The Train

I chose the 54 hour train-ride south because I knew the journey would be like nothing else I've experienced thus far. I chose the 54 hour train-ride north because I knew I could weather the railway with grace. Four and a half days of life in a rail coach watching the world rush by through open windows, hypnotized by the endless green expanse: an endless green thickly embroidered with skyscraper garbage heaps and anonymous cows feasting on the stench.

How to re-create the whirlwind inundation of rail-side existence? The eternal matchbox-city slums putt-putt by, frame by frame, as the train reaches the outskirts of the city; haphazard yet carefully mended roofs of burlap, tarpaulin and broken metal flash sunlight and burning garbage direct to eye-level; a child swings from a rope hung in the single tree outside a broken line of plaster-colored shacks; two egrets pose lovingly on the staunch backbone of a long-horned cow; trash sits; children play; more trash burns; hammers tap-tap; the smell of fresh piss hisses and a line of bare bums squat on the railway before going home to their huts on the edge of midnight's train whistle. How to share the sensory overload of the whirlwind journey of boxcar eyes that stare out the train's barred-windows as the world rushes by? I feel like a spinning druid: flashes of color, words and song; sparks and fireworks exploding.

Apart from the endless garbage that lines the rivers, railways, mountainsides, cities and villages, the breadth of India between Delhi and Kerala is green farmland. Potatoes, Corn, Rice and Squash for endless miles. Banana trees and coconut palms joining the patchwork fields as the train moves south. Entire families work the harvest together. Big sister cares for baby under the make-shift shade of a broken umbrella. Mom's sure hands sow new rice seedlings ankle-deep in mud. Dad and brother man the two-mule plow and ready the next field for planting. Children harvest with agility and grace, making time for a quick game of tag or an approximation of cricket before the sun sets.

I think I would love India if I took the time to learn Hindi. In fact, I feel my love growing even with my stapled tongue. I love the kind faces and enthusiasm: a happy outburst at every hello. I love the attention to detail: blessing scarves at the source of water, the florescent-colored face flowers hanging in every doorway just over the fresh embers of burning incense. What we might call tacky in the states is gorgeous in India because everyone believes in everyday celebration. Celebration that merely begins by blessing doorways with garlands of flowers and throwing rice and spending extra rupees on special incense to make the living statues of Krishna and Lakshmi happy. India: the land of constant celebration, eternal fireworks, explosions of the heart and symphonies of chaos. All of this crazy color bounces off the walls of a rail-car packed with happy sardine-packed passengers and still I grapple with the filth and stench and the everywhere-is-a-dumping-ground philosophy. Any which way one turns, paper teacups and plates and foil packets filled with remnant curries fly from the window. Bags of chips and biscuits and plastic soda bottles by the hundreds carelessly launched to join the rubbish fields. Impossible to get over the shock. Still, I attempt to dispel the trash-drowning helplessness I feel, I focus my senses on the musical quality of my surroundings. A composure would faint from a musical overload on the aisles of the Indian Rail. Each passing vendor delivers a perfectly-pitched jingle with unparalleled stamina (hour after hour on repeat) and each beggar stares with eyes deep enough to silence the brass buzz. Children play a wooden-spoon symphony and sing with a sweetness that smiles when a shower of coins meet the tin of hand-held cup. Tap-tapping canes. The swish of brooms and outstretched hands, May I shine your shoes, madame? I mumble and tumble because I am too overwhelmed to try and make sense of the two-day chug-a-choo on the Indian Rail: two days intensified by the heat of juxtaposed polarities. The most beautiful beside the most wretched; a barefoot bangle-clad woman peering through the sheer veil of an orange sari to focus her eyes on the reeking hillside of human-waste in search of a coin, a discarded scrap, anything hinting at worth. Over and over again.

The paradox of India: we love her even as we hold our breath to keep from getting sick. A druid spins dizzy and exhausted--overcome by love and anguish--and surrenders to chaos, because that is the way of India. Parades and color and tears. Surviving with a blood-orange vivaciousness made of sweat, frying butter, gentle laughter and a warrior capacity to persist, one cup of tea at a time.