The Calcutta Railway Riot

The Calcutta Railway Riot
Calcutta, India

It was my third day in India. A street festival the day before had brought all of Calcutta’s ten million into the streets. Lights and fake blood covered the heads of goddesses inside a carnival display hall. A man all in white served me tea. Surely I would become lost. I kept my eye on my companions, narrowly missing death a thousand times as cars wove in and out of useless traffic lanes. Daylight and the end of the festival. What was different? The streets still swallowed me whole, and there were many arms swarming around my face. I could not tell if they belonged to the gods or the people. They were begging me for milk; I was begging to get out of the city.

My German friend and I headed toward Howrah railway station. I had convinced her to leave this strange city and go with me to somewhere even more strange. Anywhere that had a little character was good enough, and our connection kept us safe in this surreal existence. We had decided not to bother trying to get a reservation, as it would delay our travel plans by one or two days. Hoping for the best, we would simply turn up and wait for the next train to Bodhgaya.

When we arrived, there was the obligatory journey through a hundred different ticket counters, each time being directed to the one from where we just came. I let my friend take care of these matters while I looked around in slow motion. The station was total chaos divided into two floors, one for ticket purchases and one for waiting. People filled them both, sitting, standing, eating, cleaning their ears, nursing children, sweeping, talking and just passing the time waiting for the trains. Vendors stood selling nuts, raisins, bananas, dried chickpeas, sweets and sodas. Despite these amenities, waiting was far from comfortable. The floors were solid concrete and there were few chairs. What sitting areas there were filled quickly with weary families. This didn’t phase my friend and I. We were the only two whites in the whole place and under watchful eyes we spread out a blanket to settle down for the six-hour wait. The train would depart at 11:30pm.

As night came, we fell into talking about Plato, life, Charles Dickens. Most travelers come to India to awaken their minds, so to speak. When sitting and waiting, you become very intellectual all of a sudden. Picture the part of the station we were in as a large rectangle with us facing forward and away from the stairway that lead to the rest of the building. In our talking and debating on the future of civilization, we failed to look around us. I noticed the women, their bright clothes and dark skin, their half-naked children. But my eyes stayed mostly in the little world we had created, trying to make the best of being an American woman in an Indian train station. Not an easy task. For once, I was glad not to be alone. Being stared at is disconcerting, and staring back is merely taken as a response. My friend and I looked at each other and eventually became less of a novelty.

Leaning on our packs, we were engrossed in conversation when an old man dressed in rags and a turban approached us with an outstretched hand. I strained to hear his pleas in Hindi. Could I keep my resolve not to give money to beggars? I had read the guidebooks and knew this could come to no good, but this man looked desperate. Dusty, wrinkled and way too thin with a bandage around his foot. The wrap was torn and yellow; I could only imagine what was under it. Motioning to the injury, I asked with my eyes if it was uncomfortable. He looked to the ceiling and shook his head. I looked at the shredded gauze, then at my pack, and an idea crept into my head.

“Anke,” I said, “I have a whole first aid kit in my bag. It’s got everything in it. I mean, I really don’t want to give him money but I could at least change his bandage, make him more comfortable. What do you think? Is it a good idea?”

My friend bit her finger and crumpled her short hair. The question was to be considered carefully. But enthusiasm slowly came to life in her face. Go for it. Why not? Armed with her support, preparation was made to take my first step in helping the unfortunate. A dream come true. I busied my hands inside the medical kit, proud to be taking some action. Latex gloves slipped on carefully and then the task of examining exactly what was wrong with this poor man’s foot. The joy and adrenaline of helping a fellow human being targeted into extreme concentration on the duty before me. I began to unwrap his bandage as my friend nodded approvingly and said, “This is good.”

When the gauze was fully unwound, I surveyed the damage. The wound appeared to have healed in terms of exposure. There was no bleeding or open skin, but what was left was a dried up, gaping hole. Well, I was no doctor, and I had never seen anything like this. But in order not to give the impression that I did not know what the hell I was doing, I took out the materials to create a patch up job. Disinfectant, alcohol and antibiotic ointment, a fresh wrapping and tape. Another Indian man who spoke English said it looked like leprosy. I had no choice but to nod my head empathetically in agreement. We just have to do the best we can, I told him. The patient seemed happy, and I removed the gloves to begin packing up when I at last looked up from my little bubble. My eyes grew wide and I am sure I turned pale. The entire population of the train station was crowded around me, bent over, staring. My friend and I, shocked, shrank down in our concrete stage. What the hell was going on? The people were smiling, finding the whole drama amusing. Wouldn’t you?

I joined the crowd in laughing nervously. They were not nervous. The patched-up “leper” looked contentedly at his new wrapping. This reverie did not last. All of a sudden, a man came up behind my patient and began shouting at him! The blast was in Hindi, but its tone was clear.

“What’s he saying?” I cried. A man stepped forward to translate. The wounded man was being told he was nothing but a no good beggar, that he was worthless.

“Why are you begging from these people? You are nothing!” the man shouted. This was not good. My head spun and I felt it would only escalate. As if to answer my premonition, a woman who had been sitting quietly behind us jumped up to give the fuming gentleman a piece of her mind. She came face to face with him, and although at least a foot smaller than he, she unabashedly punched him in the chest, shouting Hindi obscenities between beatings. I gathered from this show of loyalty that my patient was her husband. She took offense to this assault on his character. I also deduced from the pile of clothing and dishes in her possession that the family was homeless and lived there in the train station. It made sense that they were a bit sensitive.

The woman continued to pound away at her nemesis when he decided he had enough. He hit her back. Before my very eyes there was a fistfight between this man and this tiny woman. My friend and I looked at each other in horror, then turned back to the next scene in this terrible movie. Another hero came to the rescue, a tall Indian man. Attempting to stop the angry insulter from hitting the beggar’s wife, he put his arms between them. The woman stepped aside and the two men began fighting! Determined to continue defending her husband, the woman tried to rejoin the debacle. Rousing from my state of shock, I jumped in to try to pacify her.

“It’s all right,” I said, “Sit down.” I gave her some bananas and we ate them together as she shook her head. She complied with my wish that she stay out of harm’s way. A group of bystanders came to haul the two fighters outside to continue their brawl. The crowd still surrounded us and I grew very afraid. They were agitated and edgy. What would we do? There was nowhere to run. Things quieted down after moments that seemed to last years. I took my seat by Anke, both of us wishing we could just disappear. We spoke sparsely, but as were whispering distress and relief, a towering, well-dressed man approached us. He spoke excellent English, but his voice was intimidating. We cowered and listened.

“You should not do these things,” he said a firm, concerned tone, “If something goes wrong, it will come back to you. Then what will you do? It will come back to you. You do not know my people. If this man wanted help, there are free clinics he can go to. You are teaching him to beg. He does not need to. Do you understand?”

We looked up at him in humility and nodded violently to convey that he had made himself perfectly clear. His voice softened somewhat after looking down on our pathetic faces. He explained that he wanted nothing from us. We were his sisters and he just wanted to help. We thanked him and he faded into the crowd. Anke and I looked at each with a sigh of half relief, half tension. How lucky to have escaped with so little consequence. But the damage had been done, on so many levels. A sadhu had come before the mighty Western healers to beg for medicine for his swollen leg. Not wanting to repeat the aforementioned riot, I hastily advised he put ice on it, then shut my mouth forever.

It was time to pack up our belongings. How fortunate that the train station was so grand. We could start fresh somewhere else. Trudging like refugees, we searched to hide in a corner where no one knew who we were, where no one could identify us with the stupid idiots who tried to play doctor to the “poor Indian souls”. Although a man on crutches was headed our way in search of peace, we hurried out of his path and settled ourselves at the other end of the waiting area. Children harassed and picked at us, but happy to have the incident behind us, we just stared past them into space. Anke and I didn’t say much, but when the train finally came to whisk us away, the land moved underneath the rails and exhaustion set in. I had to smile thinking about what spectacles we made of ourselves, mainly me. It was time to reflect.

The first thing that came to mind was how utterly clearly I had made a mistake. How quickly this realization came and it played in and out of my thoughts what a contrast this riot was to my original intentions. I knew instantly that my intentions were meaningless. What did it matter that my heart was in the right place? I had failed to look beyond the surface satisfaction of the fortunate helping the unfortunate. I had responded to an impulsive kindness when presented with this situation. A man was hurt; I had the tools to help him. This is the first level of reaction. But what about the second level?

In hindsight, I realize the price of good intentions. I had presented a terrible picture that day in Howrah station: the Western hero had come to save the Indian man who could not care for himself. In front of hundreds of people, I gave an image of dependence. I interfered in their system. Am I being too hard on myself? Not at all. I learned something. Think before you act. Question your motivations. Do you really have the tools to help? Are you contributing to the already growing problem of Western “superiority”? These questions only can be answered through experience and time. I hope by sharing this story, someone can benefit from what I have been through.

The train rolled along. Having secured the top bunk, I climbed up and laid on my back, nose almost touching the ceiling. The sleeper was padded. I threw my legs over my pack and achieved as fine a level of comfort as anywhere. It was past midnight. My eyes closed and pictures of witch doctors and carriages de-railing drifted through my mind. I fell asleep quickly.