It was a Sunday afternoon. I walked the scorching streets of Dadar, from the place I live to the station. Behind the dark glares the day seemed to be just like the perfect weather of many Bangalore evenings. And I found myself believing the illusionary vision of the romanticized climate. The streets had few people, I presumed. Today was probably a day for the people to be indoors, a holiday, the heat and the family. Enough reasons already I had stated for the unusual spectacle. The concept of staying home on a holiday rather than going out has ironically been more welcoming than ever to me.
All my reasoning turned out in vain for I saw the scores of unfamiliar faces which was a familiar sight in Mumbai. Still, I didn’t admit to myself that I may have jumped the gun in drawing assumptions; I am pretty good at lying to myself if not others. The moral obligations apart, I still enjoyed the sight of the long queues and the scores of people throwing awkward and stoic glances. I don’t know why I enjoy it. There were people brushing past me with a vengeance for the space I occupied in this scanty city. Someone slapped my ass; I presumed it was the crowd's jostle rather than an intention. I wanted to hold on to the thought that unlike the city I love the most (Delhi), this was the place where there was some respect for woman, or perhaps no time for such despicable acts.
I saw huge lines at the ticket counter. One of the counters was closed, so I justified my stand of “relatively less crowd” with the closed counter hence seemingly more people. But as soon as the counter opened I could not decipher how the milieu changed. More uncountable heads swarmed the counter before I could think of shifting and getting my ticket more quickly. The gentleman behind me was active in abusing everyone cutting the line. The lady in front of me joined in unison for the public service. Two men were noting down a number from a half torn notice before the third counter. “Make Rs. 5000 to Rs. 25000 per monthly doing nothing! Enroll and pay just Rs. 750”; ‘poor suckers!’ I wondered and in same line found myself believing some good in the world-what if the poster was genuine? The woman in front of me smiled after her success in procuring her ticket and the man behind me continued to curse the people who had long gone breaking the line and buying the ticket.
The ladies' special was a brightly coloured compartment. After much deliberation I got into it hoping its not first class, because the penalty for traveling first class without ticket would’ve cost me the entire amount in my wallet. The Marathi threw me off balance when it came to guessing the class, ‘darn regionalism!’ I wondered again. A guy with hair clips came on board at the next station. The clips danced around in his stand like a little girl's new polka-dotted frock. Only it was colourful this time (I always imagined red). The cheap plastic could not pass off for an expensive-looking and cheap buy clip, so I refrained. The woman flocked and got all colours. There was no way to know whether they had paid for the same or not, but I could differentiate from the faces who thought they got a good bargain to the ones who thought they didn’t. The woman (who was in front of me in the line) smiled again with a handful of clips, as I looked on.
Suddenly I was thrown off by the horde that pushed into the next station. A poor old lady barely made it in and a younger woman was screaming at her “tere baap ki train hai jo itna time legi?” There was no remorse for the lack of respect and I sniggered at her curtness. The old lady weakly protested and then sat on the floor of the train, away from the purview of her glare. A child screamed bloody murder as the crowd squished it. He coughed, nearly puked, and cried his eyes out. The only assuring words his mom could give were the station will come soon and they will get off. The thought that came instantly to my mind was I would be able to afford a car and a driver for my child. She looked in my direction and started talking, “he feels disgusted with the crowd, how can one tolerate so much right?” The curt woman looked on with disgust, I smiled sheepishly to her question and the woman before me smiled again. With every smile, there was something she said- “Finally got the ticket”, “this is a good bargain”, “what does she think you can possibly say?” Somehow I felt I was right when I interpreted and I felt there was a friendly face among the unfamiliar.
Everyone fought for every inch and the exit was blocked. I threw a question in the air “Is Kandivali the next station?” “Yes dear”, replied the old lady. “But you are standing at the wrong gate” “Just my luck I thought!” and the smile in front of me reiterated my words. I struggled to get past but people were already having their individual fights to get to the door. My bag almost got whisked away, my clothes on the verge of being ripped, thank god for my tied hair else god knows what would’ve been their plight. I don’t know why I still felt amused, though I let out a desperate “Shit!” The curt woman stepped forward, pushed people and screamed “Can't you see people are trying to get out! Move out of the way!” I looked at her and smiled, “Thank you”, it meant
Getting off, the smile never left me. The local has always amused me for the people in flocks I see. Every smile, every face has a story I can concoct and an after thought that reflects a part of my past, present and future. The crowd never ceases to amuse….
