Morning after Ill

The trains roll in reluctantly the next morning, clacking despondently on tracks that sag under their unbearable weight. That noble race of commuters rushes to catch them once again. Briefcases are as mighty a weapon as any in man’s eternal battle: for space, for land, for a window seat in the direction of travel. But today, the previous night’s events seem etched upon the warriors’ faces. These hunched penguins waddle towards the dirty dark green of the seats and sit down with a heave. Darkness is set heavy upon their baggy eyes; but one wonders if this is the result of terrorism or arduous daily routines. In times of crisis though, routines become a sought-after luxury; work more so.

The troops are off; they will lay siege to office complexes in the Island City in precisely forty-three minutes. The train ambles by three eunuchs sitting on the adjacent tracks, legs spread apart, with beedis in their hands, and people inside can eavesdrop on their discussion on the Taj. In a city of 19 million, your existence already counts for so little, that sitting on tracks is as casual as sitting in the trains that ply them. The faces around wear a blank look, as they always do. Beyond the metal wall lies the ladies’ compartment, ineffable bastion of femininity, blue-and-beige striped, where obese aunties with giant breasts sit alongside svelte but anaemic twentysomethings in frilly kurtis that clash spectacularly with their flared denims. On a busy day, accidentally glimpsing a beautiful woman is an objective pursued by many. Today though, the compartment is almost empty.

A man’s motives sit concealed just behind his eyes; their intensity or lack of it are a corollary to the man’s identity. Among the inert and blank faces sits one man; he is young enough to be Kasab’s classmate. He too carries with him a haversack, but is unarmed. Beyond the metal wall separating the two compartments, an argument escalates. One voice belongs to a woman, the other a man. The blue-beige fort has been infiltrated by a member of the red-beige army. The blanks look up; they are aware of the voice. Words such as bhenchod and randi boast of a ubiquitous presence in the minds of this city’s men. They are used for camaraderie more often than they are used to hurt. The apparent subversion of these friendly words to their more malicious but original usage is sufficient to get a rise out of any Mumbai man. Today, the men are full of thoughts, but empty on actions.

Their eyes stare straight ahead, they are too afraid to investigate, but too fearful to move. It is too much, too soon after the previous night. Their eyes begin to move. They follow the innocuous man with the haversack, the only one whose eyes have motive, as he gets up, afraid to the core of his being. The next station approaches. It is a determined gait, and the man slows only when the train lurches, balancing himself and then continuing. Beyond the little window and wire mesh separation, he peers over to the other side of the fort. A scabby, one-legged beggar continues to defiantly hurl curses at one of the women, and she responds in equal measure. The train has now stopped, new travelers pile in. The young man’s window seat, like everything else in this city, is quickly usurped. He bores into the blank eyes of the others, and sits down elsewhere in disgust.