I was part of the usual suburban train circus of Mumbai - fighting for space and survival. The train had just left Khar and suddenly the crowd dispersed, making the footboard seem like an oasis of comfort.
As I filled the fresh air (only as fresh as Mumbai can fetch) into my lungs, I noticed two gentlemen - presumably factory workers or lower division clerks - clung to the iron rod above the seats adjoining the footboard wall, both middle-aged and weary.
They were lost in some deep conversation and the matter seemed grave. Both looked discernibly pensive.
The spoken language was my mother tongue of Marathi, and my curiosity was needlessly on the rise - like it does when you have nothing worthwhile to do. I tuned in, and carefully tried to pick the sound bytes of their radio station.
"At this age, it would be difficult to get another job," one lamented.
"True, but why should you find one? It's your son's turn now to take charge, brother," said the other.
"Aaaah!, my son," came the sarcastic remark:
"The Lord wants to get into business. As if he's a Dhirubhai Ambani. Lazy bum!"
They both shared a hearty laugh, wholesome outside, hollow inside. The note of resignation was evident.
"Did you chase accounts for the PF and gratuity formalities,?" cautioned the advisor. "Jadhav is a slow coach, you know that."
The caution was half-awake to the reality of the "slow moving" accountant Jadhav, and half-aware of the impending doom of a retired life. From the looks of it, the advisor seemed close on the heels of the retiring colleague - his expression seemed to say "I hate to admit but your fate would be mine soon."
****
The train reached Bandra by now, and few people got in, while many other alighted on the rugged platform. Just then, a shapely female - probably a collegian - came in their line of sight as they glanced outside. She seemed to be in a hurry, trying to reach the stairs of the overbridge, before the high tide of busy commuters could trigger a mayhem.
"Ahh ahhhhh!" exclaimed both of our friends in unison, their eyes disgustingly transfixed on the prominent peaks of her anatomy.
"Slowly go, my darling madam, my lovely heroine, ###@@@^^^..., "
They shamelessly teased her aloud in their "English" reserved for special occasions and locations.
{An unwritten jungle rule of this working class tribe - when fooling around with the elite class or moving around in Bandra and South Mumbai, ENGLISH IS MUST BOSS!}
The girl obviously had no time to teach them a lesson or two for their utterly repelsive behavior. She disappeared in the ocean of people after quickly throwing an admonishing look in their direction.
As soon as the train left Bandra, our dubious friends were back on the previous track of gloom - in a flash.
"How is your mother doing? Is the diabetes in control? I tell you, this Jadhav...."
I simply couldn't follow the conversation after that...shell shocked that I was by the sheer agility of their mood swing.
Of course, the all-too-familar 'male gaze' was at play here, the deep-rooted desire to objectify the female body as eye candy, a wont that has little to do with age; in fact, elderly men top the list of routine offenders on this ignoble front.
But there was something more sinsiter about the sudden shift of emotions in back and forth fashion - one moment of genuine lament, another of unabashed lust...mixed emotions running sequentially, but almost on parallel tracks.
Where did this super sonic response system spring from?
Is that to do with the rigour of city life...a life that has no room for transitions..where disparate emotions are forced to share scanty space?
Or is the monotony of a working class life to blame, one that seeks respite in the occasional lewd antic, a dark secret to be relished in public moments of private ecstacy...
Even as these questions left me perplexed, our friends seemed unperturbed.
For them perhaps, this was just another moment of just another day!
© Sudhir Raikar