A boy crawls along the aisle sweeping the floor with a his sweater, a paralyzed man drags himself through the dirty path as people move their legs avoiding eye contact. A mother carries a baby on her arm as she sings to the drum beat of a young boy and a Eunuch or transvestite (I am not sure which one) walks through and simply demands money.

I refuse.

How quickly I have turned off the switch of empathy. You must here in India. The sorrow and guilt would tear you apart. For every cruel hand of fate dealt out to one person, a thousand others have a sadder story.

The boy comes back again and sweeps into my berth. It is too close to my bag for my comfort. I grab his arm in accusation. His thin frame feels soft to my touch. If I grabbed any harder I may have broken it. He has taken nothing. I apologize. He ignores my apology and begs for food and money.

I give nothing.

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