This will be fine.
The tickets say C1 aircon. No's 68/69/70/71 how hard can it be?
The train was 40 minutes late. A train pulled in to the station, not ours. Have you ever seen the cattle trucks that shipped pigs and cows across Europe ? This was a human cattle truck. Heads , arms , hot faces peering through the open bars, so many bitter chocolate bodies melting together, flashes of white teeth , gold bracelets and colourful saris breaking through the black interior of the train. Authentic "Indian take away "men rushed up and down the platform , stainless steel trays balanced on their heads piled high with silver foil take away containers, there was a great waving of arms reaching through the window bars grappling for attention.
The sing song cry of the food sellers rang out " byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" " byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" .
This trade is good business . When the train pulled out most of the stainless steel trays were empty . I sang out the song when the seller past me "byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" , he loved it. Mad white lady tourist.
But this is India, it makes your heart laugh and then within a split second that same heart drops to your boots.
Having succumbed to the lateness of the train , the heat and the very unsavoury smell "L'eau d'India" ( this is not curry and spices) I went to sit on one of the marble stone benches.
About 10 feet in front of me were two kiosks side by side selling "stuff" , newspapers, sweets, Indian munchies, pillows, towels, an odd variety of goods. There was a grim five foot space between the two , I caught site of a man, I have no idea how old he was but a terrible life had walked across that body. He was sitting on sheets of old newspaper laid out as a mat , it was a dark horrid little space . He was thin , but thinking about it now maybe no thinner than wiry fit Indians we have seen working in the fields . His shirt was old and dirty but it wasn't torn or frayed. As the train approached he pulled himself up on his knees with a long bamboo stick , his knees were worn flat like the pads of elephants feet, the lower limbs were useless , dragging along behind him.
The site of this poor destitute man wrapped my sole in a murky rancid yellow. His handicap and living conditions were overwhelming. I handed him a ten rupee note and his blood shot eyes which were about level with my waist , looked deep inside me and he beamed a smile (chin LRL) I just couldn't stop the tears in time. I have snapped a photo of his face it is stored in my mind for the future for when I think I might be having a bad day.
Our train pulled in and he took his place on the platform no doubt working his pitch. I just hope it was "his " pitch and he was not being "run" by some Indian gang man.
We found our coach and our valiant driver "Victor" scrambled inside plus suitcase,followed by Franco plus suitcase, Peter plus suitcase, Elaine plus suitcase, followed by me , followed by at least 20 Indians with various types of baggage, really pushing and hassling into what was / is First class. Our seats were occupied by round woven baskets of flowers for the Temple. There was a lot of pushing and shoving , so many people all trying to negotiate some space, suddenly we were moving out of the station and Victor was still at least 8 people and 6 suitcases and several flower baskets deep in the train. ." Go ! Go ! Go! "We were shouting, he was manoeuvred out towards the door and managed to jump off the train as it slowly pulled away from the platform. Dedication to duty.
Our solemn Indian driver who had wheeled and dealed through the minefield of vehicles, bullocks, horses and pedestrians from Bangalore down to Combiatore . He who we had failed to understand and he who had failed to understand us, was gone."Have a happy life Victor" .
He was driving 9 hours back to Bangalore ( already 2 hours later than he hoped) and the next day picking up more tourists to start the whole thing again. He has a good job and he is paying for his daughters to go to private school. On occasions he slept in the car , sometimes he found drivers quarters, these places are basic cement sheds, wooden beds, with several drivers sharing the space. He has the opportunity and the will to make his children's life better.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
The tickets say C1 aircon. No's 68/69/70/71 how hard can it be?
The train was 40 minutes late. A train pulled in to the station, not ours. Have you ever seen the cattle trucks that shipped pigs and cows across Europe ? This was a human cattle truck. Heads , arms , hot faces peering through the open bars, so many bitter chocolate bodies melting together, flashes of white teeth , gold bracelets and colourful saris breaking through the black interior of the train. Authentic "Indian take away "men rushed up and down the platform , stainless steel trays balanced on their heads piled high with silver foil take away containers, there was a great waving of arms reaching through the window bars grappling for attention.
The sing song cry of the food sellers rang out " byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" " byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" .
This trade is good business . When the train pulled out most of the stainless steel trays were empty . I sang out the song when the seller past me "byirianibyrianibyriani chaaaapati" , he loved it. Mad white lady tourist.
But this is India, it makes your heart laugh and then within a split second that same heart drops to your boots.
Having succumbed to the lateness of the train , the heat and the very unsavoury smell "L'eau d'India" ( this is not curry and spices) I went to sit on one of the marble stone benches.
About 10 feet in front of me were two kiosks side by side selling "stuff" , newspapers, sweets, Indian munchies, pillows, towels, an odd variety of goods. There was a grim five foot space between the two , I caught site of a man, I have no idea how old he was but a terrible life had walked across that body. He was sitting on sheets of old newspaper laid out as a mat , it was a dark horrid little space . He was thin , but thinking about it now maybe no thinner than wiry fit Indians we have seen working in the fields . His shirt was old and dirty but it wasn't torn or frayed. As the train approached he pulled himself up on his knees with a long bamboo stick , his knees were worn flat like the pads of elephants feet, the lower limbs were useless , dragging along behind him.
The site of this poor destitute man wrapped my sole in a murky rancid yellow. His handicap and living conditions were overwhelming. I handed him a ten rupee note and his blood shot eyes which were about level with my waist , looked deep inside me and he beamed a smile (chin LRL) I just couldn't stop the tears in time. I have snapped a photo of his face it is stored in my mind for the future for when I think I might be having a bad day.
Our train pulled in and he took his place on the platform no doubt working his pitch. I just hope it was "his " pitch and he was not being "run" by some Indian gang man.
We found our coach and our valiant driver "Victor" scrambled inside plus suitcase,followed by Franco plus suitcase, Peter plus suitcase, Elaine plus suitcase, followed by me , followed by at least 20 Indians with various types of baggage, really pushing and hassling into what was / is First class. Our seats were occupied by round woven baskets of flowers for the Temple. There was a lot of pushing and shoving , so many people all trying to negotiate some space, suddenly we were moving out of the station and Victor was still at least 8 people and 6 suitcases and several flower baskets deep in the train. ." Go ! Go ! Go! "We were shouting, he was manoeuvred out towards the door and managed to jump off the train as it slowly pulled away from the platform. Dedication to duty.
Our solemn Indian driver who had wheeled and dealed through the minefield of vehicles, bullocks, horses and pedestrians from Bangalore down to Combiatore . He who we had failed to understand and he who had failed to understand us, was gone."Have a happy life Victor" .
He was driving 9 hours back to Bangalore ( already 2 hours later than he hoped) and the next day picking up more tourists to start the whole thing again. He has a good job and he is paying for his daughters to go to private school. On occasions he slept in the car , sometimes he found drivers quarters, these places are basic cement sheds, wooden beds, with several drivers sharing the space. He has the opportunity and the will to make his children's life better.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Combiatore to Ernakulam
1 comment:
Jo, I've been following your blog from the start and just want to say what a wonderful writer you are - I've laughed with you and now cried with you too. It makes you realise how trivial our 'first world problems' really are. Keep writing,
Love Kathy xxx
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