A Cup of Tea, A Pocketful of Curses

I was on my way back from Chennai after attending a family wedding. My route was long: Chennai → Vijayawada → Sukma. At Vijayawada, I had a connecting sleeper bus at 10:30 pm. By the time I reached, it was just 6 in the evening. Now, I have this small habit whenever I travel: if I get free time before a bus or train, I don’t like sitting idle. I roam around, explore the streets, try new snacks, just soak in the atmosphere of the place. So that’s what I did. I walked nearly 3 kilometers, eating until I was full, watching the buzz of city life, and killing time until the bus arrived. But roaming also meant witnessing contrasts that stayed with me.

At one point, I saw so many homeless people lying on the streets. In one corner, three people were trying to sleep — a family. A small child, barely 20 months old, was crying loudly. I couldn’t tell if it was mosquitoes, hunger, or the stench from the drainage beside them. Only God knows the weight I carried in my chest after seeing that.

A little later, I saw a group of girls — well-dressed, laughing, heading somewhere together. Maybe to a Sunday evening movie or dinner. Their happiness reminded me of my own friends, and I realized how much I’ve grown up. From carefree hangouts to heavy reflections, travel has a way of showing you both worlds at once.

By 9:30 pm, I returned to the pickup spot — Mamta Hotel (funny coincidence, my colleague’s name is also Mamta!).

And that’s where the incident happened.

As I was standing near the hotel, an old man walked up and asked me for ₹20 to buy tea. I didn’t reply — not because I didn’t care, but because I had only a ₹100 note and no change. I turned my face away. That’s when he cursed me in Telugu: “Niku em avtundho poye dhavaloo” — “Let’s see what happens to you on your way.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. Not out of arrogance, but because I thought: “Uncle, if life could be controlled by curses, society itself would have collapsed long ago.”

I turned back and gave him the brightest smile I could, flashing nearly all my teeth. Surprised, he softened immediately and said: ” thatha Papam ra, it’s just tea money. I cursed you only because you didn’t give.” (thatha – grand father)

I shook my head and touched my forehead with a small gesture, as if saying: “Our future is already written thatha— your curses can’t rewrite it.” Then I walked away.

But he wasn’t finished. He muttered one last line: “Niku em seeku vasthundho” — “Let’s see what illness comes to you.”

This time, I laughed even louder — not just on my face, but from deep inside my heart. Because by then, the day had already pushed me into a quiet, contemplative mood. The crying child on the street, the memory of my friends when I saw those happy girls, and the separation from my own family after the wedding — all of it had settled inside me like a stone. Compared to that emotional weight, an old man’s curse felt light, almost amusing.

For five whole minutes, I kept laughing to myself, standing there in the middle of Vijayawada. People say curses have power — but I realized that night that the real curse isn’t in words. The real curse is that in 2025, people are still begging for a cup of tea  and children sleep beside drainage lines.

That night taught me something profound: sometimes laughter isn’t about joy — it’s about perspective. When you’ve seen real suffering, petty grievances lose their sting.

A Social Worker’s Dilemma:

While studying MSW, I used to think I would help others, change the world, make a difference. Pity me — I can’t find the answer to what we actually need to eradicate poverty and hunger.

Is it the passion and sacrifice of freedom fighters? Is it huge amounts of money? Or is it the power to declare that there’s no money concept hereafter?

The numbers are staggering. India has approximately 4 lakh beggars according to government data, but unofficial estimates suggest the number could be as high as 11 lakh. Despite having schemes like PM-POSHAN (mid-day meals), Mahatma Gandhi NREGA (employment guarantee), Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana (housing), and Antyodaya Anna Yojana (subsidized food) — people still sleep beside drainage lines.

We have over 300 government schemes targeting poverty, yet a child cries from hunger on Vijayawada streets. We allocated ₹2.35 lakh crore for rural development in 2023-24, yet an old man begs for ₹20 tea money.

The question that haunts every social worker: Are we treating symptoms or the disease?

Sometimes I wonder if the answer isn’t in our textbooks or policy papers. Maybe it’s in the simple act of holding an umbrella over a stranger, sharing laddus during rain, or just acknowledging someone’s existence with a smile.

But honestly? I don’t have the answer. I can’t find the answer.

If any of you reading this know — please, let me know.

Because somewhere between Chennai and Sukma, between a crying child and a cursing old man, I realized that perhaps the biggest poverty isn’t the lack of money.

It’s the poverty of solutions.