TRAIN FOLKS

My second major cross-country train trip... from metropolis to megacity... crossing an enormous expanse of Indian soil. Mumbai to Kolkata takes 36 hours. As I was reading, I looked up and had to take note of all those around me. A ridiculous but accurate cross-section of this foreign country- available, I believe, to not many people. A benefit to traveling budget- a reward for being so cheap.

A FAMILY
A woman dressed in an orange, pink and blue floral sari, young (much younger than her husband), with gold and green bangles and lips that don't quite cover her teeth. Her husband- older, quiet, the provider- spoiling his son with ice cream and toys, unsure of himself with a flighty look in his eyes. Their child- well-behaved while heavily doted on, a child with loving parents, placated with constant gifts... a seemingly low-middle class family of 3.

MIDDLE AGE MAN
A middle-aged man who announced his seniority by yelling out his seat number and then assertively taking control of it. He yelled through the window bars and across the train tracks to grape vendors, complaining about price (about 25 cents for 1/2 kg) and quantity so much he never got to buy any. He demanded to see my Lonely Planet- I obliged.

RATTY WOMEN
Ratty women walking up and down the aisle, selling their produce by eeiry chants and nasal sing-song voices. One has matted hair, red teeth and half a beenie on, carrying an enormous bundle of strange weeds that look like a cross between cilantro and pea pods- roots attached. Other women carry large baskets of hard-boiled eggs and cucumbers, on which they sprinkle masala and lemon juice. Some sell chickpeas and diced veggies.

BEGGAR WOMAN
A beggar woman, holding out a picture frame of 2 deformed-looking siamese twin babies- on which to put your pity money- the babies look white, and she's a dark Indian.

BEGGAR KIDS
A band of beggar kids- probably a family looking to make money through cheap, unfortunate entertainment. Two young boys, maybe 4 and 8, sommersaulting on dirty floors and shaking their hips while their older, slave-master brother, whacks some broke-ass drum... after which he whacks them. They have facepaint on in the shape of red cheeks and pirate moustaches.

RAGGITY WOMAN
An old, raggity woman has poached the seat in front of me- obviously no ticket but feels entitled to sit there anyways. The family man tries to get her out because it's his- he fails.

EUNUCH
An extremely built Eunuch goes cruising by in a teal blue sari- muscular back and very feminine long hair, tied up in a pony tail.

SCARS
Here comes a woman with scars all over her arms, carrying a sleeping, half-naked boy and begging for money.

SWEEPER
A sweeper woman splashes train dirt and unidentifiable water on my legs.

CHORUS PARTS
Ice cream vendors, dosas, cold drinks, biriyani, playing cards and chocolate all go yelling by. Polio limbs, missing toes, absent ears, goiters. You never know what you're going to get, but it's always unexpected.

Keralan Backwaters

Sitting now on a long covered boat on the backwaters of this South Indian state- experiencing why people say this is a sub-continental gem- it's stunning. Glassy hazel grey, a liquid landscape- earth and water in an unusual arrangement. Once again, unusual is beautiful. Rows of palm trees and water fronds are the only colors breaking sky blue from aqua marine- so much blue! A contrast between water and sky has never been so confusing- made possible by a green green earth.
A lifestyle more foreign to me than most i've seen. Hot and wet, slow and sluggish. There's no rush here- lives dictated by the tides and currents. Transport and boats, fishing and food, farming and livelihood.

Water-bound and water-given, water deep and water driven.

Contrast on contrast- green and blue- accented by white wings. Almost as if standing out is what maintains- instead of blending in. "The God of Small Things"- I love reading a book in its setting- envisioning the plot unfolding around you- knowing characters were created to travel these fluid streets, love in these backwater homes.