Street Kids May 12, 2011

Kolkata is an urban metropolitan.  At first glance you may notice the deafening noise, the overcrowded roads with their decaying buildings, or even the poor.  You may also observe the brightly colored local dress, or the many markets lining the streets.  All of which can be shocking to the Western lens.

As we rub shoulders with the Nationals, walk the side streets and begin seeing “in between the lines”, we know the plight of this city is more complex than initial impression affords us.

For example, the onslaught of street kids.  Sure I (Brandi) have stopped to touch them with my white skin or practice my Hindi, but lately that interaction has felt so trite.  I know building relationships and working to provide food and shelter is important, but what about their childhood?  What about the opportunity to play, laugh, and sing – to be lighthearted?

This gripped me deeply one evening last week.  We were taking a taxi home.  Tanicia and I were in the back seat, Joel & Adah in the front.  With no air conditioning in the vehicle, the windows were rolled down.  While stopped for a red light 4 boys came asking for money.  I’ve seen this group around the area a few times before. One boy, the eldest, seems to be the ring leader.  He often has a cloth in his hand, sniffing it occasionally.  This night, his eyes were glazed over and dilated.  He was high.

Then there are the others.  One boy looks around 7 or 8.  He takes care of a toddler about Adah’s age.  The baby reached in to touch Adah.  His caregiver quickly, but gently, said “nahee”.  “No”.  I felt my eyes well with tears.  That small interaction was dripping with nuance.  “No, don’t be curious, don’t have fun, this is work time…don’t learn how to be a kid.  Learn how to survive.”  What my kids live like everyday, what seems like their right, is an unattainable privilege for many of Kolkata’s kids.

Just as the taxi was getting ready to drive forward, I saw the oldest gesturing with another boy around his age.  I thought they were going to reach in for our bag.  I discreetly tucked in between Tanicia and I.  My judgement was wrong.  The ring leader did reach in, but instead of grabbing for a small bag he grabbed at me.  It was inappropriate and took me back a little.  I quickly explained to Tanicia, who was stunned, that people do things when on drugs that don’t make sense.  I told her that although very wrong, God sees beyond such actions.  I told her we should ask for the same care and concern.

What can I do to help those boys?  How do I live out my words to Tanicia?  There is a children’s home rescuing kids like this.  We have been there twice.  They are in a rural village area close to the city.  Those kids are thriving and Tanicia begs us to bring her  to visit almost daily.  In that environment, secluded from the malicious street kid owners, they interact with my own  kids like its normal.  They sing songs to us.  They play games.  They go to school and don’t go to bed hungry.  They are sober. In the past, this has offered hope to my heart.  Yet, to be candid, some days recently it has felt like a drop in a bottomless bucket.

I pray that some of those rescued kids would grow up and have compassion on others like them. I hope they are successful in business and life and that they would funnel resources where it makes a difference.  I regularly ask that God would use my kids as catalysts of change and influence.

On the days I miss home the most, I ask that I am changed and made useful by these sweet lives I am privileged to interact with.

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