a railway platform, filling. Men at a fluorescentlit window, yelling for coffee. A chai wallah toward an idle train, his silver pail a tin moon floating across the tracks. Sleeping bodies lined up, linens swaddling heads, tiffins stacked next to shoes. A woman’s voice, lilting and constant, announcing arrivals Malayalam, Hindi, and English.
The air is dense, a tropical film slicked across faces and windshields. The banyan trees are heavy with chatty birds.
Down the platform, the women gather. First in twos, then fours, and soon by the dozens. The bags piled by their feet are stuffed with weathered coconut tree bark, banana leaves, rice, and lumps of jaggery, every ingredient neatly wrapped in sheets of Hindi newspaper.
More women. More bags. More coconut bark. A sea of saris, purple,…
