Roof-top Capers

It was another morning. I had not slept much the previous night, having stayed awake to complete a Harry Potter book. My friend had gifted me this big, hardbound book a few days before, and I had reluctantly started reading it. And could not put it down. Unfortunately, it was the middle of the week. I was still new at work and hadn't yet learnt any bunking/goofing off tricks. So I missed the 8.19 to Churchgate (for what else happens when I miss the 8.19, check out: The Day Shahrukh Khan Saved My Life) for the first time.

There's nothing more irritating than seeing the local train leave the platform right in front of your eyes, particularly when the next train on that platform is about ten minutes later, sure to result in the disapproving eye-brow from the big boss. And my project manager had ended the previous evening with a 'let's catch up first thing tomorrow morning' threat of more work. Platform 7 was to offer me no relief, so I proceeded to the overbridge, looking for options. It's easy to generate multiple "strategic options" on a slide but Andheri station, that morning, was in no mood to support my cause.

Back of the envelope calculation revealed that a Slow train after 8.25am would not work; there was no option but to go for a Fast local. I had come to this conclusion even before I had reached the top stair of the bridge, all I had to do now was to go to the correct platform. They don't teach you in b-school not to jump to conclusions too fast, they don't teach you in life too. You have to learn it the hard way, so there I was running fast to catch the next Fast.

All the while, there was a song playing in my head, just refusing to go away. Chaiyya Chaiyaa. With Jhankaar Beats. It had been playing in the auto that brought me to the station and the words looped tunelessly in my mind. It was perhaps coincidental that I was reminded of this song, featuring a train and others, at a train station, but at that time, it was just a background score.

I shall not go into the painful details of how I got into the First Class compartment of the next Fast local: it was from Virar and painfully over-crowded, there were even some chaps sitting on top of the local train! Getting into a Virar-Churchgate local during peak hours was obviously a very stupid thing but such was my dedication to work that I took the chance. Luckily, I did not suffer much physical damage while I was pushed inside; I managed to find some space to stand and held an overhead handle tight. 

Whether it was the gentle swaying of the train or my night-out with Harry Potter, I felt drowsy. Standing. My mind's iPod continued to play Chaiyya Chaiyya in a repeat mode. 

I must admit that I had always been fascinated by that song. Of course, Malaika Arora was mind-blowing and Shahrukh Khan outdid himself in this foot-tapping song, but the most exciting part for me was its picturization on top of a moving train! What a fun way to experience the thrill of a train journey and the beauty of nature all-around. If you had friends with you, some steaming chai and hot pakoras. Aaah! And, yeah, if someone like Malaika was dancing too, then it would be heaven. But, nah! that only happens in movies, so I would settle for the rest. 

I guess my fascination for train-top journeys began in a more sober setting. Ben Kingsley, playing Mohandas Gandhi, joins other passengers on top of a train in his discovery of India journey. What a moment in his realization of what the true India was. Even today, almost 90 years later, hundreds of people travel on train roofs, often because there is no space for them elsewhere but sometimes because it offers the best view, conversations and air conditioning. I had never travelled on a train roof in spite of my several train journeys across India. Wouldn't it be fun to try it out sometime?

My thoughts turned to other famous train roof-top scenes from my favourite movies. Young Indy making his escape from the circus train in Last Crusade and of course, the climax of Mission Impossible. Too much! Well, I could do with less adventure, I suppose. But, the chai and pakoras were a must. 

The train stopped with a sudden shudder. Irritated that my pleasant reverie was disturbed, I opened my eyes and looked around. We had stopped in between stations and there was some commotion from a few compartments away. There was a buzz in ours too. Somebody must have pulled the chain, was the most popular view. Maybe the power has failed, ventured a few others. A couple of guys who were sitting close to where I was could not bear the uncertainty and got up to conduct an inquiry. A few people jumped down from the train and moved towards the source of the noise.

I seized the opportunity and sat down. If that guy returned later, well, it was his fault; he didn't have a reservation for this seat. I retrieved the Economic Times from my bag and looked at the crossword. Why did it have to be in the inner pages and not conveniently in the last one, I cribbed as if that would help me crack more clues! A few minutes passed and the train remained still. Would I lose the Fast train advantage due to this halt? I went back to looking for the anagram clues. Chaiyya Chaiyya continued to compete for attention.

Five or more minutes passed, I reconciled myself to seeing the boss' eyebrows shoot up today; others were also discussing their respective excuses at work. Suddenly there was more buzz, some guys climbed back into the train (quite a feat, that!!) and the train's horn indicated its readiness to resume the journey. Some adventure and a major waste of time, I thought.

The check-shirt guy, surely a broker, whose seat I was occupying did not seem to be in a hurry to reclaim his position. He was in an animated conversation with others standing around him. The buzz in the train refused to die. Unable to hold my curiosity any longer, I looked up and asked, to nobody in particular, 'Kya hua?'  I must have spoken loudly because there was a sudden break in all conversation; the broker heard it and said, "Ek ladka gir gaya train se, abhi zinda hai lekin serious. Shaayad current laga tha, train ke oopar baitha tha." (A boy fell from the train, he's still alive but in a serious condition. Probably electrocuted, he was sitting on the roof.)

Gandhiji, SRK, Indy, Ethan... I am not joining you on the roof, thank you.

This is the fourth in a series of stories from and about train journeys. Other similar stories can be found here.

The Day Shahrukh Khan Saved My Life

For the first two years of my work-life,  8.19 was central to everything. The slow local that originated at Andheri station, to get me to Churchgate, determined how the day would go. If we (some of my colleagues and I) got a seat - at least before Bandra, we would have the opportunity to 'put fight' on the Economic Times crossword, be relaxed enough to get our shoes polished when we disembarked and then reach our Colaba office before the boss did. If we missed the train, then anything could happen. Usually for the worse. 

That fateful morning in April - we were in the midst of appraisals, I remember - I was running late. Every auto, it seemed, was taken. I stood in front of my building, waving at every passing auto. But Juhu Versova Link Road was filled with hundreds and thousands like me, all competing for the 8.19. Most of us were wearing blue or white shirts or blue and white shirts, with dark trousers and black shoes. You would find black or brown leather bags on our shoulders, a few lucky ones just carried a newspaper in their hands. We were all recent MBAs landed in Mumbai with shared accommodation in Andheri and the ambition to move south-wards. We were the 8.19 First Class crowd.

About ten minutes later, I was in an auto, sharing it with some other guy who I only knew as the guy with a discman. He usually sat by himself in the train and listened to music till we reached Churchgate. In tough circumstances such as those of that morning, you made friends with anybody, particularly if the other person was getting into an auto alone. We hardly spoke during the fifteen minute ride to the station; this auto, like many other new ones, was fitted with a tape-player and a T-Series cassette. Kumar Sanu was belting out some old Kishore hits and that was sufficient excuse for us not to engage in conversation.

It was almost 8.15 by the time we reached the Juhu Galli-SV Road junction signal, the final barrier before we hit the entrance to platform 7. The signal had just turned red and we waited impatiently, urging the driver, "Chalo, chalo," almost willing him to break the signal and get ahead. The auto-driver was not really in favour of such heroics at that five-way junction; he fiddled with the springy thing that was hanging from the rear-view mirror. As the signal turned green, Discman and I settled our accounts with the driver and got ready to jump out of the auto. Our three-wheeler, in pole position at the junction, got into the one-way lane towards the station ahead of five others that were vying for the honours. Changing gears, he led the race to the platform entrance. The train stood on the platform.

Having entered the auto later, I was the first to get out. I crossed the road and was climbing the steps when I heard the train horn. The train had decided that it would not wait for me. I did not give up - oftentimes these train drivers would have a false start and be called back to the starting line. And the First Class compartment was right there, in front of me. So I ran.

I glanced backwards to see if the Discman was also giving chase, but he was still at the gate and had obviously given up. The backward glance, as they often say during cricket commentary, lost me two precious seconds and was to prove costly. I was (and am) a tall guy; I was (and am not) quite fit and agile. I decided that I could get into the 8.19 with a bit of effort. Any well-reasoning guy, like Discman, would have told you that it was just not possible; the train was cleared to leave the platform and the motorman, obviously well-fed that bright and sunny morning, was raring to show his moves. He took off with a vengeance. But it was one of those times when reason takes a quick nap to permit perverse foolishness to take over (some call it adrenalin). So I ran faster.

Pushing one or two by-standers, I made a dash for the First Class compartment. It is not very easy to run on any Mumbai suburban platform, particularly when you are wearing formal shoes and have a shoulder bag filled with McKinsey Quarterly and HBR print-outs. However, I was possessed and got pretty close to the compartment door. This is the moment where Hindi movies like DDLJ get it all wrong: you feel that jumping onto a running train and getting hold of a handle is quite easy. I mean, it's been done countless times, and Shahrukh Khan's always around, no? Let me tell you, in case you are planning to attempt a similar stunt in future, that not only is it very difficult to coordinate so many parts of your body and the train at the same time, but it is also very dangerous, given the liberal gap between the train and the platform. So I jumped.

(see 2:00 to 2:30 in this DDLJ video; sorry for the poor quality but it has sub-titles too)

I may have alluded to it earlier, now is the time to clarify that the 8.19 was a very popular train and left Andheri station with 200% capacity utilization. Not much floor space in the train, even in the First Class rake, was left spare for idiots like me. Whereas I was hoping to get my left foot on the train floor and the left hand on the pole that bisected the entrance, said floor and pole were fully accounted for. But like the Light Brigade I had no option to turn back, I was committed. My left shoe made an uninvited entry to the shoe party on the floor; my left hand sought friendship with a strange other. It was a precarious situation, my left limbs were trying to make themselves wanted while most of my body and bag were experiencing loss of gravity. We were now out of Andheri station.

Although nobody outright rejected the intruder, there weren't welcome songs either. Instead of the violins I heard a few people cursing me and my family for my stupidity. Those words probably helped clear my mind and woke reason from its slumber. I was terrified. The sweat in my palms did not help my grip and my foot was still trying to find space for itself. I shifted my body inwards and tried to force my right foot also into the party. At that point, the train shivered a bit as it changed tracks. My hand began to disengage and I knew that something bad was going to happen. He held my wrist and pulled me in. Whether it was extreme-fear induced adrenalin or that guy's strength, I don't know, but two seconds later I found myself mostly inside. My right hand groped for support and found something, my feet too were on something solid. I was breathless and out of my wits for a while. We reached Vile Parle station and more people got in. I managed to stay on my feet, held in place by everyone else around. By the time we got to Bandra, I had been pushed right inside and finally, had some space and air. 

I looked around, remembering that somebody had helped me get in, nay, saved my life. I had no clue who it was, there were too many people all around. I didn't know which one of them was my Shahrukh Khan.

(Title Inspiration: Allan Seally's "How Raj Kapoor Saved My Life")
This is the third in a series of stories from and about train journeys. Other similar stories can be found here.

Comfortably Numb!

It must have been during our third year in engineering that Suraj and I went to Anand to attend a Spic-Macay meeting at the Institute of Rural Management, Anand (IRMA). We got into one of several trains that passed by Surat on their way to Ahmedabad. I remember we reached Anand by about 11am and were hajaar impressed by the IRMA campus, and more importantly, the food that was served in the hostel mess for lunch. I have no recollection of what happened at that meeting but that's fair enough, I guess.

The meeting ended by late afternoon and we took an auto rickshaw to the Anand station. The queue at the ticket counter and the crowd on the platform should have given me some premonition of what would happen later, but I was twenty then and didn't care much about anything really. Suraj and I were more excited about IRMA, in fact. Not a bad choice for post-graduate studies if we didn't make it to the tier-1 MBA institutes. Of course, we were not too kicked by the rural management part of the whole thing, however, they seemed to have good placements. Moreover, the campus was great, there were real women on campus and the mess was wonderful. What more could two twenty-year olds ask for?

We were still thinking through the scenarios when we felt the mood change on the platform. There was palpable tension, a feeling of anticipation like a batsman taking guard at the wicket. I took a deep breath of air, straightened my shoulders, patted the jhola on my back to check that it was still there, balanced my body with a slight hunch while glancing at my Lotto shoes that gave me a competitive advantage and prepared for the assault. The train had not yet slowed down when two opposing forces began their battle at the doors. There were men and women, mostly men actually, seeking to alight from the train who were met by a thicker wall of those that wanted to pierce their way into the train. I must admit that I used my height and thick head to good advantage and managed to breach the fortress. As I paused to catch my breath, I looked around for a status check on Suraj. Suraj, if I haven't mentioned it earlier, was six feet and three inches tall (the same height as Amitabh Bachchan, he never failed to remind us) and reasonably well built. He was using his long hands and longer legs to good use, scaring everyone into submission. Within minutes, the train jerked and began chugging along. We were inside the train, without loss of limb or respect. 

As the train picked speed, so did the sound levels in the compartment. We were standing somewhere in between the toilets and the doors, sharing the space with about thirty others. Some were in deep conversation, some were trying to park their backsides at the same place where they were vertical earlier, some others were opening their bags for assorted eatables and chewables, a few even chose to use the anonymity of the situation to pass wind. Such an environment did not deter Suraj and me from continuing our discussions about career options and male-female ratios in each of those options. Baroda, about forty minutes later, however, had better exit to entry ratio, and we were able to make our way to the other door for some fresh air.  

The sun had decided it had had enough for the day as the train pulled out of Baroda, and was on its way out. When one of the passengers mentioned that the platform at the only other stop would be on the other side, we promptly sat down at the door, with our feet on the steps. We were wearing jeans, so it didn't matter how dirty the floor was: jeans were designed for such use only. The cool breeze was exhilarating as was the feeling that our career plans were falling into place. One hand held the handle while the other contributed to the animated discussion that we continued. Villages passed by and so did a couple of culverts. The train swerved suddenly on a few occasions and we hung on for dear life, but all in all, we had the best seats in the train.

One doesn't realize how time passes by when you are young and more so with a friend; we had left behind Ankleshwar and were about half an hour away from Surat, home to our engineering college and hostel. It was reasonably dark now, a bit chilly and, I must admit, slightly scary. It's easy to sit at the door during the day, hearing the wheels grind the rails and seeing poles whizz by; at night, it's a different matter. Not only are the senses dulled by the harmonic motion of the train, there was also a general sense of quiet within the compartment, with loud conversations having given way to whispers, yawns and surprise, even snoring. I was getting a bit restless now and was ready to get off the train and stretch the legs. I could see a few lights in the distance and perhaps the outline of a few houses. We were close to Surat but not nearly there, I said to myself, when a platform appeared. On our side.

My right foot which was resting on the middle step made contact with the platform with an upward jerk. The train continued speeding, unaware of the predicament my foot found itself in. For about twenty or thirty feet, I was too shocked to react, then survival instinct kicked in. I pulled my foot, sheathed in size ten Lottos, inwards first, disengaged it from the platform and then twisting it sideways pulled it up to the top step, just above the platform to give company to the left. The nameless station passed by.

Wild pain in the foot succeeded wild panic in the mind. I must have uttered several four letter words causing Suraj to take notice (he, by the way, had kept his long legs out danger's way by keeping them close to himself). In seconds, before I could even reply to Suraj, I felt my right foot missing. I mean, I could not feel it. My leg entered the shoe and danced with infinity. "I can't feel much... am like comfortably numb, man!" I assured Suraj. "Cool! By the way, did you know that there's a Pink Floyd song called Comfortably Numb?" said he, perhaps in an attempt to divert my attention. In those days, almost blasphemously, I hadn't discovered Time or most of the Floyd classics and knew them only as Another Brick in the Wall. And I didn't particularly care, at that time, for an education.

Luckily, Surat did arrive ten minutes later and with Suraj's help, I limped my way to an auto. Suraj, ever the practical guy, suggested that we should see a doctor before we reached the hostel. He remembered that there was a bloke near the college gate whom he had consulted in the first year and whose clinic stayed open late. Doctor Something Shah, when we reached his abode a little later, suggested I put some Iodex and went to sleep, 'everything be alright tomorrow, young boy'. Next morning did not bring much cheer and we went back to Dr. Shah. He reluctantly advised me to get an X-Ray done at a nearby setup, gave it a dismissive glance and wrote me a prescription of two tablets for three days.

Two weeks passed. The swelling of the foot reduced but did not go away. There was an occasional shooting pain when I put pressure on the right foot. But I was going home soon to Bombay for study holidays, so I just did not bother. Copying the syllabus for the exams and photocopying notes from my friends kept me busy for a few days. My slight limp did not escape my father's attention, though, when I reached home. "I slipped in bathroom and fell," I explained - the train story might read well in a book, not with parents. A visit to the orthopedic in the neighborhood was suggested and complied with. I showed him the X-Ray and the prescription.

"There is a clear hair-line fracture visible in the X-Ray," the ortho said. "This could not have been caused by slipping and falling," he clarified unnecessarily. "And, these medicines are for malaria," he concluded.

This is the second in a series of stories from and about train journeys. Other similar stories can be found here. 

A train, India, and countless stories.

I cannot remember when I traveled in a train for the first time but my mother tells me it must have been when I was a couple of months old. My father, a bank officer, would get transferred every few years and we would set off, discovering new parts of India. And wherever we were, thrice a year we would be on a train to my grandparents' house in Rajahmundry, on the banks of River Godavari.

My affair with trains intensified when I joined boarding school in Bangalore for my 11th and 12th standard. Every term break, I would take a night train to Madras (as it was called then, and still is, in my memories) and change to the Coromandel Express the next morning to Vijayawada. I loved traveling alone, charting out what I would do next. I'd spend most of the eight hours standing or sitting at the door, taking in the beautiful sights of Indian countryside. Filmfare, CineBlitz and other assorted magazines would be devoured alongwith samosas, coffee, dal-vadas and soan papdi.

My English text had Ruskin Bond's Eyes Have It as one of twelve short stories; I had also read his Night Train at Deoli. I dreamt of such romantic encounters on my journeys too, but alas, that wasn't to be. Perhaps I didn't have the finesse of Bond or maybe Dehra and Mussourie were where the action was!

For eight years during my hostel life, I must have made countless journeys. From Bangalore to Vijayawada, Surat and Ahmedabad to Mumbai, Surat to Tirupati and Ahmedabad to Cochin, each was a thrilling adventure. I was a romantic poet in one, I broke a foot in another, I ran barefoot on a platform at midnight looking for chai during a third, I slept under a berth in one other...


As I make this twenty hour journey with my wife and two daughters in the comfort of an AC First Class compartment, in the company of Ruskin Bond's Short Stories, I cannot but feel nostalgic about the journeys that shaped my youth.