Bombay Blues

7th July, 2000- The day I landed in Bombay. 

Santacruz’ Airport – 1000hrs IST - The infamous monsoons of Bombay had already set in. We collected our luggage and hopped into a taxi for our destination-‘Andheri’. The first thing to hit me, once I was out of the airport, was a stench. It was a smell unlike any other, an unremitting odor that grows from weak to strong and vice-versa but never ceases, a peculiar reek, a stink atypical of the city. I was to realize it much later that it was the smell of the sea, of the fish left out to dry in the open, of the waste of 10 million people, and of rats that far outnumbered the population.

I didn’t want to come to Bombay but my Dad’s transfer forced us (me, my sister and my mom) to make a shift. So here I was- ‘A Reluctant Citizen’ of the Juggernaut called Bombay. 

The cab glided through the broad roads and flyovers in the relentless rains. I stared out of the window at the other cabs and auto-rickshaws whizzing past. I could see the distinct influence the city of Good Old Bollywood had on them. On the back of the taxis I could invariably see something or the other written, mostly inspired by bollywood with even the little mudflaps of the taxis displaying the pictures of the favorite bollywood stars of the star struck cab drivers. There was ‘Jo Jeeta Woh Hi Sikandar’ painted on the back of one, ‘Hum Hain Rahee Pyaar ke’ on another, and there was other with ‘Jala Kar Raakh Kar Doonga’, another one with ‘Humse Na Taqraana’ and yet another with ‘Aaya Sawan Jhhom Ke’. There were other non-filmi creative ones as well, some of which have a double meaning to them like: ‘Chal Love Kar’ (the hindi meaning of which is quite apparent but the marathi equivalent for it is ‘move fast’), ‘Andheri Raat Mein Diya Tere Haath Mein’. ‘100 Mein Se 100 Baimaan, Phir Bhi Mera Desh Mahaan’. And a few weird ones like: ‘Didi Roko Jijaji Ja Rahe Hain’. There were a few with social messages as well; ‘Naitikta Paadha AIDS Taadhaa’, ‘Mulgi Shikli Pragati Jhali’, etc.

As we approached Andheri the cab lost much of its momentum moving almost at a snails pace. Andheri is a place notorious for its painfully slow traffic. Many people would swear on their lives and tell you that it infact has got the worst traffic in the whole of Bombay. So here I was destined to live in a place infamous for its traffic jams. Finally we reached our house, a 2 BHK quarter in Andheri allotted to my dad. The next few days were spent at home arranging and re-arranging our furniture and other belongings. 

Having settled down in my new house, it was time to move out.. time for my first rendezvous with the city. I had been applying for jobs with various companies and finally I had got a call for an interview from a company with its office at fort. Being aware of my status- that of a first timer in Bombay -dad had instructed me to take a rick to the station and then travel First Class to Churchgate and then take a cab to the Fort area. But the smart ass that I am I decided to do things my way… with a ‘Midas Touch- A la Ajay’. 

Now that I was in Bombay I wanted to feel like a real Bombayiite, I wanted to get the feel of Real Bombay. So I decided to take the BEST bus (don’t take it literally. BEST is an abbreviation for Brihan Mumbai Electricity Supply and Transport Corporation, the organization that runs and manages a humungous fleet of buses running through the length and breadth of Bombay). So I very smartly went to a bus stop and after some preliminary investigations I joined a queue and stood there, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my bus. It had been raining all night and all morning and it still continued incessantly. Thankfully, I had my umbrella with me. 

There were only a few people and I was quite up on in the queue. People kept pouring-in and joining the queue and soon the queue swelled to a serpent. However, conscious of my position in the queue I was sure of getting a window seat. After a brief wait the bus arrived but the crazy bus driver seemingly having set his mind for a bit of mischief cruised pass at great speed and halted a good 10 metres from the stop. All hell broke loose; every one who had so far shown the decency to stand in a queue seemed to forget it all and  started running towards the bus mindlessly. Now, under the re-arranged order, I found myself standing at the fag end of the queue. With great effort I managed to get inside the bus. The last person to get in, I hardly had set my foot on the footboard when the bus started moving. Not yet on firm footing, I found myself half inside, half outside, my body swaying precariously with the movement, sending a chill down my spine. Cursing the driver and conductor under my breath, I tried to make space for myself, but the bus was already crammed to the brim. So much for my dream of a window seat! 

 A bit wiser by now I decided to follow my dad’s instructions for the rest of the journey. I bought a First Class return ticket to Churchgate and felt a surge of pride for my dad—after all, he had chosen comfort over the austerity of Second Class travel for his only son. I confidently stood near the pillar with yellow and orange stripes, indicating where the First Class compartment would stop. To my delight, I was the only one there. My expectations soared—I was sure to get a window seat this time! After all, I had paid five times the fare of the Second Class passengers. 

However, reality hit me sooner than expected. As the train approached, I noticed all the First Class passengers standing three compartments down, ready to perform their acrobatic feat of jumping onto the moving train. As soon as the train chugged in, the commuters began their ritual, arming themselves with bags to shield and umbrellas to swing. They jumped into the moving train with acrobatic precision. I joined the circus, albeit a bit late. By the time I reached, the train had stopped, and there was a mad scramble at the door. People were trying to shove their way inside while others were pushing their way out. "Andar chalo!" was the battle cry of the moment, though a faint "Are bhai, utarne toh do pehle!" came from inside. This chaos wasn’t about finding a seat—those were long gone. The war was fought for prime standing positions: near the door or beneath the fan. The coveted seats belonged to those who had already sacrificed half an hour of their lives by traveling up a station or two just to grab a place to sit. They gloated over the daily warriors who risked life and limb, hoping in vain for a dignfied spot to stand! 

The whole fight was over within 5 seconds and the train started moving again. There were some losers and triumphant winners inside the train as well as outside of it. Inside were the ones who wanted to get off and needless to mention about the winners outside. My first journey was a memorable one. I got room to place a foot and rest my weight against a 5’4”, groin scratching bhaiya who I feel badly needed a bath, a shave and some sleep. I could relate to the “Ek tang tapasya” (Veerbhadrasan for the highly initiated) that hermits do in the Himalayas. Life and death now depended on a toe that supported me and which in turn was in dire need of some support itself. Notice on the top of my head sarcastically read “It is dangerous to lean out of a running train”. “All right!!!” I said, with Mamta Banerjee in mind, “Gimme another option!!!” 

 A typical Bombayiite is a harried lot who has been pushed to the corner by the city, the system and the ever increasing immigrant population. All of this obviously makes a lot of demands on him both physically and emotionally which in turn makes an average Bombayiite very practical without the unnecessary baggage of useless and unwanted emotions, wrongly perceived by many as selfish and indifferent. But put him in a local train, away from his home and hearth, and he becomes a totally different person. At every stop space is made for the new entrants even when none exists and all this at the cost of considerable discomfort to oneself. Just when you start thinking that the compartment has reached it's maximum capacity and there is no space left for even 'Air', almost miraculously space appears from nowhere just to adjust that one last fellow passenger.

As more stations came and went, the compartment got closer to its bursting point. It now resembled a cattle shed with humans being transported in such inhumane conditions that it would've put animals to shame . With God’s grace I reached Churchgate and was Happy to be ‘Alive’. My first commute in a Local was no less than an endurance test and the fact that I managed to scrape through made me feel proud of myself.

But must give it to the Railways; they have succeeded in achieving what politicians could not in 50 years, they’ve brought people of all castes,creed and religion together and made the embrace one another.