But nothing prepared me for the ride to Kandivli on the slow train from Bandra. It seems in recent times, when I have been betraying my erstwhile mode of transport for the airier BEST bus, something has changed. As I watched the train approaching the station, I braced myself, bringing out every defense mechanism I had carefully cultivated over eight years of Bandra-Churchgate travel.
In particular, I went over the classic push-and-shove rhythm that gets you onto a train, keeps you in, and spews you out when the time is right. The elbows and butt are the most effective propellers. Once you get the hang of it, it's perfectly managed chaos, in which your enemies are your co-conspirators.
It was rush hour, and I was filled with nervous anticipation, looking around to see if there were any newbies. I licked my lips with quiet confidence that they would never make it. I was, of course, an old hand.
Oh, the arrogance of the Bombay commuter stands no chance in the face of the ladies compartment in a rush-hour local to Kandivli.
I don't know how long the journey took because I couldn't locate my wrist.
I don't know how I got onto the train, but I do know it was a miracle.
I don't know why the woman who thrust her elbow into my neck, resulting in some prolonged breathlessness, didn't attempt to readjust herself, when she saw me gagging.
I didn't care about the soaked armpit that was rubbing against my cheek, because I was so busy trying to breathe. And anyway, resistance was futile.
I don't know what shampoo the woman, whose locks my face was buried in, uses, but she should change it.
Through it all, each excruciating moment, I was thankful the human body had no edges.
The lack of oxygen, the choking, flaring tempers, a trapped infant somewhere wailing, the women who have no qualms about socking you in the ribs mercilessly if you're in the way - no matter how many times a day you travel on these trains, the cacophony and brutality takes you by surprise every single time.
Transportation planning experts are ever skeptical about the sanctioned metro rail, part of which will be ready (allegedly) by 2009. But to hell with the finer points of an optimal transport system. These are deperate times, and there isn't anything more dangerous that a desperate woman. Worse, a compartment full of them. Will the metro rail help? Even as it takes years and years of nightmarish road digging, if it saves commuters from the wrath of the women who spend their lives on the Kandivli local, it'll be worth it.
About the AuthorRaksha Shetty Raksha Shetty has been a journalist for 8 years, and is now Principal Correspondent in the Mumbai bureau of CNN-IBN. She joined CNN-IBN at the channel...Read Morefirst published:June 12, 2006, 20:55 ISTlast updated:June 12, 2006, 20:55 IST
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I had forgotten the savagery a rough ride on the Mumbai trains can bring you into close contact with. I was an active participant in it, all through my college years, and a few years after as well.
But nothing prepared me for the ride to Kandivli on the slow train from Bandra. It seems in recent times, when I have been betraying my erstwhile mode of transport for the airier BEST bus, something has changed. As I watched the train approaching the station, I braced myself, bringing out every defense mechanism I had carefully cultivated over eight years of Bandra-Churchgate travel.
In particular, I went over the classic push-and-shove rhythm that gets you onto a train, keeps you in, and spews you out when the time is right. The elbows and butt are the most effective propellers. Once you get the hang of it, it's perfectly managed chaos, in which your enemies are your co-conspirators.
It was rush hour, and I was filled with nervous anticipation, looking around to see if there were any newbies. I licked my lips with quiet confidence that they would never make it. I was, of course, an old hand.
Oh, the arrogance of the Bombay commuter stands no chance in the face of the ladies compartment in a rush-hour local to Kandivli.
I don't know how long the journey took because I couldn't locate my wrist.
I don't know how I got onto the train, but I do know it was a miracle.
I don't know why the woman who thrust her elbow into my neck, resulting in some prolonged breathlessness, didn't attempt to readjust herself, when she saw me gagging.
I didn't care about the soaked armpit that was rubbing against my cheek, because I was so busy trying to breathe. And anyway, resistance was futile.
I don't know what shampoo the woman, whose locks my face was buried in, uses, but she should change it.
Through it all, each excruciating moment, I was thankful the human body had no edges.
The lack of oxygen, the choking, flaring tempers, a trapped infant somewhere wailing, the women who have no qualms about socking you in the ribs mercilessly if you're in the way - no matter how many times a day you travel on these trains, the cacophony and brutality takes you by surprise every single time.
Transportation planning experts are ever skeptical about the sanctioned metro rail, part of which will be ready (allegedly) by 2009. But to hell with the finer points of an optimal transport system. These are deperate times, and there isn't anything more dangerous that a desperate woman. Worse, a compartment full of them. Will the metro rail help? Even as it takes years and years of nightmarish road digging, if it saves commuters from the wrath of the women who spend their lives on the Kandivli local, it'll be worth it.
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