Karma
Sitting outside my favorite coffeeshop awhile ago. I wrote before about the palatial building across the street, the aristocrats who frequent it, how they are kowtowed to by the guards there. To give an example: big wall surrounds the place; heavy, ornate gate across the entrance, only opened to let vehicles in and out. I watch as guards open the gates, allow a vehicle to enter, immediately close them. Vehicle pulls up to the building, a guard hops out, carrying an umbrella. He scurries around to the passenger side, an expensively attired woman gets out. The guard extends the umbrella over her, and they walk the 8 or 9 steps to the door, where she enters. The guard returns to the vehicle. A bit later, she emerges, the guard exits the vehicle, extends the umbrella, and she gets in. Guards open the gate, stop traffic, and the vehicle proceeds down the street. Life is good.
Today I noticed a younger man pulling a wagon loaded with old cardboard stop outside the wall. There are hundreds of these wagons around the city, pulled up and down the streets by men and women who root through the trash, pulling out cans or cardboard. All day long. End of the day, they take it to a recycling center. Maybe make enough to eat for a day. Haven’t seen a fat one yet, though, so maybe not. As I watched, I noticed an itty bitty, a girl, maybe 3 years old, perched on the cardboard. This is her world, being pulled on the cart by Dad. Hour upon hour, day after day.
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The gate to the mansion opened as I watched. A guard emerged. Such an overhanging belly, I doubt he could pull up his zipper. Went over to the man, berated him for daring to rearrange the cardboard on his cart. Yelled at the young guy for awhile, then swaggered back inside the gate. The guy pulled his cart across the street, looking for cardboard amongst the discarded trash, away from the guard and his wrath. Hopefully, the little girl didn’t understand what had transpired.
I waited a few minutes, finished the coffee. Walked to where the guy was sorting through trash. Said hello, called him bong — friend. We exchanged a wai — clasped hands in front of chest, slight bow. I handed him $25 — food for the girl, I told him. Came home, wrote this. Thought about it. Tears began.
Karma. Not for me. For the man. For his daughter. And most certainly for that guard.
