“But Madam, don’t take the ‘ladies’ compartment. Travel safely with the men.” My eyebrows arched out of my face, like in a comic strip. The mobile tea vendor, with his huge stainless-steel can, had to be joking. The train was sliding in menacing, python-like, and I had no intention of doing a Merlene Ottey to the other end of the platform.
“So crowded madam, no place for you, no place for fresh air” (pronouncing the “fresh” with a “p”) he warned me again as I sprouted grey hair, afraid I’d have to spend the night at Igatpuri station. “I will sit on the floor,” I thought bravely. Soon, very soon I found, to my amusement and consternation, there was no floor. Just bundles of vegetables, stacks of firewood, and hay, feet, and more feet.
Just like there wasn’t any door, but expressions that snarled and dared me to climb aboard. The chikki vendors swung on first, grabbed my hand and dragged me in. If only prospective husbands saw me now, I’d be alone and single for life, I thought. Then giving in to gravity, I placed my foot down, on what I hoped was floor, heard a shriek followed very quickly and loudly by a string of colourful abuse that I memorized for future encounters with bad drivers. I turned to apologize again for the 62nd time to the hapless soul – who at about 200 decibels did not sound so hapless at all and would certainly get a part in Scream 4.
Then as the train took off, stepping with the skill of a ballerina I made my way into the deep of the compartment, surviving two elbow digs deep in my ribs that would make a rugby forward proud, one strong shove at my haversack, two tumbles into firewood and five women sitting on the floor. I was alive, and I suspect it was because I apologized so many times in 10 minutes. I haven’t ever done that. Not even when I dropped tea in my boss’ lap.
As I hopelessly looked for a seat (ha!) I wondered why they called it the “ladies” compartment, and I mean “ladies” as the dictionary defines it, not women – a question I did not figure right till I dragged my bedraggled self out at Dadar Station. If I got any answers, they were “Who says woman are the weaker sex?” and “Judo is for men. Women have a better weapon: sharp tongues.”
And I was getting a taste of their acidity as the chikki vendors, 18-year-old boys, helped me rock-climb to the upper berth which, of course, isn’t a berth but a luggage rack. And already occupied, by three women who were clearly not happy to see me.
The chikki boys took my haversack while I stuck one foot onto the lower berth and hauled almost myself into the upper one, only to be received by angry stares that I swear would’ve turned me to ashes had I not meekly climbed down again. I’m sure it gave the chikki boys entertainment close to that of a Hindi movie; they laughed. How they managed to get into a ladies compartment and this one too, I’ll never know. But they helped me up again, and I found a quarter of my little butt against a sack of what seemed like potatoes, while the other three-quarters wondered how it would feel if it shifted an inch and made contact with the ground. As the train rocked I lodged my foot against the metal bar, ensuring I didn’t lose my balance and land squarely in somebody’s unwelcoming lap.
My efforts to stay wedged were not wasted. I bumped my head against the roof, and then in an attempt to get vaguely comfortable dangled my feet – into somebody’s face in the lower berth, and was greeted by another verbal diatribe that helped expand my dictionary of choice abuse.
“Take off sandals,” the chikki boys advised. “And put them where?” I asked innocently. “There isn’t enough place for me.” Soon I’d stuck them between the protective mesh of the small ceiling fan and the ceiling. One on each side. Meaning to thank the chikki boys again I called out “bhai sahib,” which means “brother,” to which they looked very disappointed. “Thank you!” I yelled over the din. “Tank you. Tank you,” they called back instead of “welcome”. And I gladly accepted their bad grammar with their warmth.
Once settled, or at least in the illusion of it, I managed a head count of 28 people – 28 women in a space for about 14. Six kids aged between 5 and 8, and three babies. One of whom had the stamina to cry for four hours, not even taking a break at stations when the train did and who, I’m sure, will be an opera singer when she grows up.
The lady opposite stared at me unabashedly, unblinking, looked me up and down from my short hair to my jeans, then inquired about my destination. “Are you travelling alone? Are you with a group? Your parents?” She did not think I was too old to be without them. “Where are you going back from?” she asked, not in the least hesitant to make small talk. I was afraid I would soon be revealing details of my bank account and past list of boyfriends. “Meditation workshop,” I told her, and while her baby chuckled at me she puzzled over my answer, quite sure in her mind that only old ladies meditated and chanted while grumbling at their daughters-in-law.
Meanwhile, a family below, that had defied all laws on population control, had made a makeshift cradle from a sheet, and one of a pair of twins was being rocked in it. After about a half hour, twin one was replaced by twin two. This went on till the end of the journey, except for once when twin one, on being hauled out, began to bawl and got extra time. A good strategy, I thought. And learned early in life too. This one would make a good politician.
Down below, at my right sat a bunch of grandmothers who broke into bhajans – religious songs – in Marathi, the local language, singing fervently to Lord Vithal. An eight-year-old boy sat next to his grandmother and sang. Soon tiring of the singing he dozed off to sleep. Grandmother noticed. Without the slightest pause in her singing, her expression as pious and devout as ever, she whacked him with the back of her palm, clear and bright out of his reverie. He sat upright instantly, eyes half-shut, and muttered along: “Vithal Vithal Jai Hari Vithal.”
1
2
Sandals & Curses »
