T. Garratt - Discovery Road

Andy

A delicate essence of human excrement, finely blended with rotting fruit, followed me down the station platform. An ageing brown cow with a hunched back nuzzled through a waste bin and contentedly chewed on a portion of crumpled newspaper. Beyond the cow, in half-light, lay a human corpse. A man in his thirties, lying to attention, feet slightly splayed and eyes staring up at the vaulted wooden roof. It was midnight in Agra, northern India. The air was still; the stench and the heat oppressive.

Ahead, in the dim fluorescent light of the platform, a scabby dog staggered around going nowhere, shaking violently and frothing at the mouth. He used to be a greyhound. Now, his rear leg was broken and gleaming white bone jutted through skin and black gunk. Odd tufts of ginger hair hung to purulent, pink flesh. I skirted him and climbed aboard the train.

The engineer was stoking up the boiler, ready for the off. Squeezing my way along the narrow corridors in the dark, I stumbled over sleeping bodies, a mother cuddling a child, a wrinkly man two hundred years old, several families on the move with their pots and pans, chickens and bulging white bundles. Using my lighter, I located the numbers painted on the ends of bunks and found my way, eventually, to my reserved bed.

Sitting smoking clay pipes on the opposite bunk were two white guys. Wild place, eh? I said as I lit a candle and introduced myself. Their names were Wink and Tim. Did you see the dog? I asked. Hes hoping to find someone who will be kind enough to shoot him in the head, said Tim. They were English like myself.

Wink wore a flying helmet, but his resemblance to Biggles ended there. They both wore lightweight cotton, bought for a penny or two in some local market. In dim, flickering light we chatted amicably for a while about diarrhoea. A small boy came down the gangway selling chai. He waited patiently while we drank the sweet brew from fragile clay cups.

An open hand appeared at the window, resting on the ledge. We ignored it for a minute. Tim eventually looked out. Christ, look at this, he said. Well have to give this guy something.

I moved over and looked down on the beggar and was shocked at the sight. His face was horribly contorted; skin seemed to drip off his skull like melted chocolate. Dark, empty eyes stared back from beneath folds of skin. He just stood there, not speaking, hand out. We each gave a few rupees to ease our consciences.