It was the Christmas Eve. We were sitting in a shack on a quiet Goan beach. Suddenly the peace was broken by the sounds of a small drum. It was a woman in a ragged sari. “Take a look!” she was shouting, “at one of the most amazing spectacles on earth!” Behind her were two teepee-like formations of bamboo, joined by a rope. Underneath the rope, a baby and a tiny girl were playing in the sand. Other than us, all the diners (mostly Westerners) turned to look. “It’s yet another tightrope walking stunt,” said I, turning away. Then someone gasped.
The little girl, barely large enough to toddle, was walking across the tightrope. Before our astonished eyes, her mother handed her a bowl at the other end, which she placed on her toe. Bowl in place, she hopped across the rope effortlessly. By then we were all riveted by the tiny performer. The girl hopped back to her mother, who handed her a blindfold. The child expertly tied it over her eyes and walked the rope again. Then she somersaulted and jumped off with the ease that could only come with years of practice. But she looked too young to have had those years of practice! At first, I felt slightly sick at the family’s callous exploitation of the little girl. Later, I found myself wondering, as much about the girl as about my reaction.
The little girl came skipping around to the tables, collecting money like a pro. She stopped at the table ahead, and confidently asked the couple sitting there if they were Russian. They were totally charmed. “How did you know?” they cried. The little child shrugged mysteriously and began conversing with them in broken mix of Russian, Konkani and English. She said she went to school, and supported her family with her performances. Aware that she had caught everyone’s attention, the child raised her little arms up to a motherly sort of lady on another table, and said she was thirsty. “What are you allowed to drink?” the Westerner asked. The answer came pat: “Cold coke for all of us!” Minutes later, the odd little family (even the tiny baby) was sipping cold fizzy drinks.
Interestingly, the child sidestepped all the Indians sitting there, making a beeline for the foreigners. It disappointed me. I’d have liked to find out a little more about her. Afraid of showing too much interest, I just watched her as she chatted and charmed everyone around. The Russians on the next table commented, “This sort of exhibition isn’t that bad, come to think about it. In our country also gymnasts are trained from a very young age … in safer conditions though!” They began reminiscing about street performers across the world, and said it was common practice for all of them to pass the proverbial hat around, much like this little tightrope walker had done.
By now, the subject of our interest was helping her family pack up, having collected a satisfying amount in tips and food. As they began the trudge to the next beach, I had a sudden urge to give them some money as well. After all, we’d all enjoyed her tightrope display. Somehow living in India, I’d become so indoctrinated with the idea of not giving to beggars, that that fact that I’d also been entertained had momentarily escaped me.
I was too late. The tightrope walker and her family walked away while I stayed where I was, wrestling between a desire to give her something and a sense that it may not be the right thing to do. In a sense, I was pretty much where she’d been a while ago — on a tightrope.
Unlike her, my balance wasn’t perfect.
