AMERICAN DIGEST: Comment on Against Compassion: I lived in South India from 1978 to 1979
Friday, June 17, 2016
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8:47 PM
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Up the street from my apartment, at the intersection of my small street
with the main road, there sat an old beggar with a long white beard and
longer white hair. Every day, monsoon or blazing sun, he was there. I
would pass him every day averting my eyes. He was just one more of
many.
One day, my cook came to me horrified--"you must come right now with
me--and bring money." She dragged me down the block first to the
coconut salesman, then to the center of the crossroad (to break the
coconut, of course), and then to the foot of the beggar.
"He's a good man," she said. "He just does not know. I will teach him. Please forgive him."
Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered about. They were apparently most
interested in the transaction and seemed to approve of what my cook was
saying.
She then instructed me to empty my pockets, including the bedes, in
front of the beggar, to the wholehearted approval of the audience, and
then she dragged me from the corner.
"The beggar chats everyday about the welfare of everyone on HIS
block. He knows who gives, who does not give, and who should give but
doesn't. For a while now, he has been saying that you could give at
least a few paisa or an orange. He is YOUR beggar. Do not neglect him
in the future."
I give something to them all everyday. Before Shabbat, I also give some oranges. Make no mistake--God listens to their cries.
Posted by Daniel Jackson at June 10, 2010 2:49 AM