It was a journey like no other. I anticipated the endurance of the journey with the stories recited the night before by my cousins and they never gave an opportunity for me to feel any better.
It was going to be the first day I traveled by the local trains in Bombay and I was petrified with what they had told me. I was only 13 years and was travelling with my father. He was to go from Andheri to Churchgate for official work and I had brilliantly insisted on accompanying him. The relations that I had revered; were questioned when they told me of the nasty travel experiences they had and how the train is a place for rogues and ruffians. How they push people around and do not care of the passenger next to them.
My cousins took the chance to scare the jeepers out of me as we did not reside in India then. We would come only for a brief period of time and were here on the holidays when the schools would close for Christmas. The sinister nature of their prank had me want to back out of the journey but for some unknown reason, I pursued it with a knot in my throat.
My father had anticipated the fear I would have with the maiden voyage in the trains of Bombay. We were travelling in the rush hour at 930 am and he bought first class tickets to avoid the hassles I would face in the second class compartment ( I was a pampered brat back then).
We did not take much time at the queue as there was a separate line for the first class ticket. We were in and out of the ticket counter in about 5-6 minutes. My dad then ushered me onto the platform and we waited for the train to arrive which again did not take long as it was the peak period and there were trains coming into the platform every 6-8 minutes.
I remember we didnt board the first train as I was frozen to the ground when I saw the flood of people getting out of and in to the train. It was as though there was a riot behind the people who wanted to get out and of the people who wanted to go in. In the fight to get to their destinations, we remained stranded outside the train and my father had second thoughts on my boarding the train. As the train started to pull away from the platform, I saw people hanging out of the train and shouting at the people to move inside. I didnt think of it much, except to the extent that if I would have been able to hang out with people pushing me.
I told my father that I was not going to board the train and that he better leave without me. I would be safer to catch a rickshaw home and stay there. He motivated me to board the next train and told me to be in front of him so that he could push me inside. Not sure of the logic but his words gave me strength (for the time being) and I agreed to him.
The train arrived and my time of reckoning was in place. I stood strong and with the guidance of my father I made my way inside the first class compartment. As he carried and pushed me, he was pushed by someone else. I was pushed by atleast a dozen men whose bellies were crushing my face. I was jammed like sardines in a can and there was no place for me to move. I was jammed in between two, three, four, ten, twenty individuals who had an extra belly. The people were shouting and asking to move in. It was a ruckus of sorts.
My father asked me if I was doing well; I would have liked to give him a piece of my mind then. But I gave him a grunt and made a face of sadness and pity. I couldn't breathe with my face between the freddy bellies. It was unbelievable to know that people would have to travel like this everyday. I was in a place being crushed by the bellies and wanted to burst all the bellies next to me or use a towel to cover my face from the sweat and grime that was dripping all around. It was a journey that lasted me a lifetime.
It took about a few stations to pass after which the crowd started to dwindle down and I could catch a breath of hope and life. I signaled to my father that this was not the journey that I had in mind or what was told to me. It was worse than expected. I went on to curse the people for behaving badly and pushing everyone around, while we were still on the train and trying to understand why these people behave the way they do.
My father was silent at all my questions and sarcasms. He silently nodded to me and said, "This is the life in Bombay (now called Mumbai)". I was astounded from what we were used to living and the world of torture on the trains of Bombay.
12 years on, we came to settle down in Mumbai and it turned from a vacation home to our permanent home. Travelling by train is now a routine for me and I now have to listen to my friends who come to Mumbai of how horrible the trains are and how they cannot get into a train without having to push, slide, rub, caress, or shout at a person. And I reply to them, "This is the life of Mumbai."
