Blood Tests, Beggars and Birthdays in Bodh Gaya

Finally the day came that we’d been eagerly anticipating for an entire week: the day we got our blood tests done. It was an especially cheery occasion for Dennis, who has a perennial phobia about needles, and normally has to lie down while getting blood drawn, and sometimes recites Shakespeare as a distraction.

This time, though, there was no place to lie down; the medical lab and the waiting room were both quite compact. When we arrived and checked in, handing the attendants the cryptic form we were issued by the physician, there was some confusion about exactly what series of tests we each wanted/ needed. Apparently, the doctor didn’t really make recommendations. So we went over the brochures detailing the different packages they offered, and finally prescribed our own batteries of tests.

Then when our respective needles had been sufficiently sharpened, or whatever they do to them, we were called into the next room to get the fun stuff taken care of. There was no place to lie down, and, to make matters worse, the attended was unsuccessful on the first attempt (how on earth do you fail at drawing blood), and so had to insert the needle a second time. By the time it was all over, the victim had to sit out in the waiting room with his head between his legs for a few minutes, debating whether he would require a barf bag. (He didn’t)

When he finally had his legs back, we took a roundabout way back home, meandering through some unfamiliar neighborhoods down by the river — which was rather sparse and dried up in some places. As usual, the landscape was a canvas crammed full of arresting, memorable and astonishing details. One of the most interesting things we saw was a clever water spout that someone had fashioned from a recycled plastic bottle. (See photo.)

As usual, we were confronted by platoons of beggars, some of them rather aggressive and persistent. They’ve come to expect compensation for their efforts, since India has a culture of generosity toward the indigent — you’ll often see the locals, who hardly have two rupees to rub together themselves, drop a coin in a solicitor’s bucket. And beggars are especially hopeful when they see foreigners from countries that are far more prosperous than their own.

Now we’re certainly not unsympathetic toward the less fortunate; after all we made the decision to take this trip specifically to donate our time and energy. And back in the States, we’ve been known to cough up some change for panhandlers on occasion. But doing it in India, or any other Third World nation, is, it seems to us, asking for trouble. We’re already walking targets for solicitation, crime and grift; and it would probably make matters worse if we gave the impression that we have ample funds and are wiling to part with them. And word no doubt would spread on the street like a nutty rumor on social media.

So we’ve resigned ourselves to being Scrooges when we’re out and about — even though, more often than not, it’s very difficult to say no. One day we were pursued doggedly by a handicapped man who hardly could walk. Yet he stooped down to touch our feet, in the traditional Indian greeting, as we wished him well and walked away from him. It’s also a bit heart-wrenching at times to see kids begging — ragged, dirty little children who may not even have a place to sleep, much less a decent meal every day.

But one group of kids, about half a dozen of them aged about 8 to 10, were not hard to resist at all. They were among the many youngsters who lived/ hung out on the street we often walked down to get between our house and various points of interest. Most of them were genuinely friendly and curious about foreigners. They’d say hello, and wave and smile, sometimes from their balconies. One day a couple of them called out from overhead, “Are you from America?” We said yes, and they said, “Wow!”

But the particular gaggle we mentioned was different. They did seem perfectly congenial at first, but then when we were walking past, one of them (apparently egged on by his comrades) yelled, “Can you give me 10 rupees?”. Whereupon the others snickered. Okay, not so bad; and 10 rupees is only about 12 cents. But then the next time we walked by this group (which was indeed a group, always together), it happened again. This time we slipped into teacher mode and told them that it was not polite (not to mention not particularly safe) for kids to ask strangers for money. Big mistake. They took it as an indication that we were annoyed, so naturally they kept it up every time they saw us in the future. The particularly obnoxious boy who was the apparent ringleader would start smirking whenever he saw us approach, and summon his minions, who would walk behind us chanting, “money, money, money”. Sometimes a few other boys from the neighborhood would see the commotion and join in the fun. On one occasion, the ringleader sneaked up behind us and pretended (?) he was trying to snatch Dennis’ fanny pack before bolting for cover.

One day a blind man followed us home, carrying a wooden bowl to receive donations, and escorted by a sighted friend. When we turned them away, they seemed incredulous, as if it had never occurred to them that they might not score. Even after we closed the door, the sighted companion protested outside.

While it might seem callous to reject the pleas of a destitute blind person, we didn’t think it prudent to encourage anyone to seek us out at home. Imagine what a parade of individuals hoping to replicate their success might have ensued. And imagine them continuing to come to the door even long after we were gone. We didn’t think we had the right to inflict that on the family who was kind enough to host us.

That said, our host himself, who was also the director of the school we volunteered at, was at least on occasion generous to strangers — more generous, perhaps, than he was to his school staff. One day when we were at the office of his travel agency getting computer work done (the only place we could get online) a beggar came in, and our host gave him a coin. Not much money at all, but he seemed to be experiencing a pinch himself, as business was very slow at the moment.

His financial problems, however, did not prevent him from throwing a birthday bash for one of his three sons, who turned seven during our stay. Several of the relatives came over, all dressed up in their finest, and the living room was decorated with balloons, streamers, and other trappings. There were many gifts, and a big meal. It was not overly lavish, but it was plenty festive.

We had fun playing with all the kids, at least until a couple of the boys began having a simulated shootout with toy guns, and we had to politely pass on the opportunity to participate in that ritual. As we’d previously explained to some of the adults, we come from a place where guns are no laughing matter, and kids are routinely mowed down by bullets in schools, malls and churches. So we cringe when we see kids with guns, even toy ones. There are some aspects of American culture we really wish the rest of the world was not exposed to.

We were invited to partake of the birthday cake, which we did, and it was not bad at all. We were also invited to stay for dinner (yes, after the cake), but we declined, having already eaten, and went upstairs to our room to let the family celebrate.

For us, every day here had been like a birthday party. Well, except for the needles.