Welcome back.
So I've been an infrequent visitor to the local trains in Bombay until recently, when the 9:35 a.m. from Jogeshwari to Churchgate (by around 10:18, give or take a minute) and I have become something of an item. Anybody can tell that the hour at which my journey takes place must be a bit hectic, considering it's a pretty conventional time for people to travel.
Anybody from Bombay will smile knowingly and assure me that I am in for a melange of sardinism and an extra order of elbow-in-your-facery.
But I've grown to quite like it, in these past couple of weeks. It seems like such a distinct part of my day now, and so different from the rest of my Bombay life, even though it is quite easily considered to be the essence or lifeline of the Mumbai Man.
I say 'Man' here in all seriousness. Ladies, I applaud your efforts of battling each day with your best chappal forward, leaving your worries of being ogled aside and riding the trains of Mumbai through hail and high water, I really do. But let's be honest. Aside from the drastic disparity in the mere population of the two sexes on these trains, the women are also comparatively docile and keen on just about getting along, while perhaps getting their veggies organized on the way home.
The men on the other hand. The men have it different. And before I proceed, let me just say although it is definitely and without a doubt quite bothersome to use these trains during rush hour, it is also quite a thing to marvel at for the amazing amenity and miracle of infrastructure that it is and at no point do I want to take any credit away from that very fact.
And now that I've said that, I can begin my lament.
On second thought, I think I will segue this lamenting business to a sense of appreciation actually.
The local train culture is definitely unique. What will strike any outsider quite soon after the sheer number of people inhabiting these little bogies (cars, train compartments, what-have-you) is the way in which the inhabitants interact. It is nothing short of odd.
Men holding other mens' hands has long been a picture of amusement for the modern citizen. Clutching each others' waists as they walk down a promenade while still somehow exuding a sense of machismo (that few will mistake for bad body odour) is a unique feature of the Indian male and will continue to be a distinct one -- while at no point being anything beyond an allusion to homosexuality because, really, these men are not usually sexually interested in one another.
They simply aren't.
Instead they are interested in developing relationships. Bonds. Strong, intangible, wonderful bonds that indicate a level of friendship that is quite remarkable, really. Their conversations are seldom shallow and mostly always filled with political and social commentary about the life and times of themselves, their sons and daughters and uncles and that one time they managed to get a massive discount on a television because they put a goat up as down payment. And now how they share each others' joys and sorrows, laughter and sadness, laddus and vegetarian patties.
It's all a bit sentimental really.
Something to point out here is that these passengers are also a very boisterous bunch. Make no mistake, their love for one another is evident as the weather is humid. But what will strike you is that these people, who for all intents and purposes are actually strangers to one another, save for the hour a day they spend riding the train together, are astonishingly violent! It's mental!
Like naughty kids in a boarding school playground in the monsoon, their hobbies include inflicting pain on one another and then laughing hysterically about it. All the while making poignant and heated eyes and really savouring the tension those stares create, if only for a few seconds.
And then it comes. The violence.
Each strike, each slap, each shove is masked with an air of brotherhood and affection that will elude your observation up until the moment their eyes light up and their serious grimaces turn into the widest grins of joy and excitement you never knew their minds could contain. Absurd.
Honestly, amidst the contorted stances each individual has the honour of holding while eagerly waiting for someone to leave a seat vacant, one would never guess that these trains are also host to a fraternity like none other. A fraternity so strong and and with such a magical foundation of hardship and life experiences -- it brings these train-journeymen together each day to laugh and occasionally hit, but mainly just support one another.
And it isn't just emotionally, mind you. They seem to love supporting each other physically too.
At least half these men really enjoy pretending to be furniture for hour-long trips.
And then to see them disperse. To disappear almost instantly, as though their lives had never been intertwined. One can't help but speculate and guess at their lives and wonder if they enjoy their jobs and love their families and ever go on holiday or basically do anything that is nearly as much fun to them as the time that they spend in each others' company every day in this wonderful, potpourri-like example of public transport.
--
Another observation I have made which is in a different sort of vein, a vein perhaps not comfortably found in everyone's umm... cardiovascula... okay I think I will drop this metaphor here.
The vein I refer to is the fact that at any point in time, this marvellous symbol of pulmonary infrastructure that Bombay is so proud to own... is also a moving weapon. A weapon capable of claiming dozens, if not millions (I may have my numbers skewed a bit) of lives every day just on the basis of an assumption. An assumption that each and every passenger is of sound mind and possesses regular motor skills and has a positive outlook to the concept of self-preservation. An assumption that at any point, a passenger won't (for reasons unbeknown to us) slip off the edge of the car, or protrude ever so slightly inducing harm to his body the likes of which are either irreparable or if nothing else, regrettable. The likes of which can't possibly be considered a liability by the Indian government because that would be an idiotic liability. Seriously, so many people use these trains! Wait let me go get a statistic.
Bear with me here.
SIX POINT NINE MILLION COMMUTERS DAILY. Whoa.
It may sound morbid, I know. Don't you think that I know? Well, I do. I know.
But there is something very, very ostensibly dark about standing at the edge of the train, holding onto the bar, as you stare at the cityscape sailing by, breeze swooping through sewage and hitting your face with a foul yet fun and familiar smell and your earphones squeeze the life out of a song that you can feel throbbing with the same pace as your heart as you think about your life and everything you've come to be and it is all okay and it is all affirmed when suddenly you realize that it could all end... in an instant.
Like standing on top of a skyscraper, or staring at the blade of a knife or thinking of crossing a National Highway during a particularly great stretch while SUVs are doing close to 200kmph.
I've always imagined what it would be like. Have you?
Splatter.
I suppose this is morbid. I suppose this isn't the choicest topic. But I can't help but think it and I suppose there's no harm in writing about it, because, I mean, this is the stuff that they depict in great films and books and if Bukowski could get so famous writing filth, why can't I?
(Yes, this guy just compared himself to Bukowski. And he also just said that he's about to get famous so maybe you ought to just smile and nod.)
It is an absurd thought though, isn't it? That something so integral to the way of life in Bombay can also be the harbinger of death and deformation? That something so precious and valuable to the citizens of Bombay where people learn to live together and forge meaningful and seemingly intransient relationships with one another can also be the home of immediate carnage if a passenger so saw fit? Or if he felt drowsy, or caught a bit of vertigo, or spent a second too long dwelling on his sorrowful life and then... and then poof.
I suppose that this is as good a point as any to aposiopesis my way out...
Cheerio.
