American Burger

American Burger is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that looks very sketchy on the outside. I walked by it many times—even after friends said it was fantastic—without going in because it looked so dirty. A few weeks ago, Melissa and I worked up the courage to go in and much to our amazement we fell in love. The burgers are without the usual Bangladeshi taste, and the fries taste like real American fries (none of the egg taste other places have).

Yesterday I was sitting at the counter in American Burger facing the street waiting for my food. I watched as a garbage bike pulled up with a father and son who picked up trash. The garbage bike is a bike attached to a trailer of sorts. I have often seen men picking up trash, and I have often held my breath as I have walked past: it smells awful. Thus far, I have not seen any garbage trucks (I’ve been told the big trucks are only allowed in the city at night).

So the little boy, dressed only in dirty shorts, comes to the door that is right beside me and yells out, “Moyla!” Dirty. Trash. The smell of trash wafted up from the little boy of only seven or eight years (maybe six years?). He was a smiling kid. I watched him as he waited for the trash. His skin was dirty, and unlike the smooth skin of other children his age, his skin looked slightly bumpy, like there was a rash all over him. A man walked out the door and said something to the little boy, touched him on the head.

He should have been in school.

The guy from the restaurant handed the little boy the first barrel, which was too big for him, but he pulled it outside the door and started rummaging. What I was expecting was for him to start pulling the plastic bottles out to sort the trash like I have seen many of the other men working with trash do.

No. The little boy found a fry and put it in his mouth.

My stomach heaved.

Oh, God. I couldn’t watch. But then I looked back. It’s a normal reaction I have. The little boy kept rummaging, putting little remains of food into his mouth.

How could I sit there and eat a burger and fries that were freshly made while this little boy had nothing? Could I be that heartless? I faced the inside of the restaurant, shocked. What kind of a person am I as I turned away because I couldn’t stomach what I was seeing? Should I not eat my food when it came? Should I take it to the little boy? Should I leave? What do I do?

Earlier that day I had been with my friend in her car. We had gone to a store to buy a gift for someone, and as we were driving back, we passed many, many people. Nothing unusual. I noticed a little girl walking across a lot and she was holding a bag above her head. She didn’t have a shirt on, and her ribs stuck out. Again, nothing unusual, but at that time I started thinking about how apparently little she has to eat. Does hunger rule her life? How can she play and be a child when she is constantly hungry? What is life like when all you do is want from meal to meal? You never have enough. You never get to try ice cream. I am not sure why my mind went there because this is a common sight to me. However, yesterday I tried putting myself in her shoes.

I couldn’t. I have never been without.

Bangladeshis love their rice and curry. A common joke among expatriates is that if a Bangladeshi doesn’t eat rice with their meal, then they did not eat a meal. Poor people eat rice with green chilies and salt.

But rice and chilies and salt don’t sustain you. That little girl was testimony of that.

And then I went to eat lunch and saw this little boy.

Many times I see people who are hungry right before I walk into a restaurant, and when I walk out, they are still there asking for something. What do I do? Because there is no easy answer . . . Most of the roads are “owned” by someone, so if someone who begs is standing there, they are paying to stand there. Someone gets a cut of what the people who beg earn. I could buy food for people and watch them eat, but I can’t do that every time because I would never go anywhere. My life would be spent there on the street moving from one person to another. That’s not a bad idea, but that’s not why I am here. I pray someone is called to be that person. I am going to the Gach in Kolkata. And then there are so many economic implications behind giving to people who beg or giving extra to people who pull rickshaws. It’s a sticky issue always. I wish I had an answer. I know that when I stop wrestling with this issue, that’s the moment my heart becomes hard. I vacillate between feeling completely heartless and feeling angry with compassion.

I watched as the little boy climbed into the back of the bike-garbage-truck and helped his dad sort. My lunch came. I ate. I walked out of American Burger and got on with my life.

What kind of a person am I? What kind of a world are we living in? It’s cruel and not what we were meant for.