Literal and emotional snapshots of the train experience:

A fully veiled woman on the train is staring solemnly at me. I feel self conscious, want to somehow communicate my dilemma between self expression and cultural respect. Then I notice a meticulous child-drawn flower on the ball of her hand that grasps the handles. The six wavering orbs glow from their deep mahogany henna. I picture a child's glossy black head bent in intense concentration over her palm. There is a look of fierce love on her face as she she feels the tickle, the cool henna, as she smells its sweet earthiness. The child is already on to the next task of growing up, and she is letting the henna dry, carefully making chai and food, so conscious of the crumbling dark lines of connection.

On the train I am absorbed in, thoughts? Something. So absorbed that I don't realize my hand on the railing is all mixed in with a woman's long dark hair, and has been awhile. I startle, remove the offending limb. But she hasn't noticed, or if she has, was not bothered. I peer around shiftily, but no one is looking alarmed at the firangi sticking her paws in people's ponytails. I laughed out loud. What an illustration of the lack of personal space!

The moment I knew I wanted to be friends with Anneke was during her description of an old woman's attack on the train. I laughed so hard, I loved it, because I could picture it perfectly. 'I was in the ladies train and this old woman practically scrambled up my back trying to get on the train!' I just pictured a tiny wizened monkey-like ancient mauling her. Her visiting friend Ritz got nearly mowed down when she tried to plunge into an exiting mass of women. It is utter madness, and hilarious how everyone will be all sweet, maybe singing or haggling, smiling at me, adjusting my bra strap so it's more appropriately hidden. And then a big stop like Dadar or Mumbai Central comes and the same kind ladies morph into sternfacedloudvoiced monsters as they push out of the car like a force of nature, like a birth contraction. When the train is packed tightly I feel like all the little fish stuck in the net in 'Finding Nemo'.

After an emotional and successful interview I was in a perfect mood; which is to say, a complicated happiness- tempered and shaded by depressing realities but also real connection. Sitting in that silly mall, we drank overpriced Gloria Jean coffee, while outside the sparkling glass I could see slums decking the hills. I'd cried as Sangita described her connection to 'My Vagina was my Village' She told me how she connects with the piece because it is not located in some vague realm of time or 'other' location. For her, it is present, it isn't Sarajevo. It is her region, where a girl was raped by every man in her town, wood and glass shoved inside her vagina. 'I see her' she told me. So no, I don't think it's all fun. I feel her with me" Even in this work, I can disconnect with the closeness of these stories, their multiplicity. Feminist theorists can bicker all they want about problematic universality, etc. etc. but I can't connect with theory, it means nothing to me compared to hearing these stories replicated the world over.

I feel at home here in a way I only ever can right before I leave. I breeze through the station, snag a five rupee samosa, validate my tickets, give my samosa to a charming urchin, buy another one and invest in some stomach-hardening sugar cane juice. The gears work over the stalks of cane, and a bell rhythmically chimes along with the production of the oh so refreshing frothy green elixir. Ring, ring ring. We stand and drink companionably from the ambiguously clean glasses, flies adding to the rhythm section. I miss the train- there is a moment when I could have ran and swung into the car, graceful and lithe- but I'm not, and I'm too hyper-aware of the slicing rails.

Death is just a few feet away at all times here. As I watch a train running parallel having caught the next one, I can't help shiver despite the sweltering heat, as I observe just how close all these transported humans are to being sliced apart. I'm not usually morbid, but the accident seriously disturbed me. As it should have. I picture people slipping, which would be an easy feat in the packed cars from which people overflow, stand on the roofs... I want them to live. In my fears for their death I affirm the value of life. A woman lifts her baby to snag the hand-holds. The baby chortles, the women smile, a moment passes and we're to the next station.