The real India

The bus trip from Bangalore to Pundicherry revealed the monotony plot the majority must suffer. For hours at speed the road was fringed with industrial developments and warehouses. Truck stops surrounded by men with motorbikes doing who knows what. Women unseen.

Trash piled up against crumbled concrete walls like snowdrifts after a windy winter night. Brick houses a few feet from the road, painted with advertising to bring in a few extra ruppee. I saw the sad regularity, the drearyness of survival.

This was the real India. The majority which occupied the space between the class polarity of the second largest population in the world. Those living day to day had the relief and excitement of seeing another sunrise, those who were rich could have anything they wanted. However the billion or so people in between had to inhale the fumes of passing trucks, suck in their wake of dust and push on with being nobody.

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