If you have stayed in Mumbai even for a week, you know better than to board a Virar fast from any station on the Western line at any hour of the day. Being a south Mumbai resident for five years now, I have always been secretly proud and openly relieved that geographical logistics alone would never let my life in
the city stoop to such a level.
Until, of course, the day of the motormen strike. Another Black Friday of sorts when circumstances forced me to board the train of punishment from Marine Lines at 6.30 pm. If Joseph Conrad was alive to suffer this ordeal, he would have reserved his famous lines “The horror! The horror!” for Virar fast. In fact I can almost imagine him saying “The Virar! The Virar!” I digress. But honestly, when I stepped into the usually empty Marine Lines platform that evening, I was reminded of scenes from films on Partition, where hundreds of eager and aggressive faces looked like they could do anything to get into what they thought was the last train. And I was one of them.
I wouldn’t have been, had I not been so foolishly adamant to watch a play in the other side of town on my day off. Also if my TV was not out of order and if I had not consciously stayed off line the whole day, I wwas getting into. Only if. But as the train crawled into the ould have had a slight idea of what I platform and I stared into its angry headlights, I realised it was too late to mull over these things. The ladies compartment was spilling already, my head and heart were engaged in a duel of sorts on whether or not to do this, but before either could have its say, I was pushed right in by a human wave. Luckily,I found myself in one corner, not far away from the window, with enough foothold to last me for the next hour. At that time I was more worried for my friend who had to board the same train from Elphinstone Road, which was six stations away. In my head I tried to multiply six with the average number of people getting on at each stop. I soon realised Mumbai, on a day like this,
could defeat math and gave up. The train was crawling at an excruciatingly slow pace. That could have been due to signal problems but to me it seemed like it was actually crumbling under all the passenger weight and could give up any minute. As the train limped into Elphinstone station, I managed to reach my phone and text my friend asking her if she managed to get in — my reasoning being if she didn’t reply for long, I’d know she had got in. Any dialogue was out of question at that time. To my relief, and some concern, there was no reply.
The next hour was spent squashed between shrieking ladies trying to pull off every stunt possible to get in or get out. Some were incorrigibly restless while some others were frozen in one particular position or the other. I, for one, was stuck in an awkward pose for about ten minutes when I tried to reach for my earphones inside my bag. But my corner was relatively comfortable and from that tiny oasis I was eyeing the scene near the doors in horror, procrastinating the moment when I’d have to dive right into the impenetrable human mass.
When the moment of reckoning came, I told myself if there’s even half a God in all these particles, I will make it.
And I did. But not without knowing what it feels like to nearly have your bones squashed in an Anaconda-esque fashion. Not being able to feel the limbs in your body and relying on sixth sense to ascertain their presence. As I was tryinghard to breathe, my gaze fell on a petrified child who was being passed on head tops to somewhere inside while his mother’s sweaty palms and nimble feet fought hard to hold on to the rod at the door. That’s when it struck me: I was there by choice. But what about all these people around me? They were not there for some silly intellectual indulgence. For them, it was an unavoidable and underserved end to a hard day’s work. And the train journey was only the tip of the iceberg. Because the world outside was one never-ending traffic jam, where a ten-minute distance could easily translate into a couple of hours.
Who cared about the plight of motormen? At that time, they were the greatest public enemy; morning headlines can wait, thank you very much.
My introspection came to a screeching halt as the train pulled into Vile Parle station and I was thrown out the same way I had got in. There I was, destiny’s child. No scratches, clothes were fine, bag didn’t tear either and I still had my phone! Upon meeting my friend, who had also survived the journey unscathed,we exchanged some exasperated laughs at the trage-comedy we had just endured.
Paulo Coelho had once said if we really want something, the whole universe will conspire to make it happen. Sometimes the reverse can also be true. If you really don’t want something, the universe will perhaps work harder to make it happen. Because believe me, I never ever wanted to find myself waiting for a
Virar fast during peak office hours on a day when the lifeline of Mumbai had stopped dead in its tracks.
Although, in retro, I have the motormen to thank for making me truly belong to the city, because you know what they say about not being a Mumbaikar unless you have your own Virar fast story. Right?