by kc dyer
“You mean the population of Mumbai?”
She shakes her head, and the loose skin under her neck wobbles gently. “No—no, only of Dharavi. Of course, these figures are never accurate. Some say that more than eight million make their home in the slums of this city.”
The sheer volume of the poverty strikes me dumb. “Can—anything be done?” I manage, at last.
The lady shrugs. “Oh, there have been many initiatives. I’m not sure they’ve found one that will make much of a difference yet. Mumbai is known throughout India as the City of Dreams, you know. Many of the people who come—they are the ones you see living in Dharavi, or out on the streets. Not so many find their dreams here, after all. A hard lesson to learn, especially for those who come from far away.”
She reaches into her bag, produces a packet of small crackers, and leans across the aisle to offer me one. When I decline, she says, “Suit yourself,” pops one in, and returns to her stitching. I turn back to the window to watch mile after mile of shanties whiz past.
* * *
—
Two hours into the journey, when the train has left Mumbai far behind, I make my stumbling way through the carriages in search of food. Earlier, a train steward came by bearing bottled water, but I am ready for something more substantial. Three cars forward, I find a canteen where I can buy a thick vegetable broth that comes with breadsticks and butter.
Also? I find Dominic.
“Great to see you,” he says as I step into line behind him. He’s wearing an expression I can’t read, and lapses into perhaps the most awkward small talk I’ve heard coming out of anyone other than Call Center Jonah. Or maybe Prem Chopra.
“Well, well, isn’t this great?” Dominic repeats, with entirely false heartiness. “Where’s your berth?”
When I explain the berths were all sold out and that I’m in a seat, he looks strangely relieved. “It is a fairly short trip, after all. And at least there’s air-conditioning.”
“Not in second class,” I mutter.
He is saved from replying by the steward calling him forward.
“Oh, no—after you, after you!” he insists, stepping back to let me go first.
“Thank you,” I say, using as much quiet dignity as I can muster with the man who has clearly taken the last berth on the train.
I collect my soup and hurry off, declining to reply to his overenthusiastic farewell.
By the time I get back to my seat, my anger has reached a full boil. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s on the same train, considering how infrequently they are scheduled along this route, but the fact that he didn’t utter a word of commiseration about my second-class seat, let alone offer to switch me into the berth that should have been mine in the first place, really bites me.
The scenery outside my window is flying by so fast I can no longer make anything out apart from a generally green blur. Even Stitching Lady has fallen asleep across the aisle. No one can really hold a conversation over the swirl of tepid wind rushing in the wide-open windows. The only thing that makes it over the noise of the wind is a crying baby, sitting somewhere behind my seat. I slump down to eat my soup, then jamming my hoodie under one ear, I close my eyes and let the familiar rhythm of the train take me away.
chapter thirty-seven
IMAGE: Ladies on the Platform
IG: Romy_K [Chhattisgarh State, India, April 15]
#ChapatiChallenge #SleeperShock
301
I wake from the bleary doze I fell into before dawn as the train, once again, shudders to a stop. I’ve lost track of the number of stops in the night, each one rattling me into wakefulness. It seems excessive for what’s supposed to be a high-speed train, is all I’m saying.
I glance down at my phone, to see that it is twenty past six. The heat is already stifling.
Outside the window, the sun beats down on a dusty landscape. There are trees, but where the train is stopped, all I can really see are fields, separated by low, scrubby brush. Apart from a sign on the tracks, written in a language I cannot even identify, there’s no indication of where we are. The train’s engine has stopped, and heat is rising in the carriage. The baby, who cried most of the night, has finally fallen asleep in her mother’s arms. When I peek over the seat behind me, the mother herself is out cold, head leaning against the window, mouth open.
With the stopping of the train, all air circulation has ceased. I don’t think I’ve ever been bathed in sweat before seven in the morning before, and as a sensation, I do not recommend it.
All I’ve had to eat in the last twelve hours or so is the soup I bought earlier—which was tasty, but hasn’t lasted, so I’m hungry. Hungry, stiff-necked, and regretting not booking when I was on the boat, so that I could be enjoying the sleeping berth rather than having it wasted on Dominic. On the Wahash Mahat, he admitted to me that he has the ability to sleep under any conditions if he’s tired.
I bet his neck isn’t stiff.
There’s a clatter of machinery from somewhere toward the front of the train, and the engine starts up again. I’ve never driven a car, but I’ve ridden in enough rickety cabs to know the sound of an engine on its last legs. A smell of burning oil floats back through the carriage, mingling with the scent of diapers and curry for what you might call a full gustatory banquet.
The train is doing little more than limping forward, and I check my phone again, worried. The trip across India was supposed to take a day, and because we lost a day on the Wahash Mahat, I was behind plan when I climbed into this machine from hell. At least we are moving forward. And I haven’t had to put up with Dominic’s relentless good cheer, so that’s saying something. He’s probably wallowing in air-conditioned luxury in his compartment.
I lean toward the window to try to catch whatever breeze is being generated by the slow motion of the train when I realize, with a pang of despair, the train is slowing down again. Half standing to look out the window, to my relief, I catch sight of what looks like a platform in the distance. I flop back into my seat and reach for my wallet. If it’s a train station, at least there will be a chance of food. And perhaps there will even be a working engine waiting for us.
Across the aisle, the exhausted mother has awakened, though the baby is still mercifully asleep.
The woman gently slides herself over to the aisle seat. In the daylight, I can see the circles under her eyes. She looks like she could be my age, or maybe even younger. Nevertheless, had she not been up all night with her baby, I’m quite sure she would be startlingly beautiful. As things are, her face is tired and gorgeous.
“Auntie,” she hisses, leaning out into the aisle between us. “Auntie—can you help me? I need . . .”
Her voice trails away as she nods vigorously toward the rear of the train carriage. I have a moment of raw panic thinking she’s somehow been struck blind and mistaken me for one of her relatives, before the woman across the aisle lumbers to her feet, arms outstretched.
“I’ll take her, choti. Give her to me.”
The young woman jumps up to join her. When she smiles, all the exhaustion falls away, and I have to say, her beauty is breathtaking. White teeth gleam against her dusky skin, and the large gold ring in her nose catches a glint of reflected sunlight, dazzling me further.
“Thank you, Auntie. I need to use the toilet and call my husband. I will return immediately. A thousand thanks.”
Stitching Lady makes a dismissive noise—“Pfft”—and waves the younger woman off. “It’s no trouble,” she says, having already nestled the still-sleeping baby in her arms. She settles into the seat beside me. “But bring me tea, will you?”
“Of course, Auntie,” says the younger woman. “That was my plan all along. Forgive me for not mentioning it.”
With a swirl of jeweled blue and gold, she’s gone, hurrying toward the door marked “WC” at the back of the
coach.
The baby makes an ominous little snuffle, but Stitching Lady exerts some kind of grandmotherly magic, and the baby cuddles in again.
It’s only then I realize I’m effectively trapped in my seat by this sleeping child.
I, too, have a strong urge to visit the WC at the back of the train car, but don’t want to risk waking the Child with Lungs of Celine Dion.
Stitching Lady, sensing my restlessness, gives me a calm smile. “She will not be gone long,” she says, pitching her voice so low, I almost miss the comment under the screeching and clanking of the train.
I lean back in my seat and sigh. There’s no way I’m going to be able to suggest this class of train service to Teresa Cipher’s client. Rich people might claim to want the warts-and-all experience, but they also need an escape route back to luxury. I’ll need to take a look into the first-class compartments to do a proper job of the report.
While the lady beside me croons under her breath to the sleeping child, I wriggle my laptop out from under the seat in front of me, balance it on the little half tray, and start typing.
“You’re a journalist?” Stitching Lady says suddenly, startling me out of my focus.
She bobs her head at my screen.
“Ah—not really,” I say, using my cuff to wipe away the sweat beading above my eyebrows. “I’m a . . .”
“Travel blogger?” she offers. “My nephew does that too. I’m meeting him in Calcutta because he wants a ‘senior perspective’ on the dining experience there.”
This makes me laugh, and I clap my hand over my mouth, shooting a glance at the baby.
A pair of kohl-black eyes stare up at me from the folds of the blanket in the woman’s lap.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to wake her,” I whisper, but the older lady shrugs.
“Her mother returns soon. So, what’s so funny about me helping my nephew, hmm?”
Her expression doesn’t change from one of pleasant interest, but I feel immediately that I have insulted her.
“Nothing—nothing. I’m more a photographer, actually. I put pictures on Instagram. Have you heard of it?”
“My nephew does that too. Blog and Insta and—Snapchat, yes?”
“Yes! You seem very well informed. My own uncle is a complete luddite. He’s still got a flip phone.”
The young mother walks up as my seatmate and I laugh together at my old-fashioned uncle.
She carries two cups of tea, which she sets down carefully on her own tray. At the first sight of her, the baby opens her mouth and howls.
Without a word of warning, my seatmate plops the baby into my arms. I’m not sure which of us is more shocked. The baby stops crying and stares at me with wide, frightened eyes. Her mouth falls open, but instead of resuming her cry, she hiccups gently and tries to stuff her whole fist in her mouth.
In the meantime, Stitching Lady, who is a woman of admirable dimensions, has undertaken the necessary actions required to pull herself upright. With the help of the young mother, she finally gets to her feet. Standing at last, she gives herself a little shake, and with a gentle tinkle, the bracelets on her arms and her sari and headscarf all settle neatly into place.
On my lap, the baby notes our seatmate’s absence with alarm, and scrunches her wee face up as tight as a fist. There’s no longer a sign of the round black eyes. All I can really see is a wide-open mouth: pink and toothless and strangely perfect. As she takes a deep breath, Stitching Lady reaches across the now empty aisle seat, and with another jangle of bracelets, scoops the baby from my arms and safely deposits her across the aisle. By the time I look up, the baby has vanished under her mother’s sari, and the yelling has entirely stopped. One bare foot emerges from the folds of blue cloth, kicking contentedly.
“Thank you, Auntie,” the young mother says, and then smiles over at me. “Thank you too.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. This lady handled it all,” I say.
“Well, thank you for your patience. She’s got a big voice already, my Rhupi. Would you like tea?”
She offers me the second cup, as the older woman has already started on the first.
I snap the lid closed on my computer. “Oh, no—I can’t take your tea!” I say, horrified at the thought. “I need to go, uh . . .” I nod toward the rear of the train, not sure what the protocol is for the discussion of toilets with ladies in India.
If I was a travel blogger, I’d have all this in my mental knapsack. But, as I’m fairly certain the subject never came up in any of V. S. Naipaul’s stories, I’m at a loss.
The older woman leans toward me. She’s almost finished her cup of tea, and has not shown any sign of resuming her seat. “Go—go,” she says, waving her cup recklessly. A few drops fly out and spatter the carpet as the train lurches into a long slow bend. “We are near the station, so you’d better hurry.”
I don’t need to be told twice. There’s a lineup of two men before me, which is not a best-case scenario, but at least they both get the job done quickly. The teeth-grinding squeal of the train’s brakes rings out as I finish flushing. By the time I’ve washed my hands, passengers are pouring out of the carriages onto the platform. I lean out the door to see a sign reading “Raipur.” The station smells of spices and incense, and the air is so thick with moisture, it practically steams.
My heart sinks. Only Raipur? I have a strong recollection of the city being just halfway down the list of stops. The train conductor who checked my ticket earlier tries to squeeze past me onto the platform, but I reach in front of him to grab the handrail.
He shoots me an annoyed glance for blocking his way.
“Are we stopping here awhile?” I ask. “Can we transfer to a train that actually works?”
The annoyance on his face changes to puzzlement. “This train works, madam,” he says, adding air quotes for emphasis. “It has got us to Raipur, has it not?”
I tighten my grip on the handrail, and the annoyance returns to his face. “Please remove your arm, madam. I need to check in with the stationmaster.”
“Look,” I say desperately. “We are already so late. I need to be in Kolkata, like, now. If there’s no other train, will someone be fixing this engine so we can get there today?”
“Those matters are out of my control, madam,” the conductor says stiffly. “I can tell you there are mechanics working on the engine as we speak, and we fully expect to be underway in the next quarter hour or so. Now, if you don’t mind . . . ?”
Reluctantly, I release my grip on the handrail, and he vanishes into the teeming crowd on the station platform. Near the door to our train, a collection of ladies wearing jewel-colored saris sit in a loose, comfortable circle on the ground, chatting while they wait. After my experience in Chamonix, I’m loath to follow the conductor, having developed a deep distrust of the speed with which a train can exit a station. All the same, my short time in India leads me to believe I may have a little more notice before this train pulls out. And I’m most definitely hungry.
Further down the platform, I see my conductor muscling a new tea trolley onto one of the train cars, but with the number of people aboard, I know there’s a good chance that nothing will remain by the time he makes it up to our car.
My stomach rumbles and makes the decision for me. I jump onto the modern-looking platform and aim myself toward a small girl with a large basket of plastic-wrapped items. She’s handing them out and collecting money fast, her arms are a blur. By the time I push close enough to speak with her, only two items remain in her basket. I think they might be samosas, and my mouth spontaneously waters at the thought. The girl scoops up one of the remaining packets and hands it to a tall young man in a vivid yellow turban. He smiles at the girl as he turns away, and I can’t help smiling back at him.
If I’d known the world held so many handsome guys, I might have gotten out of New Yor
k a little sooner, is all I’m saying.
I turn back to the girl to find a second handsome man has stepped in front of me. He has the last package in his hand.
“Hey,” I say as he drops coins into the girl’s hand. “That’s mine! I was next—you can’t take my samosa!”
Dominic turns and grins at me. “Too late,” he says, tucking it into a pocket. “And it’s a chapati, okay?” He places a hand on my shoulder, but I wrench out of his grip.
“That’s really rude,” I mutter. “That was supposed to be my breakfast.”
His smile falters. “I was trying to point you toward that booth,” he says. “They’ve got tea and sandwiches—and more chapatis, I’m sure.”
I turn to see an elegant little kiosk set against the side of the station. From the silver samovars lined up on the counter, I surmise they have tea on tap.
I turn my back on Dominic and hurry over to join the queue. By the time I gain a spot in line, there’s no longer any sign of him.
Good riddance. First he takes the last sleeping berth and then the last chapati? This has stepped beyond coincidence and into full-out warfare. I feel more determined than ever to win this thing.
By the time I reach the front of the line, the train is beginning to make suspicious rumbling noises. Fearful of missing it again, I snatch up an armful of plastic-wrapped food items of indeterminate provenance, along with the largest tea I can carry, and run for the train. By the time I work my way down to my seat, the train is clacketing its way down the tracks again, this time at a much more heartening rate of speed. Since I have arrived at my seat with more food than I can hope to eat myself, I offer some to the young mother, and to my seatmate, who both accept with large smiles.
As I reach across to deposit my teacup on the tiny half tray in front of my seat, I spot Dominic weaving his way down the car toward me. The older lady is showing signs of getting ready to haul herself to her feet, so I give her a quick smile and tell her to take her time and finish her chapati, as I need to go for a little walk. I quickly turn on my heel and work my way down toward the toilets at the back.
