The train to Delhi was one of the best trains I had ever been on. Strange leaving from Sealdagh train station. Where I used to work. Walking away from the participants of the food programme and all the hundreds of others who wished that they were participants of the food programme. As I walked up the steps to the platform an old women, wearing ragged cloth which could have been any colour but which appeared to be the uniform dark brown which all of the truly destitute wear – if they are fortunate enough - or still care enough - to have clothes. The old women caught my eye because she was crouching disguised as a bag of bones. She was not begging, but just staring 'empty'. I took the two mangoes from my bag and bent down to offer then to her. She slowly looked at my face, stared at my pale eyes and accepted. She raised her hands to her head in thanks as I placed mine on her shoulder – wanting to somehow communicate the feelings she had evoked within me in some (meaningless) way. I walked away and climbed upon my super luxury air conditioned train the Rajastani Express. And this is Kolkata – the juxtaposition of the very rich next to the very poor. Just as in Old Jerusalem – where the orthodox Jews would walk around and behind and next to the Muslim Imams; both seeming invisible to the other but both an intrinsic part of the city.
I was in a super luxury air conditioned cabin because this was the only option – all the trains for the next few days were fully booked. A Very Important Person from the Army was sleeping opposite me. He asked me if I liked Indian food – it was a rhetorical question as he replied for me:
“We Indians love our food – thats why we are all so fat!” He laughed as he tugged on his massive belly.
Indeed we were feed so much food. Ironic as I sat there, with no appetite not wanting nor asking for the food which was being presented to me at two hourly intervals. I put what I could into a plastic bag, wishing that I could send it to the bags of bones which sat half living/ half dying on the steps of Sealdagh train station.
Delhi was different from how I had imagined. Firstly, I was not ripped off – well at least not that I knew of; it is also much greener and cleaner than Kolkata – the train station included. With the destitute hidden out of view my bag of train food went to two children sitting by the road side. And that is something else which Delhi showed me – another life for the street children. While waiting for a bus out of New Delhi and into Himachal Pradesh I met some little people. The first two little people which I met were brother and sister. The brother was wearing a painted moustache, the sister a tiny metal hola hoop. The siblings were circus children and once a sufficient crowd of tourists gathered with their massive bags and supplies of snacks they began their show. The sister back-flipped and cartwheeled, disconnected her arms and stepped through them, slide through the hola hoop as her brother lay in it, and then skipped around collecting money from the hands behind the cameras. Then came the boy selling water again; and then again and again until the 'tourists' became impatient with him and shooed him away like an unwelcome dog. Next there was an eleven year old girl. I know she was eleven because I asked her and I asked her because I really wanted to talk to her. She was street hardened and the sister/mother to a baby boy (who she told me was a girl). She was trying to collect 'milk' money for the babu and when this failed she just tried to get someone to buy babu a 'milk ice cream'. She was a good actress, as was babu – both tilting the head and holding out the hand. Street Survival. I didn't see anyone give her money. Perhaps no one will with every one presuming that someone else will, or that they 'can't afford to give five rupees' to every beggar, or justify their refusal by saying that the money is taken from the children by the organising gangs of adults etc etc. I didn't give her any money. I just gave her one of my two Gita bracelets with the jingely jangly bells on it. I gave it to her and told her it was for her and not for her baby brother. I wanted her to have it because she clearly has nothing apart from little babu. Little babu who is completely dependent upon his big sister – his big sister who talked to me through her face scared with fire – burned away, along with her ears and one finger. Burned away – I suspect; for being female.
I was in a super luxury air conditioned cabin because this was the only option – all the trains for the next few days were fully booked. A Very Important Person from the Army was sleeping opposite me. He asked me if I liked Indian food – it was a rhetorical question as he replied for me:
“We Indians love our food – thats why we are all so fat!” He laughed as he tugged on his massive belly.
Indeed we were feed so much food. Ironic as I sat there, with no appetite not wanting nor asking for the food which was being presented to me at two hourly intervals. I put what I could into a plastic bag, wishing that I could send it to the bags of bones which sat half living/ half dying on the steps of Sealdagh train station.
Delhi was different from how I had imagined. Firstly, I was not ripped off – well at least not that I knew of; it is also much greener and cleaner than Kolkata – the train station included. With the destitute hidden out of view my bag of train food went to two children sitting by the road side. And that is something else which Delhi showed me – another life for the street children. While waiting for a bus out of New Delhi and into Himachal Pradesh I met some little people. The first two little people which I met were brother and sister. The brother was wearing a painted moustache, the sister a tiny metal hola hoop. The siblings were circus children and once a sufficient crowd of tourists gathered with their massive bags and supplies of snacks they began their show. The sister back-flipped and cartwheeled, disconnected her arms and stepped through them, slide through the hola hoop as her brother lay in it, and then skipped around collecting money from the hands behind the cameras. Then came the boy selling water again; and then again and again until the 'tourists' became impatient with him and shooed him away like an unwelcome dog. Next there was an eleven year old girl. I know she was eleven because I asked her and I asked her because I really wanted to talk to her. She was street hardened and the sister/mother to a baby boy (who she told me was a girl). She was trying to collect 'milk' money for the babu and when this failed she just tried to get someone to buy babu a 'milk ice cream'. She was a good actress, as was babu – both tilting the head and holding out the hand. Street Survival. I didn't see anyone give her money. Perhaps no one will with every one presuming that someone else will, or that they 'can't afford to give five rupees' to every beggar, or justify their refusal by saying that the money is taken from the children by the organising gangs of adults etc etc. I didn't give her any money. I just gave her one of my two Gita bracelets with the jingely jangly bells on it. I gave it to her and told her it was for her and not for her baby brother. I wanted her to have it because she clearly has nothing apart from little babu. Little babu who is completely dependent upon his big sister – his big sister who talked to me through her face scared with fire – burned away, along with her ears and one finger. Burned away – I suspect; for being female.
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