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MUMBAI LOCALS: TIT FOR TAT
Posted by: Avinashjee on
Jul 27 2008 |
Comments (36)
I hate Mumbai locals. I cannot travel in them except that I have to when I go to Mumbai. They are probably specially designed for the people to smell other people even if they do not want to. Some men convert it into an opportunity to smell other women – but well that’s a different issue altogether.
There are two incidents that come to the mind very quickly when I talk about Mumbai locals. I will relate them below.
This one occurred when I was very young – just out of matriculation and into graduation. I had accompanied my father to Mumbai. An old flame lived there. She actually used to live in Nagpur and was my neighbor till her parents decided to migrate to the foul smell and locals of Mumbai. That day I decided that I would take the local from Napean Sea road to Mulund. Mulund was the place where she lived.
I chose the best clothes I had – a plain, faint lemon green shirt and black trousers. I combed my hair in Amitabh Bachchan style and in front of the mirror practiced my angry young man look. When my father went to the toilet, I also practiced briefly the bass, angry young man voice. A small constriction to the right side of my throat allowed me to speak like Amitabh. I had discovered this facility after watching an Amitabh movie and could break into the Amitabh voice anytime I wanted to. And I felt really gratified when some of my friends told me, “Sometimes Avinash we feel as if your voice matches that of Amitabh!”
I stepped out and went to the station after that. I got into the train all without any effort moved by the throng of other people.
I got out at Mulund and had second thoughts about going to my sweetheart. The reason was that I had cast a glance at my own shirt.
In you childhood you must have played the small trick of placing a coin under a page and then rubbing your pencil gently over it. You must have seen how all the contours of the coin emerged on the paper in black and white. And if you were good at it, an absolute facsimile of the coin would appear on the page.
Well that childhood game had been played again in the local without my knowledge and with my shirt pocket serving as the unwitting page. There was a ten paise coin in my pocket. All through the journey, the grime and dirt of people rubbed on it and by the time I got out at Mulund, the Ten paise coin facsimile was clearly imprinted on the otherwise plain fabric of the shirt. It was as good as printed. I went to my flame but only because going back, changing into something different and then coming back was not an option really. It is another thing that the girl in question showed more interest, probably for the first time in her life, in Das Naye Paise, than in my handsome face.
If the Mumbaikars still want that I should speak a bit more civilly about Mumbai locals, they can forget it!
The other episode occurred about a decade later. I had gone to Mumbai to secure a US visa. I had to travel to Haji Ali and then get on foot to the Embassy. I was putting up at Kalyan at that time and got into the local from there.
Now Mumbai is humid. I come from Nagpur which is a totally dry place. So when I go to Mumbai, I begin sweating profusely. And in the locals, it is even more humid because of all the people breathing out moisture from their nostrils. So it is hardly worth mentioning that my body was starting to discover hitherto unknown sweat glands.
“Hey, man, you seem to be a really wonderful guy,” said the person standing beside me in the rush.
I looked at him. This guy was short, black and had beady eyes from which mirth was dripping. I immediately realized that he was a wise guy.
Other people started taking interest in what he was saying and soon I was the centre of attraction.
“You have developed a really wonderful trick to save the time,” he told me, smiling.
I looked at him, not understanding anything.
“This is just wonderful,” he continued. “Look here folks, this guy does not bother wasting his time bathing at home,” he looked around and paused for effect. “He has devised this cute time-saving method of bathing while he commutes from one place to another!”
Everybody laughed. I was actually drenched in sweat. Puddles were showing beneath my armpits. My short was all wet on the chest. I couldn’t help it –Mumbai humidity brings this response from my body unused to this kind of humidity.
“When did you learn it, Sir?” the man continued and bowed to me exaggeratedly and differentially. “Pretty early in life I suppose? I mean you seem to have mastered the technique to perfection.”
“Good for you. Saves you water bill. Saves you time,” he said and looked around. “Look at him and learn something from him,” he told the other people around. “This is how one survives when inflation hits you. You buy a local ticket and in the same money take a bath too!”
“May be you have saved on the construction cost too. You probably never got around constructing a bathroom in your house. Is your whole family like that? Bathe while you travel…”
I wanted to disappear in the floor. The guy was carrying on and everybody was with him. Everybody was in peals of laughter. I had become a good time pass for all and sundry. And no rejoinder appeared in my mind readily either. I was silent and was the butt of the joke.
“Your mom may just be packing a towel for you to dry yourself when you reach the destination!” the wisecrack added.
My station was approaching fast now. The moment the train started slowing down, I quickly took my hands off the bar and before anyone realized what was to happen, I rubbed my arms, my hands and my face on the other person’s shirt.
“Hey, hey, what are you doing,” the man looked down at his absolutely ruined shirt in utter dismay and rage.
“My mother does not even pack a towel,” I informed him. “I learnt very early that towels like you are available all around in the train. I economize there too,” I told the stunned person and hurried out.
Other commuters getting down were still laughing. And I was satisfied that they were laughing harder now and the joke was on the other guy!
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