An American makes me meet history on the street of Delhi.

“Hey there. How are you?” He spoke in an American accent. Usually, I would have brushed it off with a quick “fine,” but the accent caught me. This was a quiet residential lane—no hotels, no tourists. What was an American doing here?

I paused my walk. Sweating could wait.

“Fine,” I said, turning toward him. He wore a mask, as I did. The lockdown had ended, but we still followed health protocols.

“You’re American. What are you doing here?” I asked directly.

I scanned him. He was neither a beggar nor gentleman, just oddly misplaced. He was dressed in an unusually formal manner for Delhi’s streets. Wearing a crisp full-sleeve white shirt and grey formal trousers. This was attire more fitting for an office or official meeting than a casual street setting. Tourists usually dress lighter and casual to beat the heat, but he seemed to carry an invisible stature, a deliberate projection of respectability or control.

“I live nearby,” he replied. “Can you help with some charity for poor people affected by the pandemic? Even ten rupees helps.”

I held up my phone. “Sure, if you have UPI,” I said.

He shook his head. “No UPI. Never mind. Goodbye.”

He turned and walked away.

Begging and Charity

The next day, curiosity made me ask around. He really was living nearby, renting a single room and eating daily at a local dhaba. Sometimes, he quietly drank there too, though the dhaba had no license for liquor.

A dhaba is the humblest eatery in India—bare benches, simple food, just enough to survive. In Punjabi, the word for dhaba is written as ਢਾਬਾ (ḍhābā).​ It is a small, informal roadside restaurant or eatery, commonly found in northern India.

American had escaped his country’s hardship but still lived among India’s modest poor. A few months later, he left. At that time, I thought I had met American poverty for the first time. But now I see something else. It wasn’t poverty I had encountered—it was deception disguised as need.

In India, begging is not despised when it is genuine. People see through deceit easily because charity is a living part of daily life. Temples and gurudwaras feed millions every day, through Langar or prasad. Even those who are well-off sometimes eat there as an act of humility, not greed. Accepting food meant for the poor would feel like stealing from faith itself.

If you try to donate freshly cooked food to an orphanage in Delhi, you may wait a year, perhaps more. There is that much giving already happening. Real charity does not need advertisement.

History

The American, however, carried a different instinct, one cultivated for centuries in the European way of dealing with the world that is to extract  under the name of help. The Portuguese did it in Goa, the Dutch in Indonesia, the Spanish across South America, the French and British across continents. They came as traders, priests, or helpers, and stayed as rulers and plunderers.

What he did that day, a small act, asking money for charity but meaning otherwise, reflected that same spirit. He had the pride not to look like a beggar, but no shame in deceiving others for gain. The way he was dressed. A middle aged balding person choosing target at upscale locality appears to be a well considered action. Psychologically, professional scammers craft their image meticulously, employing grooming, confident body language, and polished dress to evoke trust. Therefore, the initial impression that this man was a needy individual evolved, upon reflection, into the understanding that he was a practiced con artist.

It reminded me of an old Indian story about a robber who pretended to be sick and begged the king to lend him his horse for help. When the king gave him the horse, the man galloped away. The king called after him, “Do not tell anyone how you fooled me, for if people stop trusting beggars, who will the real needy turn to?” That story explains India’s long lesson with outsiders, first Europeans, now their successors. Help offered from that world often hides intention to extract, behind fake sympathy. The American I met was not an exception but a continuation of broader historical patterns of exploitation disguised as benevolence.

That day, on a street, nearby, I did not just meet a man asking for charity. I met history repeating itself.