Pinakini Express

by Erik Hursh (United States of America)

Making a local connection India

I departed Chennai in a third-class car of the Pinakini Express for a five-hour train ride to Bapatla and quickly found myself drawn to the open doorways. My favorite position was to sit with knees extended to the exterior, feet on the top ladder rung, and at least one hand firmly gripping a vertical bar. As the train rushed and jostled, I alternated between fascination with the experience and wondering what it might be like to bounce off one of those power poles rhythmically whooshing by. You had to wait your turn for a doorway spot because those were a favorite place to pass time for many. One doorway was never available to me because it was inhabited by an old man who sat or lay before it for the entire trip. There was a scream. Everyone looked to find him scared from almost falling out. He had apparently lost grip of the bar, which he held by a hand with a large, intricately detailed gold ring. There was a shirtless, shoeless boy who wore man-sized pants that were fixed to him by a rope belt and extended in a tattered condition past the ends of his feet. He was dirty and bony. The first time I noticed him, he was crawling along the isle and sweeping the floor of peanut shells with his hands. Maybe he made it to one end of the long train and was in the process of making a round trip because the second time I saw him was four hours later. He was going in the opposite direction in a process that went like this: Hands and knees crawl forward to next row of passengers – sit up on knees – tap passenger – look at them – murmur – touch hand to mouth – put hand out into the open position in front of passenger – wait two seconds with hand out – give up – repeat process. When he tapped my leg, I looked down and shook my head. As he robotically moved on, I felt ashamed. A group of Muslim boys approached me early, asking what country I was from. They had asked all sorts of questions, but I had felt closed and been short in my responses. I had escaped them by transitioning to the seated position in a doorway. However, the trip was long, and I got tired of hanging on to the side of a train. In my pacing, I came upon two of these Muslim boys looking up at me with big smiles, rapidly patting the open seat next to them. So I sat, letting my guard down, and started talking and joking with them in a real way; in a kind way. Some of our interactions went as follows. I asked, “Who is better looking, Muslim women or Hindu women?” “Oh, Muslim women!” they exclaimed. “Well I can’t see them to know this because they have those burqas on,” I followed, “Why do Muslim women wear burqas?” “Because they are GOLD to us!” came an emphatic reply with arms outreached and opened wide. The youngest boy asked, “What do women dress like in your country?” Without saying a word, I pulled the V-neck of my tee shirt down to reveal half my chest, and they broke out into uncontrollable laughter. “Do you have a one-dollar bill?” asked the older boy. I did not, but I had a five-dollar bill and produced it. I pointed to the words “In God We Trust”, the arrows and symbol of peace in the eagle’s talons, and we talked about Lincoln. They passed the bill around for inspection. It went on and on like this and became a magical time for me. Upon reaching Bapatla, I shook the Muslim boy’s hands, sad to leave them, before proceeding out onto the platform. As the train started, I pulled out my five-dollar bill again and searched the open windows. Finding the Muslim boys, I reached in, handed the younger one the note, and quickly withdrew before he realized what I had done. “No! No! No!” he exclaimed, shaking his head frantically. I pointed back as the train rolled away, “It’s your now. It’s yours!”