Mumbai, India: Circa January 2010
The train stopped at Bandra. The women got off. The women got on. Two most fortunate women got the lucky space next to the door.
You cannot underestimate the importance of the lucky space on the Indian local train network. The lucky space is the only place on the train where you can imagine the possibility of a breeze, without getting killed. A great many historic wars have been fought for Her Spaceness and only the bravest and the most resilient have won.
One woman, 50, dressed in a blouse and trousers, coral necklace in place, heaved a sigh of relief. She was going to be in time for work. The way she was, always. The other, 20, (barely a woman for two years according to the law) continued to read her Amartya Sen essay, mandatory reading for a Modernism class she should have been in fifteen minutes ago.
Enter two lepers, stage left. "No. No," shouted the Victorian in blouse and trousers, "Yeh fust class haai. Tumare logon ka alag compartment mein jao." She looked to other women for support. "They have a separate compartment for the handicapped, no?" But the leper was faster. With the one leg and damaged hands he had, he swung into the door. Right in the middle of the lucky place. Open yellowing bruises, congealed blood, flies and all.
The Modernist looked down. His foot...or whatever remained of it... had brushed hers twice. Mental note, she wrote, ask friend from Med School if leprosy is contagious. Then she felt ashamed. Guilty. According to Amartya Sen, our ideas of justice come from our social identity. How we were raised. What we were taught. She had been raised to believe in karma. And the knowledge that karma exists, is terrible. Somewhere in her head a divine cash register was going *kachinnnngggg* with a new addition to her final bill. One more dead weight on the wrong side of her beam balance. One more thing that could go around and come back around. She had been taught at college of Human Rights. Heard stories of philantrophists who had crossed borders illegally to help the underprivileged. She had listened. And now she stood.
She looked up at the Victorian. A great conflict was bubbling on her face. Literally. Her features were contorted and her eyebrows went up and down maniacally. The Modernist opened a mental copy of her 2nd year Psychology texbook. Atkinson and Hilgard. She was sure the Victorian had some kind of syndrome. Turrets, was it? It didn't matter. The karmic cash register was unwilling to stop and her education was throwing questions to her conscience. Should a disabled leper be allowed to travel in the first class compartment of a train, without a ticket? Shouldn't we share the resources of our world with the underprivileged?
The Victorian was beginning to regret it too. The contortions in her face were forming words. Bless, me, father, for, I, have, sinned. Didn't she distribute food to the poor at community service? This too was community service, yes. She would have to learn to be more tolerant towards the underprivileged. The effervescence on her face simmered, then died.
At Mumbai Central, the leper started to get up. The Modernist involuntarily put out a hand to his back to help him up. But stopped short of touching him by a few centimetres for worry of the contagious (or not) nature of his disease. He swung his branch-like arms around the pole at the door and got off the train.
The leper was a test. A sort of litmus paper. First, he was dipped into an acid. Then, into an alkali. Together, the two had formed a base.
The Victorian got off with five "Hail Mary"s. The Modernist, with a "clean" karmic bill. Their diseases were only theirs. On the platform, the leper sat down and wondered if his friend Khalu would have a bidi.
