Paper and plastic strewn all over the rail tracks. A crumpled polythene bag curls over the rusty iron. There are power-lines overhead, taut and thin. Perhaps they are for the trains. Are the trains electric? There is a flood-light on the struts of electric wires. It is weak and characterless against the still-light evening sky.
By contrast the small fire in the middle of our huddled group is full of life. Flickering, dying, reviving. Quiet crackling. The light dances gently on Hasan’s thin polythene raincoat. He is is resting his head on his father’s knee. He is a sturdy, stocky, teenager. But the long walk and unrelenting cold has worn him out. He is curled up like a child. Dark hair and sharp nose. Eyes closed. The edge of the dirty make-shift tent half covers Hasan’s back. Fuad, Hasan’s father, keeps his palm protectively on Hasan’s temple. Immobile. But a caress, nonetheless. Fuad is bald, but his chin is covered in silver stubble.
I don’t know the two men next to Fuad. In their late twenties, or early thirties. The one nearest to Fuad has a sharp jaw, aquiline nose. The other has heavier features. He’d have looked almost menacing if he wasn’t clutching a worn, pink cotton hat. There is an empty can of sardines next to the fire. The aroma of its remnants wafts upwards, mingling with the smell of smoke, reminding us of our hunger. My stomach clenches. The plastic water bottle is now half empty.
Beyond us, the rest of our camp ranges haphazardly across the railway lines. Men standing in small groups. A young woman tracks the stumbling explorations of a toddler with tense eyes. Three older women sit side by side on a rail-track. Their scarves are a colourful contrast to the dreary beige of our surroundings. One of them has found an umbrella, and clutches it to ward off the light, miserable drizzle. By the side of a shallow wall near the station, the group of young boys are already asleep. I had watched them during our long dreary walk. Faiz, Amir, and… my mind goes blank. Who’s the third? Sayed? Yes, that’s right.. All three ranging between twelve and fourteen. Skinny, scruffy, with long limbs that did not seem to obey them as they walked, or sat. Nervous eyes.
Opposite them, across the tracks, another boy bathes using a small plastic bucket. He pours water into the bucket from a weather-beaten iron drum. He is surrounded by rubble, as if this station had been bombed in a war. Behind him is an ancient railway carriage, gone entirely to rust. I see more people arrive at the encampment. A middle-aged, serious faced man walks at the head of the group. On his shoulders is a small, sleepy looking girl. One of her eyes is obscured by a lock of hair. Behind him a woman walks in a white, blue and pink scarf. She is clutching the hand of a girl of perhaps seven or eight, in oversize pants and a sweater fit for someone twice her size.
But now in the fading light they are three bundles of cloth. Two huddled up in an almost infant-like pose. The third, probably the lanky Amir, stretched out like a long, weather-beaten bag. Its hard to tell one from the other, for their heads are covered by their make-shift blankets. I look closer. The “blankets” are layers of random bits of cloth. I haven’t talked to them, other than a brief word or two. They keep to themselves, and also avoid the older men. They pretend to be tough, sitting with with wide-spread legs near the cooking fire, shoulders as broad as possible, spitting onto the path with a confidence belied by their eyes… I remember watching Faiz when he thought he wasn’t being watched. Squatting like a little child, struggling to open the cover of a packet of food. Scrabbling, hesitant fingers. Boys who should still be with their mother. Or playing outside their houses.
Opposite them, across the tracks, another boy bathes using a small plastic bucket. He pours water into the bucket from a weather-beaten iron drum. He is surrounded by rubble, as if this station had been bombed in a war. Behind him is an ancient railway carriage, gone entirely to rust. I see more people arrive at the encampment. A middle-aged, serious faced man walks at the head of the group. On his shoulders is a small, sleepy looking girl. One of her eyes is obscured by a lock of hair. Behind him a woman walks in a white, blue and pink scarf. She is clutching the hand of a girl of perhaps seven or eight, in oversize pants and a sweater fit for someone twice her size.
The struts of the electric lines repeat one after the other into the distance. Likes the sketches my art teacher used to draw in school. To teach us about perspective, and how objects in the distance look smaller than those nearby. My body aches from the long walk. It is hard to keep my eyes open, but I don’t want to head to my torn polythene bedding. The sharp edges of the stony ground push through the thin fabric, keeps me awake. Even when my body becomes accustomed to the hard ground, my mind is like a machine. Running. Running. Like a film. Like it is also a carriage on a track. The past comes into view unstoppable. Full of colour and smell and it is so real I tense so hard I cannot breath. I try to breath-in my bedding for distraction. Dig the lengthening nail on my index finger deep into the skin of my palm.
