I was on an overnight train to Dharamsala in March when I took this photo. I was up with the sun after a bumpy few hours of sleep in a rickety bunker. To me, there’s not much better than a fresh newspaper in the morning, so I was pleased when the train slowed, pulling into a small station in the state of Punjab, which is known for lush farming fields and a sprawling, green landscape.

In India, there are 14 official languages and dozens more spoken. And that’s just what they can count. In a nation that’s nearly impossible to capture a census, its one billion citizens make it the second most populous nation in the world. The people’s hunger for information and news has propelled the newspaper industry enormously, producing more papers than conceivably possible in the States.

I took this photo of the colorful top folds, ready to be picked apart, devoured, absorbed and thrown to waste where someone else would surely find use for it. I pulled out a handful of rupees and bought three. As soon as I did the train started moving. Turning away from the faces on the platform, I leapt back on, propped the door open and watched as the train picked up speed. For one beautiful hour, I watched villages of people wake up to the sun.

My apartment building is not the tallest but at eight stories I have a birds eye view of this low-lying city. From the roof I can see the tops of mature trees, St. Matthews Cathedral and athletes cycling in the YMCA. I look around at the sky as a skeptic, taking notice of the planes flying overhead. Often I’ll see the sets of helicopters, maybe police choppers canvassing for criminals…or a stealth trio transporting the President. Either way, I consider a provocative thought: I am in a war zone.