Every morning, a ritual ensues. The walk to the station is
like a carefully choreographed dance - matching step for step, careful not to
bump, dodging every unsought contact, flowing in harmony with the crowd.
Calculating every move, carefully maneuvering your way ahead.
Finally you reach the holy grounds (read platform). You wait
for the train to arrive, carefully sizing up your competitors. They come in all
shapes and sizes with varied degree of makeup/strength. Too many middle aged
ladies are the toughest, hardened by experience; even the smallest of them
could easily slam dunk you and beat you to the door.
As the train approaches you carefully inch closer to the
edge of the platform, heart beating, palms sweating, beads of perspiration forming on your upper lips. Nope its not love, it's only the approaching train. As the train slows gradually these expert stunt women jump into the still moving train with sleek cat
like precision. You also try to clamber in but more often than not you
literally have to go with the flow and are involuntarily pushed inside the
train.
Once inside you suddenly feel like you have entered a Nazi
torture chamber. You feel claustrophobic. You are squeezed and touched in every
possible manner, yet you are miles away from any pleasure. Then the hunt for a
place to park your bum begins, you dart from one seat to another tapping and
poking women with eyebrows raised in a question mark – which translates to “ Where are you getting off?” They will in
turn either shrug their shoulders to say that the seats already taken or shake
their heads saying they’re not getting off anywhere soon. One of the advantages of
this is that you become a pro at sign language and lip reading. The shoulder
tapping tradition is the necessary evil, especially if you’re at the receiving
end. People don’t care if you’re sleeping, reading or talking on the phone,
they will tap you to death if you don’t answer them. Women start eyeing
potential nearest possible evacuation. Eyes sharp as hawk, quick to catch any
sudden movement. Any lady touches her purse, adjusts her saree or so much as
heaves a sigh; people are quick to attack – kuthe Utraiche? Followed by mala
deya.
The ordeal does not end here, there is a hierarchy even when
it comes to the sitting, only the very lucky privileged starting station ladies
will get the most coveted window seat, after that it’s all struggle for existence
and survival of the fittest theory.. In this manner you secure a fourth seat
after 2 stations if you’re very lucky.Three women sitting on a seat where 4 medium sized women can easily fit
will move all hell if you ask them to scoot a bit. Women spreading their legs
so wide, if they put in half as much effort at home they wouldn’t be so cranky
in the first place. After some loud complaining groans and grunts they will
pick up their bum and place it right back where it was just giving you 4 centimetres of butt space where you barely fit a square inch of your bum. You have to try
and fit yourself in that small excuse of a seat. But the magic of it all is
that no matter how small that seat is, you will never fall off. These fourth seaters defy all forces of gravity. The natural
forces around you (read women standing too close for comfort all around) will
ensure that you’re firmly held in place. In return they will only use your
shoulder as an arm or bag rest.
Once you have settled in you look around to see so many faces, so
many stories, old wrinkly women, little playful kids, young girls, some smiling,
some frowning, you see plain looking nymphet’s turning into beautiful butterflies
– But that again is another story for another day.
