The Long Game or The Short Game

It’s been nearly six months in India. It’s been fantastic, full of highs and lows, everything and nothing, all at once. But there’s something I’ve become deeply aware of while being here. I call it the long game or the short game.

Let me explain.

During my time here, I’ve observed how some locals interact with foreigners and even with other Indians from different states or villages. There’s often a strategic approach in how people ask for help or money. Some go straight in (the short game). Others take their time, building trust first (the long game).

I had an experience where I got ripped off by a man in a hand-crank wheelchair. I’d seen him many times, and he always gave off the impression of being deeply sincere. One day, he told me a story about needing help. Something urgent, something that seemed believable at the time. I helped him. Later, I found out it was a complete lie, a well-rehearsed one he’d been telling for years. That moment was eye-opening. A reminder: things aren’t always what they appear to be.

One day, I was walking past a chai shop and bumped into a woman I’d hung out with a few times. She was nice enough, a little older than me and seemed flustered. She told me a woman with a sore arm, someone I vaguely recognized as a coconut vendor, needed help. She said the woman was trying to buy a coconut-cutting device so she could continue to support her family.

She asked if I’d like to go halves. The price? 12,000 rupees. I offered 5,000. She was overjoyed. I said, “Wait here,” went to an ATM, and handed her the cash.

While this happened, a guy who usually hung around the chai shop began pestering me for something else. I let it slide. Over the next week, the woman gave me updates but things didn’t add up. It started to feel like an elaborate scam.

Eventually, she told me she was having doubts too. She asked if I wanted the money back, or if it could go to her guru’s ashram.

I told her to donate it. She lit up with relief.

Another time, over dinner, my American friend B told me a story. Each morning after satsang, he’d visit the same shop for a cold soda. One day, the woman behind the counter asked for 2,000 rupees to pay a bill promising to repay him in a few weeks. Weeks passed. She gave new excuses daily. Still, he kept buying soda. I asked why. “She’s just a sweet old lady,” he said.

Of course, she never paid him back. She’d taken a chance, assuming he wouldn’t ask and she was right. That’s the long game.

There’s a young woman who sells fruit near Ramana Ashram. We’d always smiled at each other. Her English was good, “7 out of 10,” I said to her and she claimed to be studying nursing. I wasn’t sure I believed her story, but I let it go. She saw me often buying food for others and feeding the street dogs.

One day, she asked for my help.

She wanted to buy 600 coconuts but didn’t have the funds.

Could I lend her 5,500 rupees, and she’d pay me back in 500-rupee installments?

“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I don’t give out large amounts of money. I feed people, give them water, and help animals but this isn’t something I do.”

She didn’t flinch. “No problem,” she smiled.

She knew I was aware of the game. It’s a shame because I am generous. I just don’t play.

These things happen all over the world, but I became hyper-aware of them in India. And it’s taught me something valuable: it’s okay to say no.

You help when you feel genuinely called to.

Don’t intellectualise the decision.

Feel into your heart.

If there’s a no, honour it.

Let the Divine take care of the rest.

Sure, there are times I wish I’d responded differently.

But it’s done now.

I trust the unfolding.

It’s all God.