The Coin Collector

I can't stop staring at his vest: A sleeveless sweater the color of burnt caramel flecked with gold tinsel threads. It looks cheap and flammable and hangs from his body loosely. "I'm Raj," he says and extends a brown hand with unkempt fingernails across my vegetarian thali. A thin wrist protrudes from his shirt cuff. "Do you like Gorakphur?" he asks, his mouth full of boiled egg and rice. "Yes," I say and the answer pleases him. "Me? I love Gorakphur. I am a doctor here," and I wonder if he means medicine, but I don't ask. Everyone I meet in India is a doctor.

My train is six hours late. There are no benches on the platform to wait for it, so I sit in the cafeteria. The room is small, lit by the pulsating yellow glow of overhead fluorescent lamps. The smell of stale curry on the breath of travelers fills the air with a noxious perfume. Although I am inside, there is no relief from noise. Through two black windows the mournful bleating of car horns drifts into the station, carried on the back of a cool winter breeze. Tinny cellphone speakers play Bollywood love ballads and the hushed voices of hundreds buzz at an incessant fever pitch.

A group of men sits at a table in front of me drinking chai. Their faces are dark and creased with age lines, their fingernails stained from years of smoking clove cigarettes. They stare at me - eyes ringed blue with age - but do not smile.

"Where are you from?" Raj asks. A drop of curry dangles from his glossy mustache. "America," I say. From my seat, I watch an old woman clumsily lower herself onto the tracks. She crouches on the metal plates - a flat-footed squat – and pushes the billows of her gray shift aside. A stream of liquid trickles onto the tracks. I turn away, embarrassed to witness it.

"I collect coins," Raj says tentatively, and a tacit question hangs between us. I nod, and reach into my wallet. I grab a handful of quarters and dimes, and stretch my palm towards him, "Here, take these." He smiles and in his enthusiasm to take the coins, the hard-boiled egg balanced precariously on his metal spoon, belly-dives into his curry. The red liquid splashes onto his vest staining the tinsel threads bronze. His embarrassment is palpable and he quickly dabs at the vest with skinny fingers. "It's OK," I say, stifling a giggle. "Thank you, thank you," he says, bowing his head. "Nice to meet you," and he rushes out of the cafeteria, leaving his half-eaten meal on the table.

In the wake of Raj's departure, a man appears in front of me. "Ma'am," he says, his English heavily accented, "Ma'am be very careful. You cannot trust people here." He misunderstands the exchange he just witnessed, or maybe I do. And though it's unwarranted, his concern is comforting, welcome. "Thank you," I say, smiling.