As I stopped at the traffic light, she came—like every other day. While asking drivers for money, she is very polite. She shares occasional banter with familiar faces. She takes money in exchange for a blessing. She asks, “Brother, do you have anything for me?” Some young boys giggle. Some avoid eye contact. Some pretend to be busy. Some feel awkward in her presence and want to escape the situation desperately.

For her, the same story repeats every time the traffic light turns red—every day, four seasons. But she does not care. She learned very early on that a hungry stomach slowly swallows one’s pride. She moves on to the next driver, and then the next, with her arms outstretched. She is always dressed impeccably —sometimes in a saree, sometimes in a salwar suit—adorned with a large red bindi on her forehead and just the right amount of makeup to give an illusion of happiness. I slipped a ten-rupee note into her hand. She gave me her usual smile and blessing, then moved on. I wondered—where have I witnessed such divergent emotions in people at the presence of just one person? I saw anger, horror, disgust, sympathy, empathy, and kindness—all at the same spot and at the same time. The car behind honked. The light turned green. Sixty seconds were over. She recedes into a corner to give way, patiently waiting to try again.