traffic lights.
Immature body in tattered clothes;
In over-sized choli, slipping off bony shoulders
And somebody’s cast-off sequined skirt.
Startlingly beautiful under the dirt;
Light brown eyes, long lashes, full lips.
I thought, so lovely, a survivor, a street child.

Little beggar beauty on her dangerous beat,
Darting by lines of waiting vehicles
Tapping at windows in the sweaty heat.
She plucks at a pillion rider’s sleeve,
Is pushed off with one violent heave.
She hops onto the traffic island,
To play with the rest of her ragged band,
Not beggars now, but carefree children
For those few moments between,
Waiting for red after the green.

Days later, she looks crushed.
Eyes soaked in mute misery,
She can barely walk or sit.
Her begging must go on because
Beggar-boss will beat her, or worse?
She staggers on from shoo to curse.
My driver stares straight ahead.
I read papers I’ve already read.
Can’t keep up the sham and
Lower the glass to pass her a note.
It’s the easy way out,
A bribe to salve my conscience.
For days, I had wondered about her
From my safe, cool, car-capsule
Then gone my insulated way
Erasing her for the rest of the day.
Can’t bear to see her anymore,
So I avoid that intersection now.
But my mirror tells me
That with my sterile pity,
I am like many in my city
Not callous enough to be unmoved
But too timid to do what I could and should.