Finding Indira

Arvind stopped the bike at a roadside paan stand, where he got off to buy a cigarette. I got off too, but stood waiting conspicuously. Like clockwork, a little girl appeared before me, pinching her fingers together and bringing them to her lips as she moaned in Hindi, “Khana, chapati, khana …”
“Nahi, nahi.” I shook my head sternly at her as I mouthed the words.
After three months in India I was becoming impervious to even the child beggars, who spent their days wading barefoot through an endless sea of traffic, tapping on car windows, and looking up expectantly at bikers between light changes. What little money they received from those who yielded – small change or a ten rupee note at best – was to be snatched away and stuffed hastily into the bosom of some haggard, scowling matron.
I’d been reminded many times that begging was an industry in India; still I felt at odds with my guilt whenever any of those nameless children laid their eyes on me.
Arvind returned with a lit cigarette and we moved away from the shop and the people milling about on the roadside. The beggar-girl trailed us. When Arvind’s phone rang, I was left to face this tiny, impish creature, who had stopped her entreaties to peer up at me.
We looked each other over, equally curious. I noticed her muted, caramel irises, floating in a sea of vivid white that resonated against her tawny skin. Her hair was blunt cut, tucked behind ears bearing tarnished silver studs. A dirt-streaked, faded skirt set concealed her underdeveloped body, save for her small feet, the toenails pewter, poking out from beneath the hem.
Arvind’s voice trailed off, “Ha mai abhi Carly ke sath me hun …”
In that instant she lit up and looked to me – “Carly?”
I felt my countenance give way to a smile and I nodded my head. Beggar or not, this was a little girl standing before me. I felt foolish to have treated her as anything but an innocent.
I pointed to her, “You?”
“Indira.” She smiled proudly; she wasn’t nameless anymore.