False Start I - Mumbai Local

When you first move to Bombay and start making use of the suburban railways on a regular basis, a few things strike you the most, and I am not talking about the most obvious ones here. Sure, they are extremely over-crowded, carrying just way too many passengers, a number that is significantly more than what can be called a humanely acceptable limit, especially during the peak hours when the famous English language phrase "packed like a can of sardines" fails spectacularly - of course, exactly when that particular expression became de facto in our country I can't quite pinpoint, but that is not the point here - and neither is the fact that I hate fish, their odour being, I suspect, one of the primary reasons why I don't consume them. Yes, the odour of fish – that is one of the first things that strikes you about the local trains in the financial capital of our country, our dearly beloved country that tries ever so hard to maintain its territorial integrity even though the similarity to a poor imitation of a Kookaburra or a Duke's match ball that is bursting at the seams and has been doing so for the past sixty-odd years cannot possibly be overlooked. But more on that later, I hope.

What was I saying again? Ah yes, the trains. If you've gotten used to the stink of the marine creatures, you have been initiated - and this means you are experienced enough, which in turn means that you have most probably travelled in off-peak hours which is when you get to see the next striking feature: people hanging out of and blocking the doorway. That's not strange, you say – they are there because the trains are packed, right? Wrong. That's why you need to get into the habit of reading carefully instead of just sifting through the pages. I specifically mentioned off-peak hours for a reason – and that reason being the fact that during the off-peak hours, there is usually enough space to stand comfortably while resting your back against metal, and at times even to sit down. And yet, you'll notice, there are people hanging out – which is when you realize that the people who are so used to the lack of fresh air to breathe in want to risk their lives and limbs and are prepared to dangle themselves precariously off the footboard just to inhale and stock up on as much oxygen as their lungs will permit them to.

And then, there are those freaking nagging habits of your annoying co-passengers that keep drawing your attention towards their idiosyncracies. Like, if you enjoy your peanuts that much, why don't you hold a few in your hand and lift your hand full of peanuts closer to your mouth? Does flicking those nuts one at a time (four in a row at the most, before a pregnant pause – yeah, your mouth's suddenly too small for five of them plus all that air no?) using your fingers that are strategically positioned next to your, uh, nuts somehow give you the feeling that you are shooting from your hip? And don't you have anything better to do than to eat while in the middle of a gazillion sweaty men? And in the same breath, how do you manage to read a newspaper or a magazine in that non-existent space? Or, for that matter, how do you talk on your cellphone or listen to your iPod when you are one of twenty-odd men in that square meter area (that's not some random statistic by the way – that's a figure which is often quoted in newspapers and not just those of the tabloid persuasion)? I mean, seriously, it might drop out of your pocket or be stolen just as easily as some guy, desperate for the touch of another human, reaches his hand out underneath and gropes your rear – or worse, front – in spite of him not being sexually oriented that way? And for crying out loud, stop sniffing your own damn sleeve – it's frigging irritating, stop it before I ––

"Utarne ka hai?"

Ah, dear contempt for humanity – once again, you've got me through yet another uneventful, mundane commute back home after a dog-tiring day at the office without me having to rely on any alternative form of amusement. In crowded areas, gadgets get stolen and gents get grabbed, I kid you not. Anyway, the passengers behind me have started off with their ritualistic chant - the "tsk, tsk, tsk" sound that you are bound to hear anytime a major (or, for that matter, any) station is about to be entered. Yes, fellow daily commuters, strike three – normally, and by normal I mean according to the Americanized popular culture that dictates our urban lifestyle, I would be out of here (three strikes and you’re out, I mean come on! It’s really not that hard to figure out if you, you know, just try). Fortunately for me, this is not America; unfortunately for me, this is not my station either, so while I brace myself, you take a minute or so off - and in the meantime, think up a menacing storm over an enormous wave coming in from the ocean. But instead of water droplets falling from the sky, imagine – people. And instead of water constituting the wave as well as the ocean, imagine, well, people. Come on, it's not that difficult – let your imagination run wild, although I must confess that it's much easier for me to picturize that kind of weird crap, especially from where I am right now.

Moving on, the next striking thing. If you allow the train to grind to a complete halt before you alight, you are a wuss, height, weight, age, gender regardless (although if you are of a certain gender, getting a nail job done might come in, how should I put this, well – "handy"). At any point of time after your initiation, you are supposed to jump off the train while it is still significantly in motion – the only exceptions being the presence of a major physical condition or if you were not standing in front of the doorway. Alighting the compartment is the trigger that sets off a chain of events that, like a treasure hunt, needs to be negotiated in the proper sequence. But more importantly, it is a bonsai version of the race that all us rats are automatically – simply by virtue of being in this city, unless of course you call it (or one of its suburbs) home in which case you are eligible for pardon  – taking part in.

So in the morning while on your way to your workplace, if you are not hanging out, you don't get to jump out, don't get to run up the foot overbridge and then down it, don't get to take the first bus or share taxi to work, reach office a bit late on account of which you have to work extra, except that this keeps happening on a daily basis so you get fired and are now worried sick about finding a new job since you have a Himalayan debt on your shoulders which is why you hide the fact that you have been fired from your domestic partner who, thus, notices nothing different but the fact that you are getting home later every single day, because of which she suspects you of having an affair and eventually walks out on you, except that it's her place so she makes you walk the plank, rendering you homeless.

And before you know it, you are without a job, a partner and a home. The only option now is to get on that train one last time, hang out and at the strategic moment when your train is passing over the longest bridge over a really deep water body (in case you don't know how to swim) or when there is a fast local approaching at full speed on the next track (in case you know how to), let go. Of course, all this could have been avoided – your life could have been spared by none other than you, if only you had conformed. Oh wait, you are still here. And here comes my station – well, I'm off now; need to leap off and rush off into the foot underbridge (this is New Bombay – most of the bridges go down under and then come back up). You, go think about what I have said, see if you are willing to conform – else, get out of this city, or be prepared to risk all that you've got.