My exposure to Bombay life came very late, in the early 1990s, though I had been to a three-month training course in Bombay in the late 1960s. The exposure was limited, and much exploration could not be done. But even at that time, Bombay had lots of high-rise buildings, wonderful train services, and large crowds.

Housing was difficult even back then. Luckily, people from the South, through official contacts, could get rooms at South India Concerns—I hope I got the name right—in Matunga, where boarding and lodging were available at comparatively cheaper prices.

When I was told I was going to Bombay—Mumbai by that time—the first thing was to locate a house. On not second, but umpteenth thought, I wonder why I couldn’t have found some paying guest accommodation or simply tried to get back to South India Concerns or similar lodgings. Anyhow, my family was not likely to move there for at least four years. Blunder committed and cannot be retraced. Luckily, one of the colleagues had a vacant flat in a good locality in Mumbai and offered to let it out to me. In Mumbai, demanding ten months’ rent as advance was the norm, which the office wouldn’t pay. In all other cities and places, it was just two months’ advance. And the rent had to be within limits. Somehow, I got the house.

The office was 20-25 km away. By Mumbai standards, not much. People travel from 40-50 km away. Who is going to pity me?

Mumbaikars are resourceful. If anybody can point out anyone walking lazily, they would be rewarded. Everyone was in a hurry, as if to catch a train—which, in reality, they were. These people had developed the habit of traveling by the same train, same coach, with the same friends. How the entire group gets into the same coach and manages to sit together is an unsolvable mystery. And I too became a slave to that. I did not belong to any group, but having come to know the regular occupants, they would always readily yield an inch of the seat for us to half-hover, half-sit. Any kind of sitting was better than standing, unmoving, packed like sardines—the smell included. There was no way a standee could fall down. Where was the space or place? Every inch of the train would be used to travel—the corridor, in between the seats, knocking often on the heads and faces of those sitting, in the entrance hanging from the window grills, foot on the grills, everywhere. Even in the most uncomfortable position, some would manage to read newspapers and magazines, and those sitting, with one of the ever-present briefcases as a makeshift table, would play cards. They would continue to play until about five seconds before the train reached their intended destination. And within those few seconds, they would manage to get out, knifing through the crowd. Some trains would have bhajan groups. Some returning women might be cutting vegetables or teaching kids. Any scenario was possible. So enterprising, not wasting even a few seconds of their invaluable time. In Mumbai, one cannot be but busy.

Take my own case: 52 steps to climb down from the flat, then a five-minute walk to the bus stand, another five-minute ride to the station, precariously hanging from the footboard of a threatening double-decker, a three-minute walk to the chosen carriage—more if the platform was in the middle—a 45-minute tortuous train journey with sweat, smell, noise, din, and numb limbs, climbing down and up the steps in the terminal station to get to the other side of the road, a 15-minute walk to the office building, a five-minute wait for the elevator, and then getting to the nth floor. Even describing this has made me tired. But look at the Mumbaikars. They would keep the briefcase on their table, get to the washroom, have a face wash, and with freshness and a smile, be back in their chair. Never have I seen anyone complain or even display a remote smirk on their face. Such energy, such attitude, such adjustment. Accepting and moving. Always neatly dressed and spic and span. I admire these people.

Way back, it may have been the same routine with slight detours. The train and carriage would be marked, though, and would not change. But maybe a peanut pack on the way, or sometimes a dosa, vada pav, or whatever one likes at either end of the journey. Having walked and climbed and waited for half the day, wouldn’t they feel hungry and need calories and more energy? For me, at the far end, I would count the 52 steps to my flat to be welcomed by an empty, ghostly house. Tiredness would creep in, and eating what I could, I’d jump into bed. Not the Mumbaikars. They are not like me, a poor alien.

Most of the flats would be small. Two rooms might be a luxury. Even the best minds cannot visualize what all they can pack into the house. A wall-mounted dining table that can be pushed back into the wall, beds with storage, multi-functional furniture. Every item, every space would be put to optimum use like they do in the train. In between this hectic schedule of 12 to 14 hours at least, they would manage regular shopping, restaurant visits, theatre visits, and all. Weekends are not merely rest times. How can a Mumbaikar ever be inactive?

In the three-seater second-class compartment, four would be seated. The one sitting at the end at the aisle was always precariously balanced. The window guy was the happiest traveler. Fresh air, a place to rest the head, and if lucky, doze. On very long-distance travel, say more than an hour or so, I have seen sitting passengers offering their seats to the standees halfway across the journey. Compared to this, my bus journey in Chennai, soaked and surrounded by sweat in a tilting bus, was nothing.

What a jolly, happy, and energetic atmosphere. Once you become part of it, energy has to flow into you too. With this kind of physical exercise, don’t you think it is difficult to find an unfit Mumbaikar?

Forget it is the commercial capital of India, with opportunities galore for jobs. Forget it has the biggest slum amidst the tallest buildings. Forget the reclaimed areas boasting some of the tallest buildings. Forget the slow-moving traffic. This place is always alive, even at midnight.

Hats off to these people.

Continued in 115. Taken for a Ride - Part 1