Train Wreck

The whistle strains a warning. Hundreds of awe-struck Indian commuters stare incredulously. The track shortens, the distance disappears and suddenly the train is upon them. Each morning on our way to Prem Dan, one section of the trek required us to walk train tracks during commuter traffic. Not a difficult thing to figure out so long as you remember what direction the trains come from. It's the last leg of the journey. We've walked 15 minutes, and all's left is to wade through the throng at Park Circus, cross the tracks, and enter the home. Fires burning, papers for sale, merchants yelling, onlookers staring and calling after us gringos to buy something. Buy anything. Touts carry fruit, water, chickens to their destination. Kerosene stoves are lit. Men urinate on the track. Rickshaw drivers seek fares. We're almost to our destination, they get none from us. The girls walk in front. I trail behind. We've had to contend with too many wanting the feel of breast, and now I drop back, defiantly, eyes searching, hands ready to protect my friends from indiscretion. These hands can do nothing today. They can do nothing about the two new Spanish volunteers completely unaware of their surroundings. Completely unaware of the 30-car commuter-filled train baring down on them. Completely unaware that being on the tracks is a bad, bad thing in such a situation as this. Because really, being in the path of a closing train is not highly recommended. Our girls are off the track. I'm well clear. But these women - Lord Have Mercy - they're still there. They step off. Barely. They stop, dead in their tracks. The train is barreling down, the whistle screeching an awful, piercing sound. I cannot avert my eyes.