Waiting at the train station in Tiruchirapalli, otherwise known as Trichy, as even the locals can’t pronounce it… Waiting for the train to return to Chennai after 2 weeks at a Catholic Ashram in rural south India, our pilgrimage group sought dry seats along the quai. The unpleasant end of the spectrum of smells of urban India surrounded us. Staring off into the distance from my perch on the circular bench, my eyes lit on a line of teen age girls dressed in matching blue shalwar kamiz
outfits. Preceded and followed by a middle-aged woman, each had her right arm on the shoulder of the girl in front of her. They walked slowly past us. Their very pale white skin and the visible consequences of their vision impairment made them stand out from the usual crowd of very dark skinned predominantly ethnic Dravidian families and individuals waiting to get on the second class trains. (I’ve been told that only politicians and their entourages can purchase first class tickets in India)
“Blind! What a blessing!” laughed my fellow American pilgrim. “Albino, but blind so they can’t see anyone staring at them!”