Monday, December 22, 2008

Ladies' Coup

Mumbai is synonymous to its local trains: it’s a romantic concept somehow, in spite of its peak hour traffic, where you see thousands of people flooding into the platform, where each second counts almost as much it does to an Olympic athlete, where people’s lives are hanging in the balance (literally), where a common bond is forged between the nameless, faceless common man…

And imagine yourself to be a young girl, just out of your teens, new in Mumbai, stranded all alone in some godforsaken station, your head in a whirl, fighting the ghosts of past, present and future. And then the train comes, you head towards the ladies’ compartment as you see couples holding hands and families with young children and vendors all rushing towards the general compartment. There is something lonely and pitiful about the ladies’ coup or for that matter any sort of reservation- be it bus or be it the parliament! The train stops for a split second, you see the women fighting and struggling into the compartment, abusing each other in some language that you don’t understand, then the station guard comes with a stick, slams the door shut on your face, and it starts moving while you are still on the platform with a heavy bag running helplessly after the train. He says something you don’t understand, and the next moment you are again standing all alone- but this time on an empty platform. And you suddenly break down, crying like a baby. And he comes to you, and assures you that he will put you in the next train due in one hour…

This time you are more determined, even as tears are still running down your cheek. This time you make it without any help, this time you fight it out. You make your way inside the compartment with women and children occupying every inch of available floor space and you notice an extraordinary camaraderie among them- the same women who were abusing each other, who were ready to tear one another’s hair off were sitting together and gossiping like old friends. As you stand in the middle with your bag on the shoulder they stare at your ear phones, at your modern outfit, at your short hair and then at your tear strained vulnerable face. Suddenly they soften, they say something which again you don’t understand, and then they gesture to the heavy bag and your shoulder. One of them holds it for you, while another makes a little room for you in the bench already carrying two extra people. You nod at them gratefully, and slip yourself between them, smile and stare outside the window with a vacant look in your eyes. Then they come again, the tears streaming out, and this time you don’t even fight them- you just let them trickle down your cheeks, and then one of the women taps you and asks you what’s wrong. You are embarrassed, you brush off your tears and say, nothing. She persists and the others also join in, as they start asking questions, most of which you don’t understand and then they make up their own minds. Are you a Hindu or a Muslim? You must be a Muslim because you aren’t wearing a bindi. You new in Mumbai for studying? Missing your mom na? You nod, gratefully. Then they stare at your phone which has a wallpaper of your mom hugging you. Suddenly their maternal instincts take over, and one of them puts her arm around you. It’s a dirty arm, with the evident filth of a train journey, but you feel comforted, you feel one of them. Then a kid comes and stands close to you. You draw him closer to you, pick him up as he settles comfortably on your lap. You hold on to him, and before long, he twirls his fingers round yours and you instinctively give him a hug. He gives a toothy smile and then falls asleep, as your legs freeze under his weight. And then you fall asleep, as your kajal smudges with your tears rendering your face a scary look…

1 comment:

Makk said...

Now thats something..