On Altruism
(Originally published as an article ‘A sleepless night on an Indian sleeper’, in The Times)
The funny thing about travelling on a shoestring is that it induces a shoestring mentality.
You find yourself sacrificing sanity and comfort in favour of lunacy and infestation for a meagre £3.50 — a sum you would cheerfully spend on a skinny-wet-latte in London but which, for a first-class upgrade in India, feels like profligacy.
So we book ourselves second-class sleeper tickets for the 36-hour train ride from Mumbai to Calcutta, smugly priding ourselves on our thrift and willingness to embrace the Authentic Indian Experience.
We find our carriage in pitch darkness and are plunged into a desperate scrum. Street kids swarm on board scrabbling for money, trunks are pushed against shins, shadows lunge towards us, tempers begin to fray.
As we feel hysteria rising in this airless black chaos, a fluorescent light flickers into life, making things a little easier but simultaneously illuminating the squalor of the cabin. I prefer it in the dark, when the pee-rusted metal floor is less visible and, somehow, less offensively aromatic.
But we find our “beds” — more accurately, rubber shelves hung by metal chains from the ceiling. From my shelf I can see 16 bunks, hear about 40, and am mesmerised by the moustachioed face of the man opposite, snoring directly into mine.
The journey promises 36 hours of paranoia. I see threats all around, not just in the moustache but also in the peeping eyes, stealthy stares, singing beggars, clapping eunuchs, wailing children, organ buskers, fake-mobile-phone sellers, and “chai-coffee-chai” shouters. For the shoestring mentality has taught us another lesson: to be deeply suspicious of everyone and everything, determined not to be cheated out of a single coin or single ounce of pride.
So when the train pulls into Udaipur and four miniature hands grab at the window bars, I am on my guard. Shrill voices cry: “Aunty, aunty, photo, take photo!” I have fallen for this before; I was chased around the Red Fort in Delhi by a guru demanding money for a photograph I had taken in innocent ignorance.
This time I am ready. “No money, no money.” I hold out empty hands. “I’ll take photo, but I have no money.” The small boys look at me in surprise and something resembling pity. Then one rummages in his pocket, pulls out a crumpled note and thrusts it at me sympathetically.
As the train rattles on across the vast panorama, I have plenty of time to reflect on my misplaced cynicism. And as the scorching glare of day gives way to freezing darkness, reflection turns into philosophical soul-searching. From Sartre-like questions about why and who I am, through Naipaul-esque anxieties about India’s madness-inducing tendencies, I arrive at Geldof-esque aspirations to abolish world poverty single-handedly (a Nobel Peace Prize would smarten up my CV).
Sixteen hours into the journey, the train screeches to another halt. Dust blows through the barred windows; a dappled and already roasting early sun stirs up the teeming stench of the carriage. Hawkers leap on board — omelettes, peanuts, samosas, the odd china elephant. It’s time for breakfast. I start to munch a muffin and continue my ponderings. What, I wonder between mouthfuls, can I do to help?
What can I give back?
A bony hand pokes through the bars. An elderly emaciated man, mournful-eyed, clearly nearing the end of a heart-breaking and back-breaking life, looks at me. In a rush of fervent altruism, I thrust the muffin toward him — his need is so much greater than mine. A heaven-sent opportunity to put my new benevolent consciousness into practice. Oh, hurrah for charity, and hurrah that I am such a good person!
The old man takes the muffin in his palm, scrutinises it, pokes it with his thumb, sniffs it, and looks at it again. Then he shakes his head and hands it back.
