Train Station Blues

We were lucky enough to get a 2AC to Chittorgarh with a friendly newly-wed English couple… they’re on their first week of a year-long round-the-world trip! Frankly, I think six months would be my max. I know that travel would start to feel like a job…
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We had to wait at the Chittorgarh train station for a couple of hours. It was very hot, dusty, minutes passing slowly. Sitting there on the platform, we began to notice the tired parade of poverty… and we were suddenly a part of it. What is it about these Indian train stations. For the traveler, it’s a place of flux. You arrive from somewhere else. It brings you to the next place. There’s an atmosphere of mutability. For the homeless, this is the end of the road. Too many natty-haired, mucus-faced children… moon-eyed. To them, a white face means prosperity. They come to us, open-palmed and filthy, imploring with those eyes.

And the adults, too. We gave one woman ten rupees, and a smile instantly spread across her whole face. She walked away pronouncing some sort of thanks, and we watched her show the little note to her family. Ten rupees… that’s like 20 cents. A woman thrilled to get 20 cents…

Another woman came by, clutching a 2-year-old with no pants on. The baby was covered in her own snot, with that hard stare that you never see on the face of a western child. We gave her a zip-lock bag full of half-eaten cookies. She glowed with gratitude. Really, her face was beaming. She let the baby hold the packet and then brought it to her family huddled on the platform, where they started sharing the cookies and passing them around. I broke. I couldn’t stop crying under my sunglasses. Something shattered inside me.

I’ll never forget their faces. They will haunt me. The desperate, grasping look of the beggar; the broadening smile of gratitude. For ten rupees. For a bag of half-eaten cookies. For nothing nothing nothing.

Monkey Stick

I was going to give up on this blog, because I've posted everything on Facebook. People have been reading and responding to the Facebook blog, but this one has gotten lost in the shuffle. However, I suppose a few of you are still out there who are not on Facebook. So I'll publish here, too!

The next day we trawled the bazaars (they were making bangles on the street!), and eventually wound our way up to the crumbly old palace at sunset to gaze out over the amazing view. We scrambled up to the abandoned fort ---- a haunted place ---- and explored its dark nooks and crannies. There were creepy paintings of battles and goddesses peeling on the walls, vines crawling over gaping holes in the ground, stairways disappearing into the darkness.

Just as the sun began to set, the monkeys started appearing. It was clear that this was their time, their territory. They followed us out. A large male came charging at us down the steep rocky path while I was taking a picture of a baby… we scrambled down the hill quickly, brandishing our monkey stick. By the time we got down to the palace, it was crawling with monkeys. They were springing madly around the courtyard, climbing up to the incense-swirling shrines and eating the altar offerings, looming ominously on the high palace walls, eyeing us darkly. It was eery. They didn’t want us there…
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The next morning, we had a sunrise breakfast on the roof and caught our last glimpses of this fairy-tale village. An ochre light was burning up the sky, doming over the misty-pale streets, resting on the rooftops. Blues of the buildings were changing minutely, spreading out and bolding. It’s like one of those rajasthani miniatures: tiny details and curls of color tinged in gold. But for us, Bundi will always be the beautiful people who treated us with kindness and incredible generosity. It will always be the people.