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.