I still remember him vividly. He was a little boy, maybe 10 or 11 years old, who navigated the streets of New Delhi by lying, stomach-down, on an old skateboard, and pulling his body along with his arms. He didn’t have any legs. He rolled over to me, looked up into my eyes, and asked for money. Struggling not to cry, I reached into my pocket and handed over the equivalent of $10, less than what I spend on coffee each week. Giving him those $10 might be among the most destructive things I’ve ever done. By Jillian Keenan. Read more.