The train passes everything by – the playground with enthusiastic footballers, the wall of leaves, and the temple with pink and purple tiles. The people in the buildings alongside look at the train with mildly annoyed expressions. They see hundreds of trains everyday and their sleep is disrupted by the noise. They stand there, some brushing their teeth, looking back at the train people who look at them.
The temple goers queue up in devotion, not very far away, waiting their turn to hit the gong, imagining the sound of clanging metal to be holy in some way. They carry flowers and coconuts and touch their foreheads to the marble platform where their God sits. In my head, it’s unhygienic because the temple looks unwashed and grimy, but maybe the dirt vanishes as they approach, such is their faith.
The women in the smaller houses lining the tracks bend over the charred pots, heating water or rice or some such. Muslin cloths cover their fresh washed hair. They appear oblivious to the sound and the dust the train kicks up. Some of them carry back buckets, which had been left out overnight to collect rain water. They observe the devotees and talk amongst themselves. I am unsure of what they say; whether their whispered discussions are lined with envy or disdain.
The train stops between two stations and we see a line of people, sitting with their backs to us. Plastic buckets are placed next to each of them, in some kind of a pre-planned event with props. The city is one big toilet – it opens up its spaces for those in need and it rains on them should they run out of water.
As the train moves out of yet another station, we see people with plastic baskets tied to their backs, plucking bunches of green leaves from the patches that grow wildly near the tracks. The baskets are already filled with other such bunches. It’s spinach, which we’ll buy later in the day at a nearby market for 20 rupees.
The temple goers queue up in devotion, not very far away, waiting their turn to hit the gong, imagining the sound of clanging metal to be holy in some way. They carry flowers and coconuts and touch their foreheads to the marble platform where their God sits. In my head, it’s unhygienic because the temple looks unwashed and grimy, but maybe the dirt vanishes as they approach, such is their faith.
The women in the smaller houses lining the tracks bend over the charred pots, heating water or rice or some such. Muslin cloths cover their fresh washed hair. They appear oblivious to the sound and the dust the train kicks up. Some of them carry back buckets, which had been left out overnight to collect rain water. They observe the devotees and talk amongst themselves. I am unsure of what they say; whether their whispered discussions are lined with envy or disdain.
The train stops between two stations and we see a line of people, sitting with their backs to us. Plastic buckets are placed next to each of them, in some kind of a pre-planned event with props. The city is one big toilet – it opens up its spaces for those in need and it rains on them should they run out of water.
As the train moves out of yet another station, we see people with plastic baskets tied to their backs, plucking bunches of green leaves from the patches that grow wildly near the tracks. The baskets are already filled with other such bunches. It’s spinach, which we’ll buy later in the day at a nearby market for 20 rupees.
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