The Trains Mykel Goes to India Entry 3

Monday October 8

A week in India. I've decided to keep these reports small, singly focused, despite the time I have, things happen so fast, internet access is spotty, and life takes twisty turns.

I want to write about THE TRAINS. But before I do it I have to explain my first impression that Mumbai is in the same group as New York and Tokyo. Hot and sweaty in the summer.

Filled with people. A strange combination of helpful, careless, self-centered, beauty, and ugliness.

I’m staying in Borivali, a northern suburb of the city… about an hour and a half by train from the old town… where the tourists go… no tourists in Borivali.

As in Tokyo, most of the streets don’t have names… the buildings do. So, for example, I in the Bolivali section of Mumbai, in the AD Colony and in the Titanium Building. [Names changed slightly to protect my friends.] The autocab drivers that get you from place to place (think Tuk Tuk)… station to Titanium Google maps… they just plug in the name and find it with the press of DIRECTIONS button. This is India… tech capital of the world, right? Yeah right.

Maybe they’ll know AD Colony… but that’s a big area. Titanium? Isn’t that some Marvel super-hero?

But lets talk about the trains. Like in other countries, there are express and local trains. Some of the local trains START in Borivali. The express trains start who-know-where… Beijing? All trains have first and second class cars. The difference being the price and air conditioning. I have not (yet?) taken a first-class ride. Express and local trains are the same price.

You’ve probably seen pictures of the white-gloved guards in Tokyo whose job it is to stuff the people people into the cars… tight enough for the doors to close.

“We don’t need guards with white gloves,” says Karin, my hostess. “We stuff ourselves.”

The express trains are as full of people as any Odakyu rush-hour train… the only difference… the doors don’t close. So the train comes into the station with half a dozen upper body halves… hanging out… getting air conditioning from real air.

It’s my first trip downtown. Karin takes me to the station. Translates my needs to the railroad clerk. Churchgate Terminal, round trip for one, second class, which platform?

I hand her the money… around a dollar for the round-trip. I get a dot-matrix printed ticket, completely unreadable, except for the all-caps white on brown logo wishing me HAPPY JOURNEY. The picture is for a ticket to a different location, but they all look the same.


 

We’re off to track 9. Karin walks me to the track, confirms it’s the right place with the shoeshine boy, then asks, “Are you okay Mykel? Can you take it from here?”

“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m a New Yorker.”

She leaves and I wait. Not long… the train approaches. It’s packed… Japan packed, but with open doors… people hanging out… gasping for the polluted air of the station…. barely hanging on to the door frame… maybe there are no actual doors at all… just open spots for people to get on and off.

No one gets off.

There is absolutely no space… no one to push me in. No way I can add myself to the crowd… I let the train go.

Next train’s in a few minutes. The doors open… Yes! There’s some space… maybe even a seat… then I notice it. There are only women in this car…. beautiful women in saris, old women with faces as gnarled as their walking sticks… mothers with little kids (yes, some of them boys… but no older than 8 or 9 years old…. I can’t pass.) I’m in the women’s car. Just like in Japan, I suppose, the tightness of the quarters leads to some unwelcome tightness in the crotch of some random guy’s pants. Some extra lumps for the long ride… the girls would rather not. So that have their own car… this is it.

I get out of the car. All the others are as crowded as a poetic metaphorical sentence with way too many different words to be poetic or metaphorical in it. I wait for the next train… about 10 minutes… no I don’t.

Clutching my ticket, I decide to try to try something different. Take the local… It’ll take longer, but it’ll start from here. It should be empty when it starts, right? I ask half a dozen people, most of whom shrug and keep walking. Finally, I find the track… track 2 with one of those huge train stoppers on one end meaning exactly THE END OF THE LINE.

Yes! The train pulls in and I rush in with the others, snag a seat by the window. Right under a fan…. I take off my Bay Stars hat to enjoy the coolish air on the top of my head. The train fills almost to seating capacity… and then starts. The seat I’m sitting on is made for three people, as are most of the seats-- except the benches along the wall. I sit next to a chubby guy. Next to him is an attractive young woman… very sporty looking. Across from me is a white-shirted guy who put his briefcase in the overhead rack. Next to him is a tall skinny college-looking guy. Next to him is a slightly shlubby looking old man… with middle age spread long since spread.

Next stop the car fills more. Another businessman walks up to the seat across from me and-- with his ass-- bumps the slub on his arm. He pushes the others on the bench to slide down so he can get 6 inches of space to rest a single buttock on. The trip continues and I see this repeated… every stop… sometimes between stops. On one of the benches... the end guy… butted over to make a tiny bit of half-sitting space… Except my bench. No one butts the woman at the end of bench. No matter how crowded it gets, the woman has an invisible buffer around her than no one breaks. Separate cars… no ass bumping.. the women have it made here. Even when it gets crowded.

And it does get crowded… hanging out the door crowded…

You can’t imagine:

An hour and a half later, I’m in Churchgate.

No one checks the tickets… either on the way in or the way out.

On the way back I, find that I can’t really tell which trains are local and which are express. The station is filled with cryptic messages… at least the English versions are cryptic.

Okay, here comes the train… what luck! It must be a local. The car is pretty empty… One guy in the corner… with a cane… I sit on an empty bench, near the window. There is some shouting. Some tap tap tapping. Half a dozen blind guys walk in… single file… hands on a shoulder in front of them. Yeah, it’s the blind leading the blind… and they do it perfectly. Right to the back bench… where they sit in a single row and converse loudly in a language I don’t understand.

In totters an old man… looking much like a classic guru… long beard, white robes, and a heavy limp. A couple with a child sits on the bench in front of me. The man has no eyes… I don’t mean he’s blind… I mean he has no eyes. Two empty sockets… his wife and child lead him to the seat in front of me. I smile coochy coo style at the kid. Then notice that mom is missing a hand.

Note: those who know me well know that handicapped people do not freak me out. Actually, I enjoy their company and feel them to be some of the bravest people I know. My father lost an arm in the Second World War. He worked for an agency that found jobs for handicapped people… I used to visit him at the office near the Chrysler building. I grew up with handicapped people. Even now, one of the most important people in my life is blind. And yeah?

What freaks me out here is ME!! This is clearly the handicap car and here I am taking up space in it! I can’t move, because the other cars will be packed by now. I just have to sit here and feel guilty. I’m wondering if I should leave with a limp. Nobody says a word and I get off at my stop.

Whew!

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