The Indian Rails

Old men squat to shit. Small shanty clusters are lost among a sea of rubbish. Two women adorned in patterned pashminas, both varying shades of red, stand out against the dry, dusty backdrop. They converse, one of them spits. A boy leans on a window encased by a brick building, his malnourished frame exaggerated against the stern structure. He soaks in the morning light, does he have one leg or two? Another orange-haired Indian, it bewilders me. I can't photograph or film this, my camera stays still on the blue leather booth that was my bed last night.