Cut to the Chase

The train swayed. Hot, crowded, smelly -- a goat to one side wore a monocle and solemnly ate the pages out of a book. A cage of chickens clucked in the aisle next to her seat. In front of her a nearly naked man sat sweating, a basket perched next to him. The sort of baskets that held cobras, she thought, and no doubt this snake -- considering the heat and the noise and the smoke -- was not considerably charmed at the moment.

The land outside the grimy window blurred past -- checkerboard farm land -- a trip through the land through the looking glass no doubt -- where one had to run very, very fast in order to stand still. She had never been a fast runner but she could eat up the miles nonetheless.

The woman, surrounded by fever dream figures, listened to the roar of foreign tongues all around her as her aching forehead tapped the window. How did I get here? The goat finished the book and started in on a magazine. A rabbit in a vest pulled out an iPhone -- no pocket watches for this crowd. The woman laughed, earning a glare from an old widow in black.

The train careened -- far faster than a train in India should travel -- especially given the sound of songs and bodies sitting on the top and clinging to the sides of the ancient iron horse. A monkey in a uniform held out his hand for her ticket. The woman handed him a cucumber sandwich, neatly wrapped, that she found in her own wicker basket, thankful it wasn't a cobra. The monkey handed it back and pointed at a banana. The transaction done, the woman settled back into her misery.

The scenery flashing by turned to jungle and the woman felt like she was traveling through the rings of a lunatic hell. At least my head's on straight, she thought with a laugh, Dante was wrong there. Then again, who can accurately predict the future in a world where turtles skateboard down the aisles? Perhaps I've been let off on a technicality.