I entered hell that evening. No seriously, I did. I was crushed like sugarcane, big red eyes of devils glared at me from all directions and I was abused profoundly. The heavy stink burning into my nostrils was an added punishment.
My crime? I did not give a thought to where exactly I was entering before stepping in.
This was the luggage compartment of a fast local train from Churchgate to Virar at 9:05 P.M. and it was, literally, one hell of a journey. Body odour mixed with alcohol-infused breath was the stink that lingered heavily in the tiny compartment, which housed six times more men than its capacity at that particular time. And those devilish men were rowdy, loud and all very heavily drunk. I was lucky come out of that compartment alive with all my bones in place.
The Mumbai local, rightly called the lifeline of the City of Dreams, is an experience in itself; experience outsiders take a few days getting used to. The smoothest connecting link between different parts of the long stretching city, the locals is the most popular mode of transport for Mumbaiites. Even fairly affluent people prefer travelling by the local train as taking the roads in Mumbai means getting caught up in big traffic snarls every few minutes. Moreover, the city being in a straight line unlike a spherical Delhi, the distances are pretty long for road travel.
To get acquainted with the oft-glorified idea of Mumbai swarming with an ever-expanding crowd of people, all one needs is to spare a glance at any one of the local platforms. It seems like a celebration of people. People hanging out of doors of moving trains, people running, pushing, falling and jumping over each other to park a toenail of theirs in the train, people hurriedly gulping their snack at the samosa-vadapav counter, people reading magazines, people getting their shoes polished, people begging for money, people squatting on floors.
The local train is so much a part of the Mumbaikar’s life, that it has now become a routine, a way in which the city functions. It is a prime illustration of the hard work-oriented culture of this city. So much so, that people know and keep track of which train will come at which platform, which compartment to board on the train, and even the spot exactly where that compartment will halt on the platform. One also decides one’s own preference between a fast rain and a slow train. Well, the classification between fast and slow is a misnomer. There is absolutely no difference in the running speeds of the trains. The only factor that makes a fast local faster than the slow one is that the former skips a few stations along the track, halting only at the major stations where the crowd is heavy. The choice is between your preference of travel; if you want to reach your destination faster, be ready to be sandwiched in an over-crowded fast local, but if you want to travel a little comfortably but do not mind getting late by half an hour or slow, catch the slow train. In the overcrowded fast trains, irrespective of whether you are the adventurous sorts or not, invariably once in a few times you’ll be compelled to hang at the doors, relying on those two fingers gripping the makeshift handlebar and clutching the collar of someone’s shirt for dear life.
Every compartment has a story to tell, and every commuter has his favourites. A favourite seat (or standing position) in a favourite compartment in a favourite train at a favourite time. This is because every compartment sees numerous relationships flourishing each day, and on every journey. People travel in particular trains just to meet their friends, all of whom have different destinations to go to, and this travel is the only time they are together, the only foundation to the relationships. Many such instances can be found everyday.
A group of men gather to play cards every morning in the Andheri to Churchgate slow local; a briefcase perched on the knees of two men serves as their table, elastic bands tied innovatively across the briefcase so as to hold the cards steady. A journal is kept of all proceedings of the game, and the play is resumed every morning from the point it was left the previous day.
Another group of Gujarati people have a compartment reserved for them every morning and they go singing bhajans loudly throughout the journey. Some of them carry musical instruments, which they play along with the bhajans, and the music continues till the train’s last stop, with people exiting and entering the group at various stations along the journey. This compartment is recognizable from a distance; the music is so loud.
There are numerous such stories of bonds of fellow-travelers, some of which last for years, others for some days or weeks, and a huge number of those which are forgotten with the first step out of the train.
Every person has his or her own way of making this arduous daily journey tolerable. Some read the day’s newspaper; many listen to music on their phones or music players; some start conversations with random people, and a few engage with the salesmen who claim in a monotonic drone that their product is just the right thing the commuters need that very moment. There’s also a considerable lot of men who pass time by poking fun at others, bantering, creating a ruckus or abusing anyone around at the top of their voices (it is these kind of men who generally inhabit the luggage compartments of fast trains mentioned above). The riot like scene that ensues every time a train halts at a station between the commuters getting in and those stepping out of the train, is often their idea of mischief.
Peculiarly, the trains also have a colour coding to them. The green inside, red-and-grey outside, are the old coaches, which are grimier and very stuffy. The violet and white coaches are the new ones and are a lot more airy, have more room to them and have better seating and standing arrangements, plus the fans are in proper working condition and not rusted like those in the old coaches.
But it’ll be tough to spot the real colour of the trains’ inside walls, as every inch of them is covered in a collage of posters advertising about Baba Bengalis and agencies promising direct entry to Bollywood, to insurance companies, part-time job offers, PG accommodations, tiffin services and what not.
This journey, full of new experiences, full of life, a routine for most, when it ends each day, the sweat and stink on your shirt (and you’re sure to have it), cannot be credited to your body alone; a lot of people have surely contributed their bit to it.
But guess what? It comes cheap. The maximum fare of the local train journey is just Rs. 8, nearly equal to the lowest fare for the shortest distance in the Delhi Metro.
