The Last Train Home

IT'S well past the other side of midnight. In the 24-hour second class ladies' compartment, a woman dressed in shimmering white declares: "I'm getting off at Charni Road station. I want to take a walk on Chowpatty." Her feet are cracked from hours of 'walking', a yellowing bag dangles listlessly from her twirling finger and the fading gajras in her hair reek of cheap perfume.

Outside, it's already a walk on the wild side. Hookers, hacks and hermaphrodites line the pavements. Drunks dodge their own shadow, as though it were the draft. Life in the bustling city's fast lane is slowing down, and will gradually grind to a halt. At the Monginis counter at Churchgate, Sunderdas has already begun tallying his day's accounts. "Business slows down after the last Virar fast local pulls out at 11:39," he says.

Human beings lie framed against abused wooden benches, crucified by the colours of cinema hoardings and consumerist desires. Does 'Nirma' make sense to washed-out lives? Does J.P. Dutta's Border ironically mean living on the edge? Monica, who otherwise lives on Shuklaji Street at Foras Road, swears as she stalks her prey at Churchgate: "I've been waiting here for my 'dost' for 15 minutes now. We agreed on the rate and he still hasn't arrived."

Respectability is the sleep-starved Sen family, just arrived from their hometown in Bengal and waiting to head home to distant Nallasopara. "No, we've never travelled this late before," says the head of the family. Elsewhere, the railway cop on duty sets straight a dishevelled man who has just slapped an old woman. "She stole my cold-drink bottle," he whimpers pityingly even as his victim howls and blows her nose into a frayed dupatta.

Almost on cue, a railway engine sounds its horn. A sudden fever and anticipation lends itself to the sluggishness. Those sprawled are prodded not so politely by the police. Shutters are slammed shut and the three steps at the entrance suddenly have many claimants. It's close to 1 am and all along the Western Railway line 3,500 people have turned clock-watchers—it's time for the last train home.

Well past the witching hour, Jagdish the 'bhikari' picks up a forgotten slipper and waits for the 12.50 am Virar slow. The day's been kind, so have the people and he can't wait to get home in the far-flung suburb of Jogeshwari. "Kal main kaam nahin karoonga," he slurs drunkenly, "aaj bahut paisa kama liya (I won't work tomorrow, I've earned enough today)." Business details roll easily off his tongue: there's more money in being lame than being blind and more moolah to be earned near Mantralaya than VT or Churchgate.

 For one who featured in three scenes of the much-acclaimed Salaam Bombay , his tryst with the movie theatre has drawn to an abrupt close. "If I see Mira Nair, I'll shoot her," he whispers menacingly. Salaam Bombay saluted the reel-maker, not the real people who featured in it. Yet the image of desperation is illusory. Breaking into fluent American-twanged English, he reveals: "I have a passport. I've been to Amsterdam with a friend. My three children go to school so they can read English newspapers to me every morning. I don't know how to read and write."

 Awards and accolades come for his lame-deaf-dumb-blind routine that he enacts for the small crowd that gathers, some returning from Ransom, the late-night show at Sterling. It's never too late for another. "Bina ticket tamasha to roz hota hai (there's a show without tickets everyday)," smirks the constable on duty, referring to the drunks. "Every day we haul one or two brawling drunks to the police station. This station becomes a theatre after 12."

 Absurd it gets, as outstretched palms give way to painted hands. Flashes of feisty colour sway provocatively on the platform. Love for a price, scream three garishly made-up faces. The haggling has begun even before the first customer is sighted. "Suneela," says the more experienced of the three to the wary newly-initiated, "if you do dhanda in my area, I'll protect you. But for every Rs 400 you make, you've to give me Rs 100." Men and rates are discussed cursorily even as eager men size up the women and get titillated by their turns of conversation or batting of kohled eyes.

INSIDEthe ladies' compartment of the same train, girls working in beer bars take stock of their fizz-less life. "No pictures please," says one firmly, "ghar mein to hamari pitayi ho jayegi (we'll be beaten up at home)." Regulars on the track, they arrive in time for a hot cup of coffee at the canteen counter before travelling in groups. Says Anita, who keeps beat at a bar in Fountain, the heart of the city: "Our friends who travel on the Central Railway line say they have problems. But we've none—at least 70 women travel at this hour."

Other compartments carry a motley crew of occupations, obsessions and odours. Newsvendors comply with gravity on the floor of the luggage compartment as do first-class executives who drop their white-collar appearances for the succour of a short siesta. In the adjoining compartment, an ad agencywallah recounts the first time he missed the last train home. "This train is very unpredictable," he says. "Sometimes it comes in at 12:45, sometimes at 1:15. If you've had a bad day, you could just miss the train by a whisker." So then, does one grow a stubble, waiting for the next train home at 4 am?

 "The last time that happened, there were four of us. We just hiked to the Oberoi, bought one cutting-coffee and killed time till it was time to return to the station. Even the waiter understood."

Commercial photographer Ninad Dalal pipes in: "Man, this is the most happening city and this is the most happening train. No ticket collectors, no noise, no problems." In the first class compartment, an unhappy commuter awakened rudely by the persistent flash of a camera, mutters: "These days you can't sleep peacefully on the train at any hour—now, even this." Working for the on-line information and telephone services business, he keeps late hours since data flows in at ungainly hours. Ditto for his rail companion, the financial analyst ploughing a professional path in a credit-rating firm. "We work late twice or thrice a month when we have to assess a particular client. And though I am a regular by the normal yardstick, the faces are never familiar. Besides, each one is too busy grabbing a window seat, followed by a shut-eye."

 It's a weird alternate body rhythm—commuters go through the motions of waking up, peering at the platform with sleepy eyes, and stumbling off with their belongings at the right stations. A lot of women board in at Bandra, Andheri and Dahisar, home to the city's night-spots; a large number of men get in at Elphinstone and Parel, hub of mill activity and get off at Santacruz to catch a connecting train on the Harbour sector.

Back at Churchgate station, Salim aka Salman's time is up. The train has pulled out; so have the call-girls, courier chaps and creative directors. The show is over and symbolically even his cigarette contains a few dying drags. Every night after dinner, he kills time at the station to watch the weary world go by. As curiosity mingles with concern, young Salim, hardened by the ways of this world softens. "Aaj tak is shahar mein kisi ne nahin puchcha ki tum cigarette kyon peete ho (till now no one in this city has asked me why I smoke). This will be my last cigarette." With it, Salman puffs away his problems, hoping they'll go up in smoke. Life is a bitch: he had fled from Orissa two years ago, met with an accident in Bangalore, arrived in the dream city to become the 'maanijer' of a sugarcane juice cart close to Eros the-atre. "I come here for time-pass, to watch people—it's cheaper than going for a film. I smoke, yes. Wouldn't you if you hadn't seen your family for two years and couldn't go back because you've been implicated in two police cases?" His employer in Orissa fleeced him of Rs 3,000 worth of strenuous work, then fabricated a charge against him of molesting a girl. Confesses Sal-man: "I ran away but only after I finished with him. Jo karna tha woh kar ke bhag gaya (I did what I had to and ran away)." Now he's vowed to return home only after he's made something of himself.

 Unfinished work, unfinished dreams, movers, shakers and dozers.... A few carry heavy hearts, a larger number heavier bags, but most carry heavy eyelids home. In a few hours many will be trekking back to the hub of city-life. The first edition of the newspaper Navakal is already out for those who want it. In the breathless city when the last train goes home, tomorrow happens today!