Life, as it goes.

Shruti liked to be on time for her 9:16 Churchgate slow train because the 40 minute journey from Andheri to Chruchgate is tedious and tiring, to say the least, and more so if you have to stand in midst of a crowd. So she would leave home keeping a few minutes to spare and wait at the platform. She was still young enough to jump into a moving train and secure a comfortable window seat. It was her routine and her other regular friends grudgingly let her take the best seat everyday because she was the quickest and the most agile.

Shruti believed that mornings in Mumbai make you realize the importance of minutes. minutes late in leaving home means you miss a train and land up 10 minutes late at office. That’s why people swear by their “7:48s” and “8:16s”– a reason why Mumbaikars walk, talk, eat, speak and breathe at a supersonic speed. And that’s why the city pulsates with motion every hour of the day or night. Once in a while it withdraws a step or two; it did a few days ago on July 11 due to the bomb blasts but then it bounces back. Call it desperation, or a no-choice existence, but nothing can really defeat the dynamic, never say die, spirit of Mumbai – a cliché but nevertheless absolutely true.

But today, contrary to her usual habit, Shruti was late. It was happening too frequently for her comfort, mainly because of her mother-in-law - Mummyji as she called her. She had come to stay with her from Indore and being a woman cocooned in a small town all her life, she just didn’t understand the ways of Mumbai, in spite of numerous patient explanations by both Shruti and her husband Adit.

“Will you just wash the bathroom sink and the shelves before you leave today?” Mummyji had said when Shruti was going for her shower. Shruti hated these sweetly uttered disguised orders which if she did not obey, the old lady would sulk and pout and ridiculously complain to her son how wrong his choice is.

“I am already a bit late, I’ll do it over the weekend.” Shruti muttered weakly, knowing fully well that the weekend would pass in myriad other left over chores; vacuuming the carpet, cleaning the refrigerator, the selling of the piling raddi which Mummyji had already reminded her of more than once. Shruti wished her bai would return soon from the holiday so that some of her burden could be shared.

Adit was standing near the door waiting for the elevator, about to leave. His mother always made sure that her son left comfortably in time. He noticed Shruti’s angry expression and looked at her, his eyes conveying a mixture of apology and request. To his mother he said, “We do all that over weekends Mummy, that’s how it works in Mumbai.”

“A woman’s priority should be her home, you should be ok reaching office late but keeping the house clean is your duty,” preached Mummyji and Shruti lost it completely. She wanted to yell back that if cleaning the bathroom sink would fetch her 50K per month she would gladly make that a priority but she controlled herself. Just then the elevator opened at the floor and Adit left shaking his head in frustration but he also let it be. There was no time for arguments.

Shruti did a half-hearted job of the instructed chores but in her rush, spilled shampoo all over, dropped the towel on the wet floor and on top of it the water stopped right in the middle of her hair wash.

As she stepped out of the shower she was in the foulest of moods and certain that she would miss her regular train. Without further interaction with Mummyji she got ready and rushed out of the house grabbing her handbag and laptop. Usually she took a bus to the station which was more or less the same one everyday. Since it came from Lokhandwala it was always less crowded because the public there weren’t the types to travel in BEST. But today she missed it too. Again, in the matter of minutes.

The bus that came was burdened with a crowd and several men hung at the door. With a yell of, “Jaagah dya jaagah dya,” she managed a foothold and shoved in clutching her handbag and laptop to her chest. Surrounded by men, she hated the short ride to the station.

It was too crowded to pin the blame on any one of them but she strongly suspected being felt up by someone. So she shifted, stepped on a couple of toes and elbowed innocent, unsuspecting people but somehow the perverse hand found its way again to her waist and stayed there. She couldn’t inch away anymore and as both her hands were full she suffered.

Thankfully the stop arrived soon but by the time she got off the bus she would have happily strangled the man who had felt her up only if she were able to identify who it was. It wasn’t really being felt up that was humiliating; it was the helplessness and inability to stop or even avenge it that took her goat.

She walked to the station at olympic speed, fueled more by anger than anything else, hoping her train would still be on the platform. Surprisingly there was a train but she soon realized it was the 9:23 one and even that was ready to leave. As the driver honked twice Shruti ran as fast as she could. She cursed the laptop and vowed to never bring it home again.

She made it into the compartment panting. All seats were taken, so she placed the laptop on the overhead rack and stood near the door, finally relaxing for the first time that morning.

The train had already started by then.

"Excuse me," a voice called but Shruti did not pay attention. The words were repeated. She looked at the direction of the voice wondering who it was.

"Is this bag yours?" The question was addressed to her and it came from a young lady : the typical suburban Mumbai everyday first-class commuter complete with an ipod and a book to pass the totally inactive one hour in the train. She was pointing towards the laptop above.

"Yes," Shruti replied.

"Can you come and sit here?" she indicated to a seat next to hers.

"Ummm why?" Shruti asked, a bit taken aback. Nobody in Mumbai tells others what to do, no one bothers really and never in the first class.

"Please sit here," the woman repeated.

"No, I can't sit inside. It’s too hot. I am ok here," Shruti replied, almost rudely. The morning’s anger was resurfacing and she felt her day was becoming worse by the minute.

"If you don't sit here, I will pull the chain." The woman said, her voice trembled a bit and it was rising to a nervous pitch.

"Arre, for what joy?" Shruti’s voice was mocking. She noticed the women around her looking up in alarm to see what was happening but no one intervened.

"What if you leave the bag and get off somewhere?" the woman almost shouted.

"I would loose my job if I leave it here and get off." Shruti replied and went towards the seats. Her temper was flaring again. She couldn’t possibly take one more altercation without blowing her top.

Up close Shruti saw that the lady was youngish and noticed the mehendi and chooda on her hands - the typical sign of a recently married woman. She seemed edgy and something about her was amiss but Shruti could not place it.

"Just sit here, who knows what’s in the bag?" Her face had turned white and the voice was panicky; her eyes held a strange fear.

"What do you mean?" But as she uttered those words Shruti realized what the woman really meant.

"I mean… what if this bag ..." she spoke in spurts but did not complete the sentence.

"Has a bomb?" Shruti completed it for her. She did not reply but Shruti could sense some hostility all around her. "I don't have a bomb in that bag. It’s just a laptop."

"I would take your word for it if you sit here, near it."

"I won’t sit inside. It is very hot and I don't like reaching office all drenched in sweat. You are a working woman, I’m sure you understand that."

"Listen that’s a stupid excuse, just sit here,” she was almost yelling.

"Oh shut up, do I look like a terrorist to you? If you have a problem just get off the train.” Shruti exploded. Her already frayed nerves gave way to anger.

Other commuters were eyeing both of them with curiosity. Nothing is more entertaining than a train fight. Most of them probably had opinions about the argument but none of them said anything. Since this wasn’t Shruti’s regular train she got no support from strangers.

Just then the train slowed down and came to a stop at Ville Parle. A bunch of women rushed in and Shruti took the opportunity to slip away and take her position at the door once again. A college girl took the seat the woman had asked Shruti to sit on. She gave Shruti a black look. Shruti saw the expression and for some reason felt the same sensation of something being amiss. She looked away but continued to feel the woman’s eyes boring into her.

The train had almost reached Khar Road, Shruti recognized the place by the stationery compartments of the Rajdhani which were washed every morning in the yard there. A man was using the water from the pipes used for cleaning the train to take his morning shower.

The tracks wove around on the ground glistening like silver streaks in the early morning sun. Inside the train she could hear a girl besides her giggling away on the cell phone. Another lady was softly snoring, and on the opposite seats two women were involved in an animated discussion.

Suddenly one after the other trains zoomed in on both the right and the left creating a cacophony and drowning every other sensation in the resonating rhythmic rattle of metal clashing against itself. There was an odd silence after both the trains passed which in the next instant slipped into the regular sounds of the commuters.

Station after station went by and the crowd increased. Shruti continued standing. She took out a book from her handbag and got immersed in it. At Churchgate the crowd poured out. Shruti did not see the woman again.

She reached office late but in time for the meeting where she had to make a presentation. After that there was a meeting with her reporting boss and then a conference call with an overseas client. As the day wore on Shruti almost forgot the incidents in the morning. The day also steadily improved as work concluded successfully and her boss was appreciative of her efforts. That Friday evening she went home in much better spirits than when she had left.

Back at home Mummyji had kept dinner ready and with her raised spirits even Shruti warmed towards her. Besides, the weekend had started and Shruti was in the mood to relax. Adit was also staying home and they planned to go out to the famed Siddhivinayak Temple with Mummyji on Saturday evening.

____________________________________________________________________

“Raddi ke liye,” the man wearing a filthy dhoti, shirt and a red gamchha stood at the door. Shruti nodded and opened the doors to let him in.

The man entered carrying a gunny bag and a metal weighing scale. He squatted on the floor and the weighing machine rattled as he adjusted it for the task ahead.

Adit was watching T.V behind her on the sofa – an umpteenth rerun of his favourite movie Andaz Apna Apna. She considered asking him to help her carry the newspapers from the storeroom but decided against it to avoid Mummyji’s disapproval of making her son do some house work. Besides she liked looking through old newspapers and refreshing her memory of the events that had passed.

Shruti fetched the huge pile of newspapers from the storeroom, passing the kitchen where Mummyji was probably cooking some heavy weekend lunch for her dear son. She placed the bulk of newspapers and sat down in front of the man as he began his work. As was her custom, she started scanning through the newspapers, and handing them to the raddi-wala.

There was a time when Shruti used to spend leisurely mornings reading and re-reading newspapers but now life did not grant her that luxury. In her early morning rush she hardly got time to read the newspapers, though now as she went through them she realized she hadn’t missed much. Most of the news was useless, about politics which she didn’t care about and the weather which she could predict better then the Met Department. The balance was filled up with speculations on Abhishek and Aishwarya’s blooming romance, on the sets of the remake of Umrao Jaan – as if the nation had no other business than to know whether a former Miss World and the Bachchan scion were capable of romancing or not!

She quickly discarded the newspapers after a brief glance at each but slowed down as she came to the reports of the bomb blast on the 12^th. Disconcertingly she stared at the pictures of the mangled trains and wounded people. Similar pictures appeared on the following days.

On the day of the bomb blast, a feeling of unreality had overwhelmed her as if all of it were a nightmare but these pictures once again asserted the reality. Shruti felt a slight shudder racing up her spine.

Mahim, Khar Road, Dadar … names of places she passed everyday without a second thought but as she read those reports her mind imagined the havoc that had happened just a week ago. She could almost smell the acrid smoke from the blasts, which in reality was just the strong masala that Mummyji had put in the tadka in the kitchen.

Her eyes moved on to a report that appeared everyday with stories of those affected by the gruesome act - “In memory of the victims of the bomb blast.”

Suddenly Shruti froze, stunned and unable to react.

Below the heading staring back at her was a picture of a young couple: the proud smirk of a man and the shy smile of a woman. The report read, “Vikas and Raksha, a couple returning from their honeymoon killed in blasts on July 11 is one more example of innocent lives lost in the mindless act of terrorism.”

Amidst the rattling of a train, and swirling visions of silver streaked tracks, a voice echoed in her mind: “Can you come and sit here?"

…and the newspaper slid onto the floor from her hand.

Disclaimer: Based on real incident narrated on a post on this blog titled "Fear" posted on Septmber 25, 2006. With the exception of that everything else is a work of fiction, characters existing only in my mind.

// posted by Priyangini @ 1:25 PM