February 22, 2014 on the train from Chennai to Bhubaneswar

The train lurches to a stop.

People run by our windows 

Peddling food of all sorts.

Because our compartment has air conditioning,

We are immune to the flogging through the window.

We aren't immune to the official train floggers

In red plaid shirts,

They parade back and forth in the corridor.

With low nasal repetitive voices,

They chant:

"Ala Jo. Ala Jo. Ala wim. Ala Jo.""

"Daw lee. Daw lee.", "Chicken  brow nies"

Or "To ma toe soup."

As we proceed through the station,

The platform outside is filled with throngs of people

Waiting for another train.

The women plod along clutching children.

The rainbow of saris

Shimmers and blows

Men stop to wipe their brows with their longhis.

Spitting is also acceptable.

Huge bags and pots are carried on heads.

Family groups lay or sit on the floor.

There are never enough chairs.

Beyond the station,

A  shanty town of bamboo walls,

Bits of metal and low grass roofs,

Is on the no man's land 

Along side the garbage strewn tracks.

Here the paths are swept clean.

Women cook and wash.

Children play.

An old man is hunkered down.

Outside of town, the land is vast and dusty and flat.

Train bridges cross dry river beds.

Cows forage.

Small groups of

Skinny barefoot, bare chested  brown men

With heads wrapped in cloth

And wearing folded up longhis,

Use large round aluminum bowls

To rearrange the gravel along the tracks,

Or to tend the fields.

Amid all this rural poverty and hand labour,

 And as far as the eye can see,

Are hundreds of enormous metal transmission towers.