Having lived three-quarters of my life in Ambala in the railway colony, I had come to consensus with the crude realities of life. I would pass the railway station daily in order to enter the main town area which housed all the schools, markets, church, temples, tuition centres etc. Initially, I used to cross the tracks on foot and later on the bicycle. Nevertheless, what remained the same, untouched and unchanged, was the state of the people who slept, ate, drank, bathed and lived near the tracks. I would see the faces daily; sane people become insane; children earn money much before I was given pocket money. I saw them convince people to give them money way before I learnt to speak correctly, and then survive with one piece of cloth all round the year when the many I had were insufficient for me. Such was the condition of thousands who flocked the railway station every year. I would pity them, yes, I would. I would sympathise with them, but I knew not how I could empathise. I thought I would do a lot for all the people, who I reckoned did not merit the life they were living, but just did not know how. The possibility seemed bleak. I wondered if life is such. Turmoil would rise within me. Is there no way, I would think. These things would not leave me.
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