When the shattered pieces don’t fit

Mumbai local — swarming, fast,  dependable, claustrophobic, and chaotic are terms associated with it. Most of the millions who travel in it everyday can’t wait to get pushed out of it.

I find some comfort in the train. After a crazy day at work, the compartment feels like a living room. One can get rid of their bag, put their feet up on the seat and listen to music or read a book.

The people who stay in my mind are those who are out in the city post-midnight. They have stories to tell, stories that have the potential of bursting Bombay’s capitalist bubble. Among them, there is one person I can never forget She is one person I keep hoping to see again.

I was in empty ladies’ compartment of the 12.39 Borivli slow. At Mahim, a middle-aged lady, who looked like she was from the Northeast, got in. She wore tight-fitting denim pants and a dazzling red top. Her makeup was loud and hair, messed up.
She saw me looking at her, turned around and went to stand at the door. I felt guilty that I had given out the impression that I didn’t approve of her presence.

She positioned herself carefully, in a way that I couldn’t reach out to her. All I could do was stare. I was close to the “dark side” of the city. She, “the dark side”, stood, lost in thought. I sensed a movement. She removed  Rs100 notes  from her pocket. She rolled them up and was just about to put them in her rucksack when a tear roll down her cheek. I was rattled.

She turned around, this time completely away from me. Yet, I could feel her staring at me, mocking me. I begged for forgiveness. The silence we shared was like nothing like I had experienced. This wasn’t the first time I had seen Mumbai’s “dirty side”, but it still affected me. This was the first time I had spent 30 minutes with it, alone.

And then, just like that, it ended at Jogeshwari. She got down.