Last Man in Tower

Churchgate train station: the shadows of the tall ceiling fans tremulous, like water lilies, as shoes tramped on them. It had been years since Masterji had taken the Western Line in rush hour. The train to Santa Cruz was just pulling in. He turned his face away as the women’s compartments went past. Before the train stopped, passengers had begun jumping in, landing with thuds, nearly falling over, recovering, scrambling for seats. Not an inch of free green cushion by the time Masterji got in. Wait. In a corner, he did spot a vacant patch of green but he was kept away by a man’s hand – ah, yes, he remembered now: the infamous evening-train ‘card mafia’. They were reserving a seat for a friend who always sat there to play with them. Masterji held on to a pole for support. With one hand he opened the blue book and turned the pages to find the section on Galileo. The card mafia, their team complete, were now playing their game, which would last them the hour and a quarter to Borivali or Virar; their cards had, on the reverse side, the hands of a clock at various angles, giving the impression of time passing with great furiousness as they were dealt out. Marine Lines–Charni Road–Grant Road–Mumbai Central–Elphinstone Road. Middle-aged accountants, stockbrokers, insurance salesmen kept coming in at each stop. Like an abdominal muscle, the human mass in the train contracted. Masterji was squeezed: the Illustrated History of Science progressively folded shut.

Now for the worst. The lights turned on in the train as it came to a halt. Dadar station. Footfalls and pushing: in the dim first-class compartment men multiplied like isotopes. A pot belly pressed against Masterji – how hard a pot belly can feel! The smell of another’s shirt became the smell of his shirt. He remembered a line from his college Hamlet. ‘The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to’? Shakespeare underestimated the trauma of life in Mumbai by a big margin.

The pressure on him lessened. Through the barred windows of the moving train he saw firecrackers exploding in the sky. Bodies relaxed; faces glowed with the light from outside. Rockets shot out of begrimed buildings. Was it a religious festival? Hindu, or Muslim, or Parsi, or Jain, or Roman Catholic? Or something more mysterious: an unplanned confluence of private euphoria – weddings, engagements, birthdays, other incendiary celebrations in tandem.

At Bandra, he realized he had only one stop left, and began pushing his way to the door. I’m getting out too, old man. You should be patient. When the train stopped, he was three feet away from the door; he was pushed from behind and pushed those ahead of him. But now a counter-tide hit them all: men barged in from the platform. Those who wanted to get out at Santa Cruz wriggled, pressed, cursed, refused to give up, but the superior desperation of those wanting to get in won the day. The train moved; Masterji had missed his stop. ‘Uncle, I’ll make room for you.’ One young man, who had seen his plight, moved back. ‘Get out at Vile–Parle and take the next train up.’ This time, when the train slowed, the mass of departing commuters shouted, in one voice, ‘Move!’ And nothing stopped them; they swept Masterji along with them on to the platform. Catching the Churchgate-bound train, he went back to Santa Cruz, where the station was so packed he had to climb the stairs that led out one step at a time.

He was released by the crowd into harsh light and strong fragrance. On the bridge that led out from the station, under bare electric bulbs, men sold orange and green perfumes in large bottles next to spreads of lemons, tennis shoes, key chains, wallets, chikoos. Cyclo-styled advertisements on yellow paper were handed to Masterji as he left the bridge.

He dropped the advertisements and walked down the stairs, avoiding the one-armed beggar, into a welcome-carpet of fructose. In the market by the station, mango sellers waited for the returning commuters: ripe and bursting, each mango was like a heartfelt apology from the city for the state of its trains. Masterji smelled the mangoes and accepted the apology.■