Mumbai's Nervous System

The constant vibration, the loud clatter, the high-pitched calls, the elbow hit, sometimes the feet stamping, the irrefutable wind blowing, the urge to just fall asleep, the tiredness, the unbearable body odour, the restricted space, and the chhuuk-chhuuk-chhuuk-chhuuk…

Mumbai’s Local Train is an experience everyone dreads to undertake. 

 

I was a kid when I first saw the local trains. Excitement bubbled inside me like boiled water on stove, I wanted to experience the maddening thrill of chasing a speeding train and climbing into it. That thrill evaporated the moment I experienced it. My love for local trains has reduced to negative in the last seven months. Now it’s a necessity— speed and convenience, that’s it. But I can’t refute the fact that local trains continue to be the nervous system of this magnanimous city. Today, it is responsible for daily commutation of more than 7.24 million people and has the largest passenger density in the whole world.

Have you ever just sat idly(that is if you get a seat!) and observed the insides of a local train? If yes, you know what I’m talking about. If no, well, you are missing something! There is a pool of versatility pouncing on you, literally. Rich or poor, educated or uneducated, young or old, student or professional, you name it, these trains have it. It has an amazing power of bonding people of all classes together. Marathi, Gujrati, Hindi and English, I hear a mixture of all these languages regularly.

Not only diversity, but locals present a whole range of human mentalities too. In ladies coach, you find these ladies who stubbornly refuse to move even an inch when your station arrives, ladies shouting loudly and gossiping, but sometimes, ladies who readily help you unload your luggage from train too.

But what I’m going to talk here is about the two most interesting elements of local trains- its instant markets and advertorial opportunities. Even in an extremely packed train, brave hawkers squeeze their way in and hang their items in steel holders for display. What is even more fascinating is that women (such shopping freaks they are!) take out time to carefully scrutinize and buy these items. Imagine a very crowded compartment, women sweating, some sitting, and most of them standing. Now imagine those who are standing have their one hand firmly clutched around the metal holders hanging from the top, and with their other hand, which they tactfully squeeze through the crowd, they sift through the items. Not only this, they even manage to bargain and buy it with a satisfied smile. Looking, bargaining and buying, all that in those extremely packed spaces; spaces in which I can’t even breath!

 

This is just the beginning. Now comes the part about advertorial opportunities. In the inside walls, plastered on ceiling, doors, windows and walls are print advertisements- not the normal ones we get to see on TV or magazines, but some innovative ones. The one I can never forget goes like this:

“Samasya hai to samadhan bhi hai.

Khula challenge 7 ghante me 100% laabh guarantee ke sath, aapki manokaamna 100% purn hogi jaise- naukri, karobaar me laabh, karzmukti, prem vivah, manchahi shaadi, kisi ne kuch khilaya pilaya ho, sautan pareshani, talaak, grah klesh, court matter, filmo me safalta, santaan prapti, lakshmi bandhan, muthkarni. Call Baba Ahmed Khan”

Now that is an advertisement! A poor unemployed fellow will surely try this out. After all ‘7 hours’ sounds so tempting. I was almost on the verge of calling this baba up, just to check whether its’s true! Not only this, there are many more ads. “Earn money at home” or “Join a call center” and the list continues.

 It is amazing how a transportation device has been harnessed to its full capacity in all respects, not only in terms of ads, but also in terms of its space. The local trains display a capacity of maximum 85 passengers in one coach. Once I tried to count, and after counting till 97 I gave up. It was too jammed pack! I realized then, the magnitude of population explosion our country is facing. Every inch is being used up!

And as I sit now, writing my blog in yet another local train (this one is less crowded so I can use my laptop here!), I realize its necessity in Mumbai. People thrive on locals. Mumbai grew exponentially because it had locals to connect even its remotest part. This city would have been just another city, had local trains not spread its nerves in every part of it. What is commendable is the fact that special compartments are allotted for handicapped people. And a cherry on cake-- a policeman stands on guard in ladies coach at night! I sit here alone in the compartment with just another policeman, and I know Western Railways will ensure my safety.

Mumbai will get handicapped without its locals, and so will we!

 The advertisements in trains.

 

An Untold Story: Face-to-face with Naxalism

It was a chilling January morning, chilling by Mumbai standards, which is usually like a steam boiler all throughout the year. I walked on the dry leaves strewn across the pathway. Panvel’s temperature is, by rule, a few degrees lower than Mumbai. It’s more open, has fresher air, and provides you with a blast of greenery. I was in Nere, a village located about seven kilometers off the main-road. It is a typical village- with kaccha roads leading you to farms, smell of cow dung filling your nostrils, golden-yellow hay-sack piling up every lane, and tanned labourers going about their daily routine in the bright sun.

Amidst all this, under a tree, stood a man who would have otherwise melted into the surroundings had I not heard him say “Naxalites”. A twiglike figure with hunched shoulders and curly hair soaked in oil, he resembled one of those geeky students who are invariably anxious about their upcoming engineering exams.

It would turn out much later that I was wrong.

I went ahead to get a better look. He was in his late twenties. He wore rimmed glasses which he kept pressing between the bridge of his nose. His black almond-shaped eyes reflected innocence and his thin lips spoke cautiously, pronouncing every word with deliberate slowness.

I was informed that he was the guy who would drop me at Panvel station. A little flashback—I had come to Nere with my college to participate in a community service program. Since I had to leave early, I was supposed to take a lift from someone and reach Panvel station. It turned out that this lean man was my helper for the same.

I decided I wanted to get pally with him. I introduced myself and so did he. He was assisting the local doctor who treated leprosy patients in Nere. “Bingo,” I thought. So he is indeed a geek.

I asked, “Did I hear you saying something about Naxals?”

See here’s the thing, the word “Naxals” has always intrigued me. So I could not control my urge to question him!

“Yes. I’m from Bilaspur, Chhattisgarh.”

“Hey, I’m from its neighbouring state, M.P.! I live in Indore!”

He smiled. “There is quite a difference between the both. I belong to a Naxal-hit area.”

I knew he was right.  The word ‘Naxals’ derives from ‘Naxalbari’, a village in West Bengal from where the Communists Party of India (Marxist) first began their violent uprising. Unfortunately this movement did not limit itself to just that village, it spread like a forest fire. Now it covers Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Orissa, Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, Jharkhand, Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. I have always felt sorry for locals living in that area. I mentioned that fact to him.

“But I had a secure life in Bilaspur,” he said.

That shocked me. Bilaspur is the epicenter for naksalvadi (Naxal) activities. I got even more inquisitive. I asked whether Naxals never bothered them or killed locals as portrayed by the government and media alike. He shook his head, as if out of habit. “Many people have asked me that question,” he said. “Come let’s talk while I’m driving, you have to reach Panvel right?”

I nodded. And we left on his Pulsar—with him driving slowly to facilitate conversation and me clutching the back steel-handle tightly. (PS: I don’t trust men riding bikes!)

On that half-hour ride, he introduced me to the world of Naxals. I unlearned whatever I knew before. Naxals originated when landlords suppressed farmers and forcefully took their land away. It first began as a movement to safeguard their rights. Later, Communist leader Charu Majumdar entered the political arena to get a better hold over government. He even wrote “Historic Eight Documents” which laid down the ideologies of Naxals. Their struggle continued intensively from 1967 to 1975 after which it dwindled due to several causes.

“You know my father told me that Naxals helped in improving the infrastructure of our area,” he said. “They not only taught new farming techniques but even brought development to regions where the government failed to reach us.”

I was amazed. I had heard a little bit about Naxal development, but I had always discarded it as a myth.

“But why do they kill locals now?”

“You’ll be surprised to know. But there’s a conspiracy theory. In the 1970’s the ruling Congress party deployed spies in the Naxal group. There were several elements that started misusing Naxal ideologies and killed tribals. My family believes that the government dumped allegations on Naxals so that they could justify counter-attack on them. It was a pre-conceived plan that Congress played.”

My jaw dropped. I could feel goose-bumps now. He continued to explain how his father was himself a government employee but the Naxals never harmed him. It was incorrect that Naxals killed locals. They just fought for their rights. But when the government used unfair techniques, the Naxals retaliated back with murders and loots. It was then that they lost their aim and started indulging in violence.

“So what is the scene now?” I asked.

“Now, Naxals do not involve themselves in any developmental project.” Even with the wind thrumming strongly in my ears, I could detect a hint of sadness in his tone. He explained that the government paid many villagers to spy on Naxals and transfer information. Since then, Naxals have stopped helping villagers. Now they have grown into a bunch of angry men ready to take revenge. They neither trust anyone nor are they willing to help locals. They feel betrayed and are unsure of everyone. That’s why they have limited themselves to jungles and isolated patches. What began as a fight for the helpless turned into a violent aimless struggle.

He left Bilaspur after completing his graduation in Medical Science. He feels his family is still safe there because he knows that Naxals won’t kill anyone without any cause. The man sitting right in front of me was working hard in Mumbai so that he could earn and go back to Bilaspur to start a hospital. He wanted to get better medical aid for his city. And neither the government nor the Naxals will help him in that.

We reached my destination—Panvel station. I got down, thanked him for the lift and the story that he had told me. He smiled. I realized this man was everything but a geek. He’s about to start his own hospital, how cool is that!

I waved good bye and left. When I had caught my train and was reflecting back about my meeting I realized something. I spent 45 minutes with this man and we did’nt even know each other’s name!

Damn!

But at least, I learnt something more about the dreaded Naxals. That is-- Don’t dread them, help them.