Travails of an ordinary commuter in ‘romantic’ rains

More than 20 afternoons ago I made my way to Khar (from Goregaon) for a workshop after which I had to head to my printer on the other side of the creek. The journey seemed ominous from the start

MUMBAI: More than 20 afternoons ago I made my way to Khar (from Goregaon) for a workshop after which I had to head to my printer on the other side of the creek. The journey seemed ominous from the start.

Travails of an ordinary commuter in ‘romantic’ rains

Buses did not show up for 30 minutes and auto drivers had refused to ply long ago. Eventually, four minibuses came at one go and two conductors began issuing tickets. The thick queue of commuters was moving slowly when a fifth bus joined only to move along soon. The fitter ones, like me, leaped into that non ac laal dabba. The bus seats were torn and tiny but at least dry. Each seat could fit only one.

Made it to the station only to find the ticket hall gone. It had been moved and was sharing a wall with the toilet. We stood in line again – this time holding hand towels to our noses and going breathless. (In monsoon months, we swap handkerchiefs with hand towels.) The toilet is under the foot-over-bridge which sticks to you like a pesky salesman.

Inside the train, which in my case, mercifully began from Goregaon, I found a nice window seat and rested my hand on a Pollockian miniature of dried-up pan spit. From Khar station, on a bouncy ride to Pali naka, the rickshaw came to an abrupt halt. A few kids and their guardians had detached from their devotional regiment to perform a ritual -- break a coconut, burn some leaves and light some fireworks in the middle of a crossroad on Linking Road; traffic from all four directions halted at this spot.

I wanted to complain. But to whom?

Workshop over, rains start just in time for the next leg of my journey. The umbrella helped protect my tightly wrapped prints while I participated in what seemed a sequel of morning’s events – the kaali peelis refused to comply and Uber/Ola had decided to suck my bank account dry (if they decided to show up at all). By now the rain had shifted gears and the road was a pool. The footpath was like a jungle hike trail – rising and dipping at intervals, sometimes vanishing, only to re-emerge under a car, a bike, a cigarette shop or just potted plants.

The bus stop, with leaking roof, was packed and provided no shelter. I had two options – take the bus to Bandra or simply walk. I chose the former; 30 minutes evaporated and the bus finally arrived. Every seat a bowl of water, every shoulder wet, every window shut or leaking, everyone in the bus tired and collectively dreading the journey.

It took 40 minutes to travel from Turner Road to Mahim Causeway. Near Bandra station, a young woman almost went halfway into a manhole which reminded me of my own plight on 26/7/2005, along with my camera. I survived, the camera died. We were stuck at one place long enough to witness the rescue operation which involved very quick thinking from her friends who pulled her out albeit with a bleeding right leg.

At Mahim, a contingent of drenched masons, carpenters, electricians and painters came in. No place to sit, I offered my seat to an old man. The map indicated my misery was to end in 15 minutes. It didn’t. Took more than 90 minutes to make this tiny journey. A friend I was to meet at 7:30, waited till 8:15, and moved on to brave his own ordeal to reach Vashi.

After dropping my prints and making new ones at the printer, I referred to Google maps again. Prabhadevi to Goregaon -- 1 hour 43 minutes! I had no courage to take the train and decided to seek shelter at my friend’s place in Worli for a few hours.

I left her home a little before midnight. Cabbies refused the short drive to Prabhadevi station yet again, so I walked. Later, as if on cue, about 10 minutes from my home, I was stuck in a massive traffic jam. We have become a city which offers free traffic jams at any hour of the day, or night.

I got off, aiming for the skywalk a little ahead but came face to face with a teenager sitting by the window of an ambulance – on its body was painted a smiling picture of a politician. I wish I could physically part the traffic to make way.

The skywalk is full of chamcha hoardings hanging from the railings. This bridge over the highway provides a glimpse of the swanky Westin and its neighbouring towers. The walk home, skirting the boundary walls of these massive structures is treacherous. The footpath converts to a hiking trail yet again, only this time, there’s a generous sprinkle of dog poop, construction slurry, plastic bags, cigarette butts and fallen chamchas every few feet.

We call our cities great, our villages great, our states great, our country great, our politicians great, our uncles and aunties great and ourselves great, thereby leaving no room for any improvement. I mean once you are great, you are at the pinnacle of everything, isn’t it?