Crazy Train: Part 1

It’s easy for me to talk about poverty from the comfort of my bedroom, propped up with a few pillows, typing on my laptop, and trying to decide whether I should play music with my phone, computer, or ipod.  It’s much harder to talk about poverty when it’s staring you directly in the face. If you’ve never experienced this, take a ride on any passenger train in India.

The train station in Bangalore was about 1 hour by bus from Visthar, through the most crowded streets I have ever encountered, and I’ve been in some pretty serious traffic.  The difference is that in America, we categorize.  “Trucks only” “Cars only” “Bus lane” “HOV lane.”  But in India there are no such laws.  “Truck? Rickshaw? Camel? Bike? Feet? Whatever your mode of transportation, you are welcome here!”  One thing that you will never be in a car in India is bored, even without a built in DVD player.  On the ride M, R, and I were having a casual conversation, I believe about the US military and civilian involvement overseas.  Whenever there was a free minute, we would batter R with questions, trying to absorb as much of his knowledge that we possibly could.  There was never enough time.  And so we arrived at the train station.  I was hoping that, since hubs of travel are usually pretty diverse, we wouldn’t stand out as much.  Unfortunately, that was not the case.  A group of 10 Americans lugging giant suitcases always stands out, despite our long skirts and winter scarves that we strategically positioned to cover up our glowing white skin.  We were supposed to be in car 9, so we started at about car 30 and made our way towards the front of the train.  13, 12, 11, 10, 8, 7…wait a minute.  Something is missing here.  Sure enough, car 9 was nowhere to be found.  Is this a cruel joke?  Nope, just India.  R went to ask someone what we should do.  I think they told him something along the lines of “it must have been misplaced” and we should get in car 8.  I’m not sure exactly how one goes about losing a train car, but I can imagine that it is much easier than finding your lost train car.  While we were waiting, I took advantage of our down time to do a little people-watching.  I saw a little girl begging.  She came over to our group: an obvious target.  We didn’t have any money, but couldn’t bear to turn away so we gave her an apple.  She also approached a middle aged Indian man, dressed nicely.  She touched his leg, a brave gesture, as she was probably an Untouchable.  Not even looking, he pushed her away with disgust as if she was a stray dog.  She is nothing: dirt, filth, litter in the street to him.  Where does this mentality come from?  From centuries of the Caste system being ingrained in your life?  From coming in contact with beggars every day and becoming desensitized to their pleas?  How can you be so cruel and heartless?  When does being in a better position than someone else make you better than him?  As I thought about these questions, an ugly realization struck me.  I looked at this man with the same distaste that he had just imposed upon the little girl.  I am no better than him.  Just as judgmental, and just as quickly assuming that anyone who doesn’t have the same beliefs as I do is wrong.  I have no idea where he has come from, how many other encounters like this he has, even on a daily basis.  Of course, he has no right to dehumanize another human being, but neither do I have any right to think of him as worse than me.