Cicada Song

They told me not to give to beggars.

"It's your first visit to an economically deprived country," they emailed. (They use politically-correct terms while emailing. Face-to-face or on the phone, they say the word 'poor' aloud.) "You'll get tempted to hand out coins. DON'T. Begging is an industry. The actual beggar very rarely gets the money, it goes to the handlers. You encourage the handlers if you give the beggars money."

All their warnings were insufficient. The cab ride from the airport to the hotel was gut-wrenching. Every time we stopped at a traffic signal, there was a knock at the window, a plea for alms. "That one has a baby!" I said. "She wants to feed her baby!" Or -- "That one can't walk! He's walking on his hands!"

"The baby isn't hers," Anita, my Indian colleague said. "Probably hired out for a hundred bucks a day." Or -- "He has probably been maimed on purpose, to add to his appeal as someone in need."

"Hired out? Maimed on purpose?"

"Begging is an industry. Watch. See how they're zeroing in on us, because they think you're gullible? Watch them."

"You're so heartless!"

"I'm sorry, but it's you that is naive."

"Okay, I'm naive. I want to help them. I feel so damn privileged. The only thing I have to worry about back home is whether the TV and wifi have clear reception or not."

Anita smiled. "Wanting to help them isn't naive. Tell you what. Once you're done with your official meetings for the day, I'll take you to meet my friends -- Diana and her son Richard. They run a library and recreational centre for street kids."

I was agog. Through my meetings to discuss advertising campaigns with our Indian advertising agency (I'm in marketing, in the fashion industry, and that's all you need to know about my professional life!) i was thinking about the street kids I'd been meeting that evening.

At six o'clock, we were at Diana and Richard's house. They run the centre from their garage. Diana doesn't look a day older than forty, though she assured me that she's sixty. Richard is a sprightly young man of thirty. There was a class in progress when we reached -- of all things, these street kids in Bangalore, South India, were learning ...

"Salsa?"

"Richard and his partner Sneha are international Salsa champions," Anita responded.

It was lucky I had three months in Bangalore ... my bosses back home wanted me to see the launch of our new brand of casual-wear through for a bit ... because I grew to live for the evenings I spent in that garage with those street kids. Here's how it happened.

"I want to teach them music," I said, when Diana and Richard stopped for a break, during which we sipped on tea together and the kids had a snack.

"Sure," they said, immediately. "They've been wanting to form a band, actually. You can do that with them."

So, we formed a band.

Two boys and (wow, in India!) two girls were interested enough in music to commit to coming to the centre at 6 PM each day, to practise. The oldest was fifteen, the youngest, eleven. And were they talented. And were they enthusiastic. We used a guitar someone had donated, the keyboard they had bought for the centre and a plate and spoon. Little Mridula was our singing sensation.

We called ourselves CICADA SONG.

We wrote our own lyrics and composed our own music. The lyrics were about things the children had experienced themselves, and about things they aspired to do.

And I was shocked to learn that all of them, at one time or another (maybe even, still) had been beggars on the street. One of the songs was about getting money from various targets. Recognising a target, going for it, the approach. They made it hilarious, but somehow, it never got a laugh out of me. How the one who drew her hand away needed to be touched, so she would be disgusted enough to part with a coin to get rid of you. How the ones with the whitest skin were the ones most likely to hand out paper money, not just coins. What I learnt most was that -- the more heart-wrenching it looks, the more likely it is to be put on.

In office, we were discussing the brand name of the line of casual-wear we were launching. It was new, only for India. "How about Cicada Song?" I suggested, absently, my mind in the garage with my kids.

Somehow, the name clicked. Our new brand name was to be Cicada Song.

Things snowballed after that. I'm not quite sure how much of it was my doing, how much Anita's, how much Diana and Richard's, and how much the subtle influence of the kids themselves -- but somehow, the band, Cicada Song, had its first gig -- to play at the launch of the brand, Cicada Song.

The kids rehearsed with a new frenzy. Sometimes, I skipped office to train them up. All of us were caught up in lyrics and music we made ourselves, to play on stage and to play from the sidelines during the launch fashion show.

CICADA SONG.

We had our fist gig.

We had our first hit.

There were TV crews there, for the launch. They loved both the band and the brand. We were on the news. We were in the papers. People took videos of us on their mobile phones and shared these on social media.

Back in the garage late that night, four kids hugged me and promised -- they'd never beg again.

And that, truly, was music to my ears.