train ride

The thing about travelling by train in Mumbai is, well, it can be a nightmare, something straight out of a comedy, your ticket to the ride of your life, or simply the most unexpected thing ever. I would know. I've been doing it for years. You meet all kinds of people, for one, if you're lucky enough to be inside the compartment. I've rarely been that lucky.

Getting into a train at Malad (which is where I live) at rush hour, for instance, is something that would leave most out-of-towners open-mouthed. You wait for a train. It arrives, chock full of humanity, with men hanging out the doors, straddling the windows, balancing on their toes in nooks and crannies, holding the shirts and trousers of other men. You swallow, and decide to take the next one. This happens eleven times.

Then, when you know you're so late that any further delay could jeopardise your job, you take the plunge. Literally. You clutch your bag tightly -- if you're stupid enough to be carrying a bag to begin with (I'm consistently stupid) -- and jump into the seething mass at the nearest door. The sign above it reads 'First Class', which is a bit of a private joke between the guys who run the railways and the guys who travel by it.

You fail to find a toehold, so you jump again. And again. And, dear sweet Lord, again. Just when the train threatens to leave, you look around desperately. The windows are taken, so you head for the space between compartments. Yes, in between. There's a slim ladder attached, which you think ought to do. So, you reach out for it, step into space, and hang on for dear life. Only to realise, then, that seven other men have had the same idea. They climb above you, their feet probing the rungs above your arms. Some of them reach the roof of the train and promptly lie back to stare at the sky between the electrified cables. The train moves. As it picks up speed, the compartment in front goes up. Your hands move up. The compartment against your back goes down. For onlookers, it looks as if you're riding a horse. For you, God is suddenly an entity you need to invoke repeatedly.

Newspaper clippings come to mind. Of men who have reached out to steady themselves -- while the train moves at 130 miles per hour – only to find the cables and electrocute themselves, turning black in 29 seconds and causing the train to be 35 minutes late. Other clippings, of people slipping, banging into poles alongside the tracks, or letting go and flying by in a whirl of blue or orange clothing to land in a spurt of blood red on the tracks. You decide this really isn’t the time for newspaper clippings.

The train moves faster, and faster. You hang on for dear life, hoping the ladder can sustain the weight of seven full-grown men. The six guys don't seem to care. When their station arrives, they step off, nonchalantly, their feet over your head, jumping over space onto the platform to your right. 45 minutes later, as Dadar station approaches, you decide it may be safe to try and get to the platform now, as the inside of the train ought to be a little emptier. Looking around for a cop who may decide to fine you – “saala, apne aap ko Govinda samajtha hai kya?" (“you're supposed to travel inside the train, idiot”) -- you step off, rush for nearest door, manage to get four toes of either feet inside, and start shivering.

Four toes. Halleluiah. You discover muscles you didn't know existed, as each of them begins to scream in alphabetical order -- biceps, pectorals, triceps. Then, Churchgate. 55 minutes after you first hung on for dear life. You can barely stand. But at least you have arrived. And in once piece too. All around you, in front and behind, people disembark. Hundreds of people. All pouring out like water from a broken cup.

A man steps out the door you have just exited from. He looks at you, reaches out his hand and says, "You are the bravest man I have ever seen." You smile at him, shaking his hand half-heartedly, thinking all the while, "Couldn't you offer me a seat, you son of a bitch?"