As I look at the tangy Mumbai life, I become restless rather than mature and confident. I am scared of the Past as I drink from my tankard of euphoria to toast the last (lost) one year of splendid isolation. History is not a no man’s island, but a stray tale of the Past. My Mumbai life spread over one winter. Baffling. We are no icons who are immortal. I am but a frail man, unknown. I look around to see the legacies of the Past, invading the Present, to stifle the Future.
With a sense of guilt, with buried remorse, I look at the alternate to my history, the grim reality of Today.
As I recollect the joy and sorrow of my Mumbai life, wondering deep back pulling the strings of memory, I get fleeting glimpses of my travel life, travel by electric train, by Car, by Bus- outward, inward bound, merry go round, etc.
I spent quite a time in trains: from Nerul (New Mumbai) to office, office to Andheri, Mulund, Thane and various other destinations. It was a new experience for me to travel by trains, over crowded, sometimes empty to and fro Chatrapathi Sivaji Terminus. When I saw the frames of the terrorists attacking the innocent bystanders and passengers one fateful evening of 26/11, I remembered Platform No 1 and 2 and 3, where invariably Harbour Line (CST to New Mumbai via Kurla is known as Harbour Line) trains used to alight and depart. I also had used the mode of taxis to travel from Dockyard to office (at Mumbai Central), office to CST, office to Fort, office to Andheri/Airport, Nerul to Airport etc. I had traveled plethora of times by auto from Nerul to Vashi and vice-versa.
I had tarvelled at all times- rain or shine, during morning hours, peak hours, office hours, afternoon hours, evening hours, late night hours, etc. More often, I traveled as a footboard tarveller, standing throughout the journey. The train exodus of people, commuters jostling, pulling, pushing, and to travel by Mumbai trains was an acrobatic exercise.
Just as dew drops trickle in the misty mornings, as the gentle breeze blows causing chill, I saunter up and walk my way towards Nerul Station, tidy, neat and clean by any standards for a railway station. I sit in the fleet of granite steps, along with many others, with my eyes directed towards Belapur so as to sight the incoming train. Along with the surging crowds, I used to jump into the Railway Compartment while the train is in slow motion so as to get a Seat. My seat was adjoining the window. Familiar faces, known faces, would get into the train, station after station. People have their favourite seats. No body would misuse the seating positions. They would not snatch your seat. That is Mumbai culture, discipline. Nobody would smoke in the train, which again is a Mumbai virtue. People implicitly imbued with Civic sense. People respect Law, tradition and rules. Safely seated on my seat, the train moves on its wheels over the rails. Lynches to Juinagar. Then Sanpada. Vashi arrives. Towards backwaters, gentle breeze blows across from window to window. The morning birds appear and swim across in the backwaters. Mankhurd appears. That was the last point of mainland Mumbai before the connection was bridged to the twin city New Mumbai. Slowly comes Govandi- famous for the Gawli chawl, named after the notorious gangster! Chembur is the next halt, known for its proximity to Madrisis. The abode of late Varadaraj Mudaliar brought back to life by Kamal Hasan!
At Tilak nagar, you disembark for the mainline Kurla Terminus. For the trains coming from Kerala, this is the Terminus to alight.
The local crosses Kurla station, a junction of sorts as it is the meeting point for the main trains, electric trains coming from Kalyan and Harbour lane. Every time, you see a sea of humanity. The next halt is at Chunnabati, after which Koliwada (sub of Sion) swirms along. Wadala Road comes and goes. It is also meeting point of many suburbs. As the train inches forward, you can see mills after mills, dilapidated, without white-wash, with many posters, which was once upon a time a textile corridor, hailed as Lanchashire of India, though the great strike of the 60s, sent the textile empire into decay. SEWRI, Cotton Green, Raey Road….. And the Dockyard station comes. It is the point to Mumbai Dockyard. I get down here to take a cab to my office at Lamington Road, Mumbai Central. It was once upon a time, a commercial hub.
In the twilight of the evening, I walk across the Road to hire a taxi. The taxi wades its way through Balaram Street, Charni Road, Opera House, and Minerva and on to CST. A big crowd beckons me at the intersection point adjoining Mumbai Nagarpalika, opposite to CST. If you go through this Road, Times of India appears, and a small stretch of a side Road takes you to Cama Hospital- the journey traversed by the terrorists on the fateful night of 26/11. Bori Bunder, as the junction was earlier known has Anglican gothic style buildings with steep arches= reminiscent of the bye-gone era. Slowly you enter the imposing CST sation as Harbour line trains come and hurry from Platform 1 and 2. You will get standing space, if you are lucky. Otherwise, human beings will be your shield. To travel by trains at the peak hours is a Herculean task which cannot be done even by a trained gymnast. At least by 8.00p.m. I am back home, tired after a tiring journey.
Today, sitting in isolation, my mind wanders on my travails of that fast life. It is itched in my memory. Jumping out of the running train at Nerul, and marching with full speed towards the exit to reach home, sweet home, brings a sigh of relief. Oh! Today, is gone, and with expectations of tomorrow, go to sleep.
Sweet experience, monotonous adventure, day after day. But the thrill was in the frills. A dream of the decadent past.
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