Suburban Train Line.

Mumbai — February 2018.

Heroes hang out of the doorways, vying to be soonest on the ground, dangle their feet above the passing platform, waiting for the perfect moment to strike in their soft-soled sandals.

Hot polyester suits scratch buttock-to-buttock.

A eunuch slaps the shoulders of the first-class passengers, dark-eyed in khol.

A pure plaintive song somewhere behind me. A girl sings, untrained but sweet-voiced, holds out her hand, slim and fragile, turns — not a girl, a woman. But 35 or 50? Her face ravaged, eyes blind.