Today, I met a woman at a train station. We were standing together on the platform.

We exchanged smiles, and I went back to reading something on my phone.

When I looked up a few moments later, she was still looking at me. I smiled again. She smiled back. We looked away.

1.

A short while later, when I looked up, I found her looking at me again. The expression on her face was troubled, embarassed, as if she wanted to say something to me, but couldn't.

"Everything okay?" I asked her in Hindi.

She gave me a pained smile—

2.

—pointed to the train-status board hesitatingly and said, "Can you tell me when the train to Panvel is, please?"

Explaining that the incoming one was to Churchgate, I helped her find the train she wanted using an app.

She nodded enthusiastically.

3.

Then, I added nonchalantly, "You should download this app (M-indicator). It is very helpful."

She nodded.

"Tells you what station to take, from what platform, has a live chat as well."

She smiled, nodded again.

We fell back into silence.

4.

A minute later, she told me softly, "I cannot read. And all of this is in English." Having said that, she looked around us, sweeping the station with her eyes before landing on my face again. I followed in her—moving from board to unreadable board—seeing as she must see them.

5.

Strange shapes, undecipherable symbols. She knew 'S' stood for slow train, 'F' for fast, what the numbers meant, and had learnt that the 'P' corresponded to Panvel.

'S', 'F', and 'P' were symbols to her, indicators. But not letters in the way you and I see them.

6.

We got talking and I learnt that she had lost her husband of eight years a month back in a construction site accident. While he was alive she rarely moved out of home, rarely found herself staring at boards and letters she cannot read.

Now, things were different.

7.

Could she read another language? Could she learn now? Why hadn't she received even a basic education? Why hadn't her husband taught her? Why was she embarassed.

I had many questions. But I didn't ask. She didn't tell.

8.

My train rolled in, and having explained to her where and when she should board, I bid her farewell.

On my train, I took out my Kindle, began to read. I couldn't. Each word I read yelled out privilege to me.

How easily I had recommended an app to her.

9.

How easily I had assumed.

How easily I had forgotten that education is STILL an ugly privilege in this young, developing country.

How easily I type this in a language, on a platform, she will never read.

10.

Upset? Tweet about it. Send a text. Use language. Any language. That is your voice.

But what about those with no language? What of their voice?

This is something you know. And something I knew. But here's repeating another thing we both know—even THIS is Mumbai, in 2019.

Fin.

If you are still here with me—I am sorry I have nothing profound to say. I wish I could use my words to end this thread with some direction, some reassurance. But I have none. All I have is a strange anger and restlessness that I do not know how to deal with.

Yet.

Thank you all for responding to me with so much heart. This gives me so, so much hope.

I am a little overwhelmed by all the tweets, responses and DMs. I will try to reply to as many as possible.

Thank you. Thank you.