Crazy Train: Part 3
Before I left, the doctor told me to stay away from crowded places like train stations to avoid coming in contact with TB or any other crazy diseases. I laughed and thought, “Obviously you haven’t been to India because everywhere you go is crowded!” But the train really was crowded, and if I was a TB viral cell, it’s exactly where I would go to find a perfect host body. Let me introduce you to some of the people on the train.
*The man sitting across from me:
Tall and thin, roughly 30 years old, told me he was the manager of the Bank of America in Bangalore, traveling on business. He continually teased me about falling asleep every time I picked up my book and started to read and didn’t mind me putting my feet on his seat. We shared stories of playing with our little nieces, giving me a glimpse of his desire to start a family. He asked for my email. He sat across from me all day and into the night, until the conductor made him move to the last car with standing room only because he didn’t have a ticket for a seat.
*The Indian woman:
She is wrapped in 7 yards of vibrant, unbroken fabric, held together with two or three aptly placed pins. Her knees and shoulders are well covered, but her left side remains bare, exposing the rolls of brown skin. Hunger may be a major issue in this country, but it has not yet reached her. I wonder why (and more importantly, how) she managed to choose the very top of the three bunks to sleep on.
*The woman with the paper:
Young, dirty, torn clothes, holding a baby. On her first trip up the aisle, she hands me a greasy yellow piece of paper explaining her story and asking for anything I can afford to give. On her way back, she collects only the paper. Four empty hands, two empty stomachs. Is giving about what I can afford? Or is it really about what I can’t afford?
*The chai man:
The entertainer of the bunch. I’m fairly certain his job interview was a group of people yelling and whoever’s voice was heard above the rest was hired. He walked the aisles every so often, advertising “Chaiwalla! Tea! Coffee!” He was usually closed followed by the cold drinks man, the spicy, sketchy, food man, and the mango juice man who took a personal liking to our team.
*The man with no legs:
As if the life he lives isn’t hard enough. He scooted up and down the aisles, dragging dirt, newspaper sheets, and probably the father of all the TB viruses with him. He didn’t ask for anything, but once, when I looked in his eyes, I saw the pain from years of injustice that I can’t even imagine, and I wanted to give everything. If only it was that simple.
*The affluent couple:
They sat next to the window in my row. We chatted, in very good English, about our families, Bangalore, and the weather (due to the fact that when it started to rain, water poured in through the lack of windows). They were visiting their son who had moved away and was now independent. The only thing that surprised me was the amount of bodily noises that they both together produced. I struggled to contain my giggling, and I graduated from 8th grade quite a while ago.
Old, but not fragile. Past her prime, but far from giving in to time. I made the mistake of looking her in the eyes. She touched my arm and guilt overwhelmed me. Why? Why God? Why does life have to be so hard for some people? I ignore every ounce of compassion in me and I shake my head. “No rupees.” As she limps away, I feel. I don’t know what I feel—anger, frustration, empathy, confusion, guilt, sadness? But I know one thing that I don’t feel at this moment: blessed.
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