The World Theatre I - Alms

I do not usually give alms. I do not mind admitting it. Neither have I a perfect rationale for it based on proverbs, my principles nor past experiences. Just say that I do a donation only if I want to. I do not let guilt or shame change my mind, and it bothers me that someone resorts to them. That does not mean that these situations do not worry me and touch me. Seeing so many people that are extremely needed and forced to appeal to the charity of passers that somehow had better luck is something awful and unfortunately all too common these days. The discussion of whether or not I do the right thing could be very long, so I will not start it today, you can do it, if you prefer.

Image: Pixomar

There is a sweetened version of begging alms that consists of one or more persons engaged in some kind of show, unsolicited, during the brief sessions of an underground from one station to another, or in the middle of the sidewalk of a busy street. Some would not call what they receive alms, but a voluntary payment for a service. Maybe, but my feeling is often the same. Those in open spaces are easily avoidable if you do not want to witness their 'performance'. However, there are others that kidnap their audience in a closed wagon: the doors close and travellers are challenged by an individual equipped with an instrument (do not yet call him a musician) beginning a recital. The serious faces and stares in the distance are often the common answers to such discomfort. The sound becomes the master of space and you can forget about continuing to enjoy your favourite music on your player if that's what you meant. In such cases, it is better switching it off and waiting patiently to end the session, especially if the performer is equipped with an electronic beat machine, or an amplifier, a case that also occurs frequently.

A few days ago I took a train. There were not many passengers in the car and the trip was planned quiet. After a few minutes away, looked up from my book and I saw them there. A few feet away were a couple of kids readying their instruments. They should be in their early thirties, one, dark, short hair and stubble, stroked his guitar. The other, a guy with long blond dreadlocks half hidden under a cap was holding a violin. Resignedly, I took my music player in your pocket to turn it off and kept reading.

Then the notes began to ring slowly and weaving a romantic melody where the guitar chords, accompanied by a violin solo, gradually developed the song. I looked up the book and stared, rapt. The tune went on; I had never heard that before. The notes continued to envelop us all, the sweet harmony initial rate rose, and both violin and guitar played a cheerful time, powerful, halfway between a folk theme and a Celtic song. Then, again, it turned sweet and calm, as at the beginning, and back to the melody it started with. They finished the piece and I left my brief trance.


At the end of the wagon there was a timid applause. The blond boy put his violin away and went through the seats with a pouch. There were few travellers who took coins and put them inside. I reached into my pocket and gave him a handful of mine, thankful. For no particular reason. Because I wanted to.