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By way of contrast, in the main street where our bus was parked we had our first serious contact with poverty and begging. Children of all ages, bent old men and women, mothers (1 presume) with sickly-looking babies, hideously deformed cripples swarmed around us, crying, whispering, shouting and holding out their hands if they could. But, like the vendors, they were never rough or rude. With a great effort we tried to follow our marching orders and harden our hearts, but the children especially were irresistible. They were also indefatigable. We retreated into the bus, but they reached up to the windows with knickknacks they were trying to sell or with open hands. When we closed the windows they rapped on them. Virginia had a great idea. She kept the window shut until the bus started forward, then opened the window and passed out a few minute bills. But she had not reckoned with Varanasi traffic. In a minute or two the bus came to a halt and there were the same kids, grinning and holding out their hands. One boy of only four or five, it seemed to me, ran alongside the bus for several hundred yards after it had emerged from the trafficjam and was beginning to gather speed. At last we made our getaway and were whisked back into the other world.
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