Train strain

Judging from the flood of comments posted here about my last column (that was self-deprecating irony, by the way, to save you the trouble) it's high time you got another one. Here's Ballocks from a November '05 issue of Time Out Mumbai.

It amazes me how many people are frightened of travelling by train in Mumbai. Usually, I've noticed, they have quite a lot of money. "Oo-ooh," quivered one, when I told her I commuted by train. "What’s it like?" I tried to allay her fears. "Well," I explained, "It’s like a series of wheeled boxes running along metal tracks." Actually, I didn’t say that. Instead I compared it to the London Underground. "It’s exactly the same," I said, "Except the trains work."

By and large, Mumbaikars can be proud of their suburban railway network. The only problem with it, really, is the Mumbaikars. I admit I have no idea what goes on in the ladies’ compartments. I like to think that women just sit there calmly synchronising their menstrual cycles. But if it’s anything like the general compartment then it’ll be a bit like that movie Altered States. In the movie, William Hurt turns into a maniacal proto-human after spending hours and hours in a sensory deprivation tank. In the general compartment, commuters turn into maniacal proto-humans after spending hours and hours with their noses in each other’s armpits. I can think of no other explanation for the behaviour of a man I met on the rush-hour fast to Borivali except, perhaps, that he was drunk out of his mind.

"This is India," he suggested to me, catching my eye through a forest of strap-hanging arms.

I agreed that India was indeed the country that we were currently in.

"Look at these crowds," he continued. "What do you think?" I removed my nose from my neighbour’s armpit. "Well," I said. "It’s horrible, isn’t it?" "Yes," he nodded. "But we’re used to it. We’re happy."

"Really?" I asked doubtfully. "Oh yes," he said, so pleased with how our conversation was going that he invited me to his sister’s house in Bandra. I was also going to Bandra, I said, but had to decline. He didn’t seem to like this. He fell silent until a rush of crazed lunatics at Elphinstone Road left us squeezed next to each other on the other side of the compartment.

"I’m warning you," he said. "Be careful." This sounded ominous. I thought he was going to warn me not to turn down invitations to his sister’s house in Bandra, but he continued: "Let me give you some advice. I have 28 years’ experience. One guy does this" – he jammed one arm behind his head – "and then another guy does this" – he stuck his other arm in front of his face – "and then you’re fucked, I’m telling you, you’re fucked!" Another commuter told him to calm down. "I have 28 years’ experience," he spat. "You can take it or leave it."

I was about to assure him that I would certainly take it, whatever the hell it was, when the train came to a halt and he leapt to the open doorway, barricading the tide of frothing maniacs trying to get in. "Come on!" he yelled to me, "Get off the train!"

"But this is Dadar," I told him, my voice drowned by the angry roar gathering behind him. Hands pulled at his arms and legs. "What?" he said. "Get off!"

I tried again. "But this is Dadar!" I yelled. Struggling manfully, he disappeared in the torrent.

Still, I think he was happy. He’s used to it.