The 9:04 Churchgate Slow – A blessing in disguise.

Its about 6:30 in the morning, the sky has sucked only a tip of the sun. It’s this time of the day when the sky equivocates both – the ferocious sun and the calm moon are visible to the human eye. After about an hour the sun will dominate and outshine its colleague. Some birds are chirping amidst the noise of irritated horns of Bombay cars and amidst all this I am sleeping a baby’s sleep, after some late night chatting. Suddenly the very punctual and merciless alarm blows up like a thorn in this paradise. I still in my sleep – eyes closed play a bit of hide-n-seek with the alarm, finally find it, and hit its head to stop the unpleasing music – more habitually then consciously. Oh! I am loving the cozy and comfortable life at the other side of my eyes and then again a wave of horror passes my mind – Hey I have to submit my finance project the day after – still my sleep dominating my senses and I make this decision to get up after 5 minutes and start starting my assignment. So I follow my decision – continue to enjoy sleeping, completely unknown of the danger at the other side of this heavenly sleep - when I get up the sun has dominated the sky and the wall clock has an angry expression of 7:50 on it. The very imbecile me gets up at once rubbing my eyes, take another look at the clock feel like kicking myself, again change my mind turn a bit philosophical give my self a –
“honi ko kaun taal sakta hai” – advice along with a pseudo optimistic thought that there’s one more day left to submit the assignment and then get up to get ready for my college. Getting ready for my college – it’s a package of some 40 minutes – off loading, bathing etc. So I am ready at 8:40, I go to the mirror for one last time, to ask it whether I will get some looks in the college, affirmates and I then depart. I have to go to Borivali from Dahisar to catch the local train to reach vile parle.

At Borivali station it’s about 8:55, I use a railway bridge to reach the platform No.2, from the bridge I look down at the platform. It’s a usual sight a pool full of thousands of people. The indicator at the middle is indicating the arrival of the monstrous 9:04 churchgate slow, ‘9:04 C S (the ‘S’ is incomplete – the poor indicator is sick form past one month).

So here I am stepping downwards to reach the platform – at the threshold of a challenge of a war. Whether I like it or not I have to dive in this pool, searching for some amount place to land my feet. The government says the local trains are the cheapest, fastest and a safe mode of transport. Cheapest and fastest - ‘Yes!’ but there’s an apprehension that tantamount to negation for the safety aspect. Hence I along with 6 million other per day (out of the total population of 16 million) 50% of the whole countries train traveling population travel Bombay’s local trains with this apprehension and negation in their minds.

I walk (struggle) through the platform and find a comfortable place to wait for the train – landing my feet on the land is a comfort. 2 people per sq feet - is a comfort mind you – Definitions Redefined.

It’s about 9:03 train still not arrived and it will depart after 5-10 minutes of arrival. I wonder this peculiarity of local trains, these demons will be precisely named – 9:04, 9:16, 11:23… and not rounded of to 9:05, 9:15…. The reality consistently different. The 9:04 has never in its life time departed at 9:04 but around 9:10 and you don’t need to be an astrologer to guess that it will never in its lifetime depart at 9:05. Oh! We forgive it after all it moves the whole city doesn’t it? A blessing in disguise.

People are waiting eagerly taking their positions for the train to arrive, for the war to fight. Here the 9:04 cries its horn to mark its arrival. When everyone’s alerted, heads turn, eyes excited – excited for a bone bending experience. The 9:04 running on its wheels approaches the battlefield amidst the warriors. It’s not allowed even a bit of rest as it has not yet come to a halt when the warriors jump on board, as if a big piece of gold is kept unattended inside. What follows is a deadly clash between the incoming and the outgoing warriors; I am being mercilessly squeezed and pushed inside where a usual sight follows – the seat are already full before the train comes to a stand still. These are the to-fro commuters, they don’t mind traveling back and then ahead the come from as far as malad and goregaon – to Borivali and in the same train from Borivali to malad – to their destination. Sounds illogical but its worth for a place to sit or stand on their feet as when the train reaches their destination logically it’s a struggle for place even for their figures to enter. So the only place left for the people who follow this logical sequence is to hang on the window clutching the grills, between the bogeys and above the train roofs where they are at a hair line distance form the deadly high voltage electric train wires – a hairlines distance from death.

I fortunately or unfortunately am inside, body parts of other men all around me, my bones begging for mercy, my lungs begging for some place to expand. It’s for this hour of the day that I have my lunch, dinner and the likes.

Now the people inside and out side are getting settled in arguably one of the most uncomfortable place in the world, my body is an obnoxious position anything but straight. Its 9:10 and the train start’s with a jerk and almost every one remembers the almighty – a ritual of hand movements a small prayer that we surrender –
“Ram Bharose” (a bambaya lingo).

I am getting squeezed to new extremes at every halt. 4700 passenger traveling as against the rated capacity of 1700!! It means there are 2 to 3 people who will chal hat you form the place that you think is yours.

According to a letter to the Times of India by G.D.Patwardhan –
“This is a mockery of our status, which lay down precise number for live animals cows, donkey etc. that can be carried in a wagon specified dimension. Any breach of such a rule is an offence punishable under the railways disciplinary action procedures and also under the prevention of cruelty to animals’ legislations. But no such rule and legislation to govern the transportation of human beings”.

Hey please I too am a social animal!

As Suketu Mehta describes in his book about his love affair with the city ‘maximum city’ – “Certainly if you commute into Bombay (trains) you are made aware of the precise temperature of the human body as it curls around you on all sides, adjusting itself to every curve of your own. A lover’s embrace was never so close”. We are at a kissing distance form each other!

I am standing close to the open door to consume a bit of air, which hardly reaches to the people in the middle and worst those who are less that the average height where the air is fetid with sweat and fart.

I am crumpled in a Ist class compartment – the only difference being that of the words, the stripped paints to indicate the same, other petty difference include – smell – Ist class surrounded with a mixture of sweat (more so) and some deodorants in IInd class its sweat with some pathetic hair oil; the fights one of the most entertaining parts of the local trains – fights for what –places obviously, but it’s a eruption of sentiments. These people fed up of their vociferous wives at home and the voluble bosses at work, so these fights are just a process of vindication. But abuses differ according to the classes. In the Ist class there are the sophisticated ones – assholes, the fuck yous and in the IInd class there are the vernacular ones the chutiyas and you know what.

The handles too – overcrowded, hundred of handles sporting thousands of hands. Each one burdened with at least three. When I make an attempt to look at the sky outside the train I can only see these hands. Poor commuters appear like innocent children punished ‘hands up’ by their teachers with both our hands up (on the hands up punishment is just a euphemism). I look at these hands – some with formal office going sleeves and some bare hands; some office going formal watches, some college going funky ones, some watches ahead of time, some on time, some slow – may be to show their bosses or professors their reasons for reporting late.

I look at my watch (which is on time) its 9:35 and I am still near goregaon station, I’ve to reach my college at 10:00. So standing there I do one of the few things I can, I am thinking of an innovative idea – I think of some marketing strategy – to advertise our very own local trains. Hey we can advertise it as a weight loss program, which will give the health clubs a run for their money – and wow! They can use my pictures for the before and after ones – as I was called a fatso in my school days and all that changed after 2 months of continues train traveling (oh! I think of these stupid ones to escape the train pain, the thoughts of project, professors and lectures). Continuing on advertising inside the train it’s a whole advertising hub. We talk of reach and frequency in advertising and the train stand as an appropriate medium on both of them – reaches form upper middle class to the poor class, frequency 2 times a day and at a time when you have no option but to see them. There are wide ranges of products the marketers want to sell the squeezed commuters. There is this underwear ad where the male model in his bare minimum has lipstick marks all over, his body and tells me ‘prepare to get assaulted’ – some commuters had their own view of that ad they drew the only part he tired to cover with a product which promised to cover the same; there are ads of sexual clinics,
clinics for piles (these are for those people who if they are lucky enough to get the seats may not sit), financial products too advertised – they say they’ll give us a loan of Rs. 75000/- within no time, with no hassles, no mortgage, no guarantee…. As you read this you apprehensively think - Why are they so kind to us? Then at that time you see a small asterik mark and then at the lowest corner it describes the mark * with even smaller font i.e. * - Conditions apply. Besides this poster a very passionate lover has inscribed his love with a marker which says ‘Raja Luv Kajal’. Raja wants to make his love public despite of the grammatical mistake. Poor girls’ whose name is kajal and whose parents travel the local train might have a bad time back home. Continuing about lovers – they have a good time in the local train. The kajals’ are convinced to travel the gents compartment (they negate only to affirmate), so that in the guise of saving them from the rush hour they can enjoy the closeness, the touch of the vital parts. Once they get in comfortably she will be completely fortified by him in front and her back supported by the train wall – so that no one except himself would be in touch with her. Mind you Rajas’ will only act as above only when the trains are moderately crowded, he will dare not take her at peak hours – you remember the kissing distance, the ratio of 3 people /sq feet, 3-4, hands / handle.

At this point of time I manage to see outside the moving train between all those sweaty hands only to see another usual sight, I see the back of a man squatting to shit near the railway track – demonstrating the lowest extreme of this city – named as ‘Bumbay’ in a film about shitting in the city by ad film maker Prahlad Kakkar who says – “Half the population don’t have a toilet so they shit outside. That’s million people, if they shit half a kilo each day that is 2 and half kilos of shit each and every day. The real story is what you don’t see in the film. There are no shots of women shitting. They shit between 2-5 in the morning, because it’s the only time they get privacy and many of these people shit near the railway tracks as they are comparatively less crowded. A sorry state for the people of this city which contributes maximum to the treasuries of the whole country – The Financial Capital of India. Continuing on the unfavorable usuals a darker one. The ‘Lifeline’ of Bombay means quite the opposite – the ‘Death line’ for 3500 people per year. Averages of 10 passengers a day are killed in grisly train accidents. The families of these people think they are in the office following their daily routine but they are at the other side of life and their and their corpses remain on the platform for 2-4 hours. While the police say it’s the railways job to transport the bodies to hospitals or morgue and the railway claims vice-versa. I myself see about 2 accidents a week many lying on the platform helpless. Dead bodies treated as nobodies. The people who are supposed to act delay that amounts to denial and others are so busy, entangled to their routines they act as if nothing new happened (including me) of course there are some exceptions - people like Bhavesh Patel – heads the Manavta Railway Accident Response Center, a new 24 hours hotline, Mr. Prakash Nathvani – who provides free shrouds for those killed by train accident. The reason for these deaths – lack of space coupled with ignorance and dare devil acts – lack of space in the bridges and platform resulting in death due to track crossing, lack of space inside trains resulting in pole collision and lack of place in the city results in people living at deadly distances near the railway track; so close that they can roll out of their beds (whatever) to their death beds.

So the ‘life taking’ line for 3500 (per year) is a bone squeezing life line for the rest of us. But we accept it the way it is (or do we have a choice) much like the Laxman’s Common Man and god forbid we try to enjoy the dissonance. There are all type of people around you, adjusting their curves to fit yours, there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, the laborers, the managers, the stock brokers, the students… people form all walks of life – the very cosmopolitan local trains and you dare not discriminate. They say it’s a symbol of unity and cohesiveness. We talk, argue, sing, play, we make friends. Bombay is the only place where we have this unique species of friends along with school friends, college friends etc. we have the train friends – called as ‘mere 8:03 ke friends’, ‘mere 9:04 ke friends’. They are our daily companions they catch the same train, same wagon, and same door everyday and are literally our closest friends. These groups are small when the train strarts but snowball as the train moves from station to station. The group welcomes their partners shouting from inside “Aao Vipul Bhai Aao” and Vipul Bhai manages to reach his group mates. When he gets in they make place for him on their laps, crack some double meaning jokes, talk about what happened the last day and night; each statement with a minimum of 3 abuses, they share their breakfast. Someone has bought hot samosas on their way to station; some one has bought Aloopuri from home, some of them entitled to bring big bottles of cold water which passes from hand to hand diminishing by a sip or two with each pass.

The local train is a hub of news, speculation, rumors and abuses. The topics – almost everything under the sun – form TV serials to office politics, form stock markets to cricket matches – I’ve seen people literally fist fight on the ‘Ganguly’ issue. Then there are some products sold inside the train – the hoodwink speeches of these salesmen too interesting, I’ve heard women chop vegetables for dinner that night and the fight I’ve heard are more interesting in the women’s compartment. People sing devotional bhajans, filmi songs with background music, play cards, listen to music from their new multimedia cell phone these days. They’ll tease the people standing in the station while passing the same. All this to make the journey bearable for the people who sit and diverting for those standing.

The interaction among these people makes some interesting and entertaining observation. There are some illogical insipid ones and some interesting and racy comments. One such indulgent comment that has flagged my mind – a perfect example of black humor. I was returning home in Borivali fast – a fat 30s man got in at goregaon struggled near the seats couldn’t get one and stood near by and started talking about trains i.e. about the rush. Sounded a delhiite by accent, very chirpy, managed to get a seat at malad. Had made some friends around. Still continuing on the hectic life Bombay – one of them was telling the fatso the sob story about the war that we fight in the morning to catch the train as he continued “Charon taraf se Dhaka……” bisecting his statement this delhiite while cleaning his glasses made a tantalizing statement – “Raat ko bed mein Dhaka kam marenge to idhar (train) bhi kam Dhaka lagega” at the start I dismissed this one as another insipid statement that you hear around but then the profoundness of the statement struck me (read it again), the economic dimension , the social dimension spiced up with the play of words – indicating population control. (I thought of translating this one in English – oh! Forget it the pun, the spice will be missing).

Back to present – I’ve passed Andheri and I do this routine – I ask “Parle, Parle” so that the people standing in front of me make place for me to get down. I wait for some time and there it is, its Vile Parle and again the collision between the incoming and outgoing ones; oh I land safely and I turn my head towards right. What I see near the ladies compartment; I know this girl she is one of my friends, girlfriend. Oh! She was looking awesome. I try to recollect her name but in vain. I think we can go together till college in the rickshaw. So still at the platform I try to see myself in the glass at the railway stall where at the other side of this glass a man is frying some sweaty samosas. I find myself and somewhat mend my messy hair (pun unintentional) simultaneously thinking how to strike a conversation for that small ride. Again I turn my head right only to find she has left the platform. I stand there feeling stupid. People running all around me. I feel like kicking myself for the second time in the morning. Back to reality I check my watch its 5 minutes to 10. I have to reach in 5 minutes now. So I run up the bridge to get down and catch a rick – ‘alone’. I manage to get one, continuously advising him to accelerate to reach on time for the International Finance lecture to be physically present and consume virtual sleeping pills made up of US$ and Japanese Yen.

Now its exactly 10 and I am walking towards the entrance gate the guard is about to latch the gate clutches to close it on my nose; Oh! He does it again and has a cunning smile on his face. I plead, he says ok have a talk with the coordinator. I give it a thought and decide otherwise. As I’ve already missed many a morning lectures that she’s aware about and she’ll be mad at my first sight.

I take an about turn and my legs take me straight to the canteen bench – I am about to order a cup of refreshing tea and something to eat – may be sandwich to pacify my hunger after that usual dreadful ride. Again I change my mind on time as I see 4 of my classmates – latemates who join me and I dare not order anything because they are as hungry as I am. I settle for a cup of tea, we all do. Sipping the tea we start chatting, unanimously so we all are happy that we missed the torturous lecture and gave jargons a happy miss- A blessing in disguise – as we all have unspoken expression of disguise beneath the artificial bliss. The fat professor will go mad at us the next time we sit in his class he may cut our marks big time, may refer us to the principal etc. etc.

We all go mute for a minute – may be we all are optimistic (at least I am) thinking that we will be regular from now on with lectures, with assignments and with the trains. A blessing in disguise, A ray of hope in disguise – hope that tomorrow will be better; trains will be on time, I’ll receive kam dhaka; hope that people who are supposed to act, do that effectively and channelize their strength to make the ride bearable for the people of this maximum city, the Financial Capital is respected as one and people at least get to shit in privacy and hope that I meet the girl tomorrow in the same train and by then I’ll find some words for that small little ride.

26th june 06