Train Station

The following is from a beautiful friend of ours, Gloria Carlson, who wrote these reflections on observing folks in a Train Station:


An orthopedist’s worst nightmare. People limp by constantly, one after another, their feet misshapen, dragging. An arm or hand curled up towards the elbow and wrist. A man staggers by on one foot and one bandaged stump.


A social worker’s worst nightmare. So many needy people…beggars constantly in your face. Children begging for food, doing tricks for you, just to gain a rupee or two. Mothers with thin, dirty babies, motioning for you to give something to feed them and their baby. An old, emaciated crippled woman, bones jutting out towards the skin, gray hair dirty, disheveled, matted.


A verminophobiac’s (person who is afraid of germs) worst nightmare. Dirt everywhere. Putrid puddles of liquid are scattered along the ground. Breathing in constant dust and smoke. (It is estimated that everyone in Delhi smokes the equivalent of 20 cigarettes per day just by breathing in the polluted air.) The stale hot air smells of body odor, urine, and something rotten. Trash litters the ground. Men urinate in any convenient location, spitting their red paan juice as they go along. Children play in the dirty water that snakes its way down the platform.


Yet, an anthropologist’s (people-watcher’s) dream come true. So many people, so many different personalities, languages, and cultures. Families lay out on the ground, feeding their children the rice and dal they carefully packed in tin containers, each eating with his hands, or being fed from another’s fingers. The mother trying to keep track of all the youngsters and luggage, while settling a crying baby on her breast, bathing a dirty child, washing his clothes. The men sit nearby, staring at each passerby, chewing and spitting paan, at times engaged in conversation. Old women squat on the ground resting. (The word for “sit” in Hindi literally means “squat.” If you want the person to actually sit, you must add “on the chair.”) A rush of people carry each other up and down the many stairs. A middle-aged man gently leading a frail, aged, blind parent through the crowd. Men in red shirts with cloth wrapped around their heads like turbans carry piles of luggage and crates on top of their heads, the luggage owners trying to keep up with the coolies’ quick hurried steps. The group of young men not to be trusted, mischeviously congregating in the corner. A group of students scattered, sitting and intent on their task: drawing each nearby person with pencil on scratch paper.


A culinary artist’s dream come true. Vendors line the walkways with every sort of food. Theses are carried in baskets, either resting on the vendors’ heads or held above the heads in one hand. People reach out through the window bars to purchase a snack or drink. Others motion a vendor to stop by as he makes his way down the narrow and crowded aisle. All kinds of foods are sold: papaya, grapes, apples, oranges, guavas; also samosas, chana dal, salad, chai, cucumbers sliced in half and filled with masala. The hot foods are served on pieces of newspaper. Each vendor has his own call to announce his individual wares. The chai-walla calls out “chai, chai” in his own tone and pitch of voice, while the chana-walla calls out “hara chana” in a different tone of voice. The boys come through, calling out “thunda pani boatel sealed.” Each item costs but a few rupees, each vendor with little to account for all his hard work.


An extrovert’s dream come true. People everywhere! Of all ages and sizes. Most ready to talk and engage in conversation, even if the other does not listen or even understand the language. Children run around, ready to play with any stranger who will pay attention.


So this is it. My reflections from a six-hour wait at Patna Junction train station.