This loosely bound, stream-of-conscious book is typewritten on strips of newsprint after I could find no mention in the media of a death that occurred yards away from me at an Indian railway junction. Minutes later, the next train would come and go, precisely on schedule, over the same spot where a man had just been killed.

A week later, another body was seen, draped with cloth, a few kilometers away along the same stretch of track.

Digging further into fatality statistics on Indian railways, my research provided no clear answers. Three news sources reported wildly different figures: ranging from more than 25,000 fatalities per year – to 254 – to one claiming a 94% reduction with only 37 deaths by the latest annual figures. These figures were clearly influenced by political and public persuasion interests, making it impossible to find a dependable source of truth.

As I sat in shock while a crowd huddled curiously around the body, I was told that in this land of more than 130 crore people, “life is not sacred.”

This book is both an unwinding and a rebellion against that sentiment.