Now I am initiated.

Mumbai locals, they inspire a new something in you.

Unlike most people I like the morning ride to office, I like the breeze brushing past my hair; sometimes it carries the stench of a rotting carcass, sometimes the obnoxious smell from the nearby heap of garbage (of which there is no dearth in this city). I like staring at the tracks with an occasional tryst with scenes from the movie called Life playing at Gaitee Galaxy; people living in abject penury, surviving the most hostile unlivable conditions, attempting to make their existence meaningful with each passing minute, squeezing every drop of time that one possibly can into the batter of life’s pie, running, not giving up.

My First Class ladies coupe (first class is important) is a constant source of amusement- I was tickled on Day 1 and I still give out a smirk on my N-th day here. Someone pragmatic would say there is practically no need for barging into or out of the train, at a station, with all of one’s might, equipped with the lethal nudge-tool because there is always enough time to board or alight but it is as vital as asking at least 4 seated women on board to keep their places for one standing, as essential as shopping from the in-train vendors (veggies to braid of firangipani to jewelry to clothes to processed food to anything where your imagination takes you), most required being high decibel conversations and giggles accompanied with jibes on a subject who could be anyone wearing Black clothes on Monday instead of Saturday to someone wearing a red lip color or a tad over dressed for the locals to someone innocently engrossed in a book (that happens with me the most). I love my 25 minutes in the fast. Interestingly the behavior in a fast local is very different from the tendencies of a slow local. The ones in slow doze off at the onset of the journey and wake up on arrival at the destination. It is certainly less competitive and more peaceful in a slow. The ones in there are in no hurry certainly. They seldom laugh (the loud amplified laughter, and the high pitch chortles implied) or vehemently exchange notes. They are ones who wake up at 5 am, cook, clean, wash and step out to earn. Perhaps return to their abode to follow the same cycle of the grind.

This morning while in the train my fleeting glance touched the creased temples of a street ranger lost in a book, and I mention this because I was pleasantly surprised! (The book was fleshier and thicker than the reader himself) He was happily sprawled under the open sky, on the rugged earth, lying on his back with his woman next to him, unmoved by the rattling of the train tracks, lost in her reverie was the woman fast asleep. The man didn’t flinch at anything: The trains, the crowd, the drizzle, the reek, people finishing their ablutions in the bushes next to them, urchins running past, nothing whatsoever disturbed the peace of their moment. Is that how much they tired themselves out the previous night? Is that how overpowering their motivation was? Is this how human body makes itself used to the vagaries of life? Is this how bodies learn to survive? A zillion questions pop and wane.

Someone once shared an interesting observation about Mumbai. It is the first 6 months in the city that serves as The Wall. Once you hit it you know you will anyhow navigate your way through the rest.

The relationship with the city is either Black or White, either you love it and want to embrace it or you hate it and want to quit, there never is any grey here. There is always a Quid Pro Quo though. It takes away a lot from you before it commits some fornication. Perhaps the finishing school of life, perhaps the practical laboratory for experiments on living, a cliffhanger, a masquerade (maybe not), the funny Mirror that brings about expressions in you by changing how you look, Mecca for some and Tihar for some, bier or a bed of roses it is awesome every day.

Now I am initiated.