What happened to you?
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* Sumedha Arya

I reek of salt water: the breath of the Indian Ocean lingers on my tanned skin and sweat trickles down my back, my legs, my nose. A bony elbow juts into my ribs and a stranger’s hand rests familiarly on my shoulder while another calloused hand overlaps my own on a sticky, metallic surface: an ordinary train pole suddenly transformed into a quasi-artistic exhibit of palms and digits, a tenuous resting place for desperate hands and reaching fingers, many settling atop one another. To think that a sudden jolt would cause me to lose my balance is absurd; I cannot move. I clutch the pole, an anchor in a sea of bodies, salt water, sweat.

Miraculously, inexplicably, each stop brings more evening commuters. *They can’t possibly get on.* But they do. Every inhalation is laborious, the breath knocked out of my lungs as people vie for precious space, pushing against my chest, stomping on my feet. I close my eyes, but this only amplifies the impression of making physical contact with a dozen pulsating bodies at once.

Deep breaths. I count each inhalation: *One. Two. Three.* I count the barely illuminated stops as they go by: *One. Two. Three.* The pattern of letters, once so foreign, are now familiar: Wawasalla, Enderamulla, Horape.

It is the summer of 2014. I am on the Colombo Commuter en route from Colombo, the largest city in Sri Lanka, to Ragama, where a classmate and I are conducting a research project focused on mental health at the Rheumatology and Rehabilitation Hospital. In the month I’ve been here, I’ve learned that the train is where I can feel foreign, but also as if I belong; it is where the curious nudge and stare and where the bold interrogate (*Where were you born?*), but it is also where, at times like this, we are all homogenous ― fleshy, tired, en route.

*We are animals in a crate*, I think to myself. *No pretense. No sophistication. Nothing pretty about it. We are nothing but skin and hands and sweat.* The times I have felt most aware of my body, of my physical presence, have been instances such as this, tinged with an air of desperation and an obsession with the space I occupy.

It is these chaotic journeys that I later find myself reflecting on in our rented, air-conditioned apartment. Yes, I think of the hospital wards I visit and the local classes I attend, yet the faces that commit themselves to memory with the greatest fidelity are those that I carefully scrutinize through a compilation of furtive glances cast along densely packed aisles.

Indirectly, I learned the word “vitiligo” on the train. Patchy faces and hands; unexpected, almost shocking spots of white skin. Having never seen depigmentation characteristic of vitiligo before, I went home and googled my observations. Vitiligo. It was a new word added to my medical vocabulary ― an easily attained, simple answer. The definition brought me relief.

Not all answers have been so easy.

There was a young man speech-making in uninterrupted Sinhalese and, at first, I believed him to be a vendor executing a carefully rehearsed script. Hopefully craning my neck over other passengers’ heads to peek at his wares, I saw that he was not carrying chilled pineapple slices after all: in the place of imagined snacks was a flimsy paper, opaque in some areas and completely translucent in others. Perplexed, I stole another glance and was startled: *it was an X-ray*. He approached my part of the train, jingling a paper cup, presenting his medical image, willing passengers to bear witness to proof of his injury. It was the first time I noticed his limp. *What happened to you?*

![Figure1](http://www.cmaj.ca/https://www.cmaj.ca/content/cmaj/187/14/1080/F1.medium.gif)

[Figure1](http://www.cmaj.ca/content/187/14/1080/F1)

Image courtesy of Julia Naves

Another trip, another journey, and I felt repulsed by an unexpected, weak grip around my ankle. I looked down to see a one-legged older man, missing a few fingers, dragging himself across the dirty train floor with his functional digits. He slowly waded through feet, his torso reaching other passengers’ knees. He was invisible until you heard his low-pitched pleading, felt his unexpected touch on your ankle, heard the familiar jingling cup. My shock gave way to extreme shame at my initial reaction: the cringe at his aged hand clasping my ankle, my withdrawal. *What happened to you?*

Then there were the scarred faces, unexplained lacerations, stiff movements. Excoriations, scratches, rashes. The lists go on. *What happened to you?*

During these crammed journeys, I wonder about my fellow passengers; I wonder what ails them, but more than that I wonder about their own journeys. *What happened to you? Where are you going*? *What do you do*? I don’t understand the language, the subtle gestures, the written signs. I am living in a mystery, surrounded by a thousand individual journeys converging into one, lives thrown unceremoniously into a crowded compartment, paths unknown joining in a strange, physical intimacy. An X-ray of a man’s injury, an ancient hand clasping for ankles, a stranger’s calloused palm on a shoulder, a dozen sweaty bodies against my skin. In unfamiliar territory, I’m closer to some humans than I have ever been, yet without knowledge of their lives. *What happened to you? How do I understand? What can I do?*

I wonder, I anguish, I question ― at the end of the day, I try and accept.

Accept that, for a while, we have this journey in common ― difficult, necessary, shared.

Accept that, for a moment, there we are: bodies sticky with sweat, animal, human, healthy, unhealthy, converging, diverging, hurtling through dark countryside, wading through viscous time.

Temporarily, there we are.