The Tracks

To begin to understand the gross disparity between socio-economic classes in India, one needs to go only as far as the Pune Railway Station and walk besides the track, starting at the back of the train, cargo loading, and ending at the front, first-class AC. 

By mistake, or maybe as a way to mess with the oblivious Americans, our rickshaw driver drops us off at the back entrance to the station, the cargo loading zone for all trains heading into or out of Pune. At 6 in the morning the moon is still winning the relentless struggle with the sun, the darkness adding to the eery vibe of the day. N and I hesitantly walk in the direction the driver points us, a direction leading into a dark alley lined with rickshaws and motionless bodies, asleep on the wet gravel. Taking a deep breath, we assume our adventurous roles, lift our heads high, and power forward.

"Rickshaw?"

No.

"Where are you going? Mumbai? Rickshaw?"

No.

We see the outline of a train farther ahead of us, and with renewed assurance head deeper into the foreboding alley.

A man resolutely drags his debilitated body forward across the broken gravel on his hands and knees, legs mangled by polio. 

A mother frantically hurries past with her young daughter in tow. The barefoot daughter wears a tattered school uniform, hair messy and face darkened by soot.

We approach what looks to be the station. Cargo boxes are piled up, the puddled cement floor is strewn with bodies of the hundreds of slumbering. Naked babies intertwined with ragged fathers. Ripped saris and sodden underwear. 

Groups crowd around an old copper water fountain, waiting for their turn to wash their bodies with a couple splashes from the fountain's inconsistent dribble. Quick movements, they are ready to run towards the approaching train as soon as it comes, jumping on at the last second to obtain a precious ride to Mumbai.

The smell is foul, vile, disturbing on so many levels. It surrounds and envelops you, sending you into a little personal hell of scent. A mix between excrement, rotting flesh,  and molding hermit crabs, it is everywhere. 

Lying on the train tracks are little piles of shit as the toilets on the train are merely western toilet lids placed over holes that open up directly to the tracks below. 

Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. 

Side-step weaving around the piles of bodies we make our hesitant way through the station, and by station I mean outdoor tiled area next to a train track. As we walk through away from the cargo section the sights and sounds begin to change, the smells remain consistent. 

Gradually the puddles get smaller and the food stands pop up. Over time there are more people standing by their luggage than asleep atop newspapers on the ground. Men in slacks replace men in underwear, faces shine rather than fade beneath the dirt. 

But even as we get to the waiting zone for the First Class AC train, there is no way to pretend you are not in a developing country. At times like this I desperately miss the comforts of home. A sudden urge overtakes me to climb into bed, pull my down comforter up over my head, and force from my memory everything I have seen, smelled, touched, felt since arriving here. It is at these times that everything begins spinning, blending into one, chaotic and alien world. I cannot yet decide whether this is a weakness I am incapable of suppressing or a natural human instinct I will never be able to escape. Maybe it is both, maybe it is neither. 

Our train finally pulls into the station, and relieved we hoist up our backpacks and climb aboard, all too ready to exchange the smell of rotting excrement and the sight of naked slumbering babies for reclining seats and greasy made-to-order cheesy omelets.