A true Cinderella story.

This true story was told to me by a friend who had been a missionary’s wife in India in the 1960s and 70’s.

Imagine the din and bustle of a busy street in India. Above the noise and confusion, a little girl’s voice can be heard as she begs on the side of the street. Perhaps one in 500 passers-by flung a small coin into the battered tin clutched in the thin brown hand of this little beggar girl; and even fewer than that paused a moment to listen to her song. As is life, everyone was intent on their own business and could not spare a thought for a beggar child. She was just one of hundreds of beggar children that infest the streets of India’s large towns and cities all whining and crying as they beg for alms from the hurrying throng. The fact that she was singing in a humble effort to earn the coins she solicited made no difference.

Now picture a luxurious limousine sliding to a stop at the curb almost opposite the little girl and two perfectly dressed Indian gentlemen climb out. “We need more talented performers,” one was saying to the other as they made their way towards the office. “Beautiful girls come two a penny. What we need is talent and …” But his companion was not with him. He had stopped a few paces back and was listening to the beggar girl.

Encouraged by the man’s interest, the girl flung back her tousled hair and raised her voice a note higher. The well-dressed stranger was listening appreciatively. When she had finished, he threw her a large coin and hurried on to join his companion.

“Did you notice the quality of that child’s voice?” he asked. “She seems to have what we have been looking for.”

“A beggar girl? The other answered coldly.

“She would need grooming, of course, but I think her voice is worth investigating.”

The second man dismissed the subject with a shrug, but Mr. Arnon was deep in thought.

The following day as Mena, the little beggar girl, sat in her accustomed place on the sidewalk the well dressed stranger came again. Mena saw him approaching and, remembering his handsome gift of yesterday, opened her mouth and sang as she had never sung before. When she had finished, Mr. Arnon raised his eyebrows appreciatively and tossed her another large coin.

This happened repeatedly over the next few days until the stranger spoke:

               “What is your name?” he asked

               “Mena,” she replied.

               “Why do you sing on the streets to beg? Have you no parents?”

               “I have a mother. My father is dead.”

The man nodded and went on his way. A few days later when the man came by, he asked “Where is your mother? I want to talk to her.”

Pointing with her chin toward the city. “Down there with my little sister, she begs in front of the bus station.”

               “Go and call her, I’m going to the bank and will be back in an hour. Have your mother here by then.” Mena hesitated until he handed her a large coin and added, “Go girl, it will be to your advantage. If only you could realize it, good fortune is knocking at your door.”

Mena carefully folded the scrap of filthy cloth on which she had been sitting. Shaking the coins out of her begging tin, she tied them in a corner of her ragged dress, then tucked both the cloth and tin out of site in a crevice of the brick wall behind her, and went off to call her mother.

When Mr. Arnon returned, he found a thin, ragged women, with an even thinner child in her arms, standing beside Mena. In a measure of respect she said, “Salaam, Sahib. Salaam.”

               “You are her mother? Mr. Arnon’s chin jerked toward Mena as he said the word “Her.”

               “Yes, Sahib.”

               “Where is her father?”

               He is dead, Sahib. One year ago, he was killed in an accident at his work.”

               Why do you beg? Have you no relatives?”

“None that could assist us, Sahib.”

Many questions were now going through the woman’s mind, but Mr. Arnon spoke again, this daughter of yours has a fine natural voice. I think, perhaps, we could use her in films and radio. “Wait,” he warned as he saw the excited glint in the woman’s eyes; “it will not happen overnight. She will need much training and – he looked with distaste at Mena’s dirty body and clothes – “grooming. It will take many months, maybe years, before she can become anything. But if my hopes are fulfilled she will become famous and rich, and all your troubles will be over. If on the other hand, she does not succeed,” he shrugged, “you will be no worse off, and she will still be much better off than sitting by the curb begging. But you will have to let her come and live with my family as my daughter,” he continued. “I shall make all arrangements for her food and clothing, schooling, everything.” He spread his hands expansively. “Perhaps I can also find work for you, but you must agree not to interfere with the child’s career.”

When Mena was taken to the studio for her mother to sign a “contract,” she thought the place looked like a Raja’s palace. In the months that followed, Mena sometimes longed to be again a little beggar girl, free to roam at will. She forgot the nights when she could not sleep for the cold that set her teeth chattering and her thin body shivering; she forgot the days on the sidewalk when the merciless sun had scorched every drop of moisture from her mouth. She forgot that she had always been hungry. She remembered only that she had been free to come and go as she pleased. Now she had to work, work, work. It seemed that every hour of the day someone was standing over her with something to be done. School lessons, music lessons, dancing lessons, singing lessons – was there no end to it?

But there was an end – not to the lessons, but to Mena’s attitude toward them. In an amazingly short time Mena grew to love the feeling of combed hair and a clean body. She became interested in her schoolwork. Like any girl, she preened in front of the mirror in her new clothes. She basked in the glory of being an up-and-coming singer, even though it meant a lot of work.

In the same short time, she began to look with distain on the “low caste” people – the beggars and sweepers and coolies – quite forgetting that, not long before, they had been her companions and she had been glad to share their food when her stomach ached with hunger.

As the years past, Mr. Arnon’s hopes were realized, and Mena grew to be famous. Under a new name she was launched into the world of films and radio and became a top performer. She became very wealthy.

As Goldie Down related this story, she concluded with the day she called on Mena’s spacious home canvassing for money for the work they were doing with the poor. As they waited in the splendidly furnished drawing room her companion told her Mena’s life story. She now had a handsome, well-to-do husband; two fine sons, beautiful clothes, sparkling jewels, a luxurious home, and modern car; she had plenty of money, friends, fame and property. It was just like a fairy tale come true – from beggar maid to screen princess.

But Mena politely, coldly, refused their request for help with the work amongst the poor. Mena had everything – everything but Jesus and the hope of eternal life. I can’t help but think of the story in the gospels of the rich young ruler and the words of Jesus, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world yet forfeits his own soul.” Matthew 16:26.