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| A sheet on the sleeper car of the train - they all had dates they were made and the black slowly fades to gray over time |
5.23, 1 a.m., night train to Goa
At 1 a.m. I learn the magic of
the Indian Railway. Even though the
station smells of human urine, with sand bags and garbage lining the tracks, peppered with unshy rats, the station is still full of families travelling with
luggage, sitting on the ground in the middle of the hot balmy night. Every station prints a list of passengers
that board there, with old-school printer paper with tabbed edges: here you
consult your seat assignment. There were zero other identifiable foreigners and
no women travelers unaccompanied by a man.
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