Journey to a place of love?

I decided it was time to get off ass and venture out into the bosom of Mother India. The Taj Mahal, one of the 8th wonders of the world, “a teardrop on the face of eternity”, a symbol of ever-lasting love that reaches out from beyond the grave, the remnants of a broken heart, a broken man, a torn soul - is a mere 200 km from Delhi. How could I possibly not go? I took the train from Faridabad, Delhi to Agra. It was my first train journey in India - an experience that can be quite daunting if you're not used to it. I'm not used to it, so by the time I got there, I felt quite proud of myself for getting on the choo-choo all on me lonesome.

My ticket doesn't have a seat number (lesson number 1: always ask for a seat number when booking your ticket), but I am lucky enough not to get harassed by anyone for sitting on their seat. On the train I manage to jump up to the top tier section of the third-class compartment. Chunks of the bench where there are supposed to be wooden panels are missing so it's not exactly comfortable. I try various positions to prevent falling arse-first and crushing the head of the passenger sitting below me. Throughout the journey, I sit there with my book trying not to make eye contact with the two guys opposite who continue to stare at me relentlessly throughout the journey.

In fact it feels as if everyone on the train has been staring at me like I have two heads. Truth is, they don't quite know what to make of me. With my Asian complexion, I appear to be Indian yet to them, I appear with my Indian-style dress and jeans. Then they see I have a piece of metal sticking out of my bottom lip and my hair is sticking up in every which direction. Have decided to instigate a little experiment of my own by dressing as a 23 year-old Indian girl in salwar kameez minus piercings to see the difference in the way people percieve me (just call me bat-u-meez Nazreen). If this doesn't work, then I'm definitley making an impression on people simply because of the fact I am an Indian girl travelling on her own. Let's just wait and see what happens.

Throngs of people with their cloth knapsacks, suitcases, trunks, multi-coloured synthetic bags, metal boxes and plastic containers are ambling to jump onto the moving train, as those trying to alight persevere with defiance to keep their places at the exit doors. On the platform there are shoe shiners, ear cleaners, coolies, food stalls and men sitting like snake charmers over their smoking chulas churning out steaming hot food. The action is non-stop and it's all go, go, go as little chai men chase seated passengers through open windows, luring them with “Garam chai! Garam chai!”

Exposing the sheer diversity of people that pass through them, railway platforms here are like a window into the soul of India. Sitting on a bench with her husband, a woman in a bright orange sari is breastfeeding her child, her head and face covered, protecting her from the unwelcome gaze of other men. A group of women dressed in muslin saris worn the Rajasthani way, are waiting patiently for the train, their noses embedded in semi-precious stones. I spot a freshly married young couple. She peers at me shy and curious, holding the end of her chiffon duputta over her mouth. Her chooria* are stacked half way up both arms (*a special set of red bangles worn by women on their wedding day and which they continue to wear for some months after). The sindoor*, (*a scarlet red powder worn by married women) is sprinkled along the centre-parting of her hair and is another giveaway of her betrothed status. A man in an embroidered white Muslim kurta and braided topis* (toque) checks the time on his watch as a long-haired, bearded sadhu in saffron robes and a tilak* (*scarlet powder representing the third eye of knowledge) walks by.

There are also children begging, many of them with stumps instead of hands and feet, which have been mutilated by the rackets responsible for kidnapping them and putting them on the streets. A small girl about 7 years old with big lifeless eyes and a sullen expression approaches me. She has nothing on her feet. She appears to be one of the lucky ones with all her limbs still intact. I can't get to my money as I have it tied up in a pocket on the inside of my jeans, so I give her the stuffed chapatti with lime-pickle that my aunty had packed for me instead. I get on the train and discover more of these kids, I notice a small boy with amputated feet dragging himself on a plank with wheels through the aisle, challenging passengers for change. Accustomed as they are to witnessing the depths of such deprivation, most look away or continue reading their newspapers. I understand there are millions of cases like this and that you can't give out small change to every kid you see, but I can't ignore this one so I place a five rupee coin in the palm of his hand and a smile transforms his face.

I strike up a conversation with one of the passengers on the train. He's a government scientist and tells me, “the mobs are known to kidnap children from their parents in busy areas. They amputate their limbs so that they look like lepers because they think it will generate more sympathy, hence greater revenues. It also allows unprecedented levels of control over the children.” He tells me that “by night, “debt collectors” roam the streets, leaving the kids with a few rupees for whatever food they can get.”

Busker kids jump on and off the train with their makeshift drums and string instruments. They appear as ambassadors of India’s cultural diversity as there is a marked difference in the sounds and rhythms they play as the train passes through different areas. You can also spot differences between the dialects, accents and even physical features. The soul of India is transparent. I can see it in the myriad of peoples that I visibly encounter on this journey. There is a beauty radiating from their souls, the kids in particular. They have no fear. They are doing what they think they have been put on this earth to do, perhaps in accordance to the Hindu religion, to make up for the sins they had committed in a previous life. They can only hope that by suffering in this life, they will be incarnated into a better one in the next. Traditions are preserved in India, even amongst those suffering at the very depths of poverty. It feels ironic that I am making this pilgrimage to this place that is meant to symbolize love when those who I have encountered along the journey, are lacking exactly that.