July 24, 2026 · 12 min read
Nostalgic drops of a funny downpour
Those were the early days of my venerated employment stint of little gain and maximum pain, that phase in life when you have nothing to lose but your temper. You hardly lose it though, given the automatic sepia toning in the mind's eye that converts the most arid, black and white encounters into reddish brown postcard experiences, making them picture perfect by default.
Every day, the Virar-Surat train shuttled three hours to drop me at Vapi, the chemical capital of Gujarat. This was followed by a bland and bumpy auto rickshaw ride that took me to the phase III of a gigantic industrial area.
My CA firm had assigned me the monotonous job of ledger scrutiny at the factory premises of one of our pedestrian clients, a low-end cooking oil manufacturer. My workplace was a dusty store room infested with people who were as wooden as the squeaking chairs around. This was a laborious responsibility typically entrusted to the newest member of the audit team, like how a rookie is stationed at forward short leg in cricket (minus the life-threatening blows of that position of course.)
Turning page after page of the bulky ledger books, I killed 8 hours of time daily, succumbing to the torture of endless rants and tall claims, of the client's godown staffers who managed the inventory, with friendly grins and subscribing nods.
The only bright spot dawned in the evening - at 4 pm sharp. This was tea time. No, no, my delight had little to do with the tea, it was far from special. In fact, it was pathetic in taste and appearance, the cups as half-washed as the poor lad who passed them around.
But the very moment of the tea's arrival was so reassuring - "Just an hour to go", it signalled with every thud. It did leave a bad taste in my mouth but it kept the hope alive throughout the exile!
Sometimes, the bad turns best when pitted against the worst - like the stale odour of cigaratte fumes in a filthy public urinal.
***************************************************************************"
"Take this bag. I have no use for it." offered my friend. "You need a bag, I guess!"
Wrapped in fungus, the smelly leather bag cut a sorry figure, crumpled beyond imagination. Its utility value seemed diminishing fast no doubt; yet, it still seemed a long distance away from the final journey to the waste-yard.
I was not exactly keen on the gift, but I didn't want to offend the benefactor who seemed to have pinned his hopes on me for some reason. Left with little option, I thought of creating a need. I had a couple of books in hand, so I imagined they were bulkier than they actually were, and that the ensuing train journey would be so much more comfortable with the weathered but leathered companion doing the load balancing for me. Once you convince your mind, it is capable of feats you can't imagine. Still, my heart was not in full agreement.
Look at the emotion, not the gift, I told myself. The heart succumed to this film-like monologue. He could not hide his delight of having got rid of a baggage in bag form but I chose not to notice it.
"Wait a minute, we'll have it polished" he urged as we came out of his office cabin, walking leisurely in the direction of the rail station. Probably, he wished to lend some dignity to the dubious gift.
As the roadside shoeshine boy brushed vigourously, the Cherry gradually Blossommed on the leather. The musty material was now a shining beauty in what was a dramatic transformation.
Just as I was about to tuck it in my arms, assuming the validity of the gift offer made seconds ago, I heard him stammer:
"Err, wait a minute, I'll do one thing, I'll gift you another one - that one is much better than this one" he vouched in reverse gear.
It didn't need rocket science to unravel the mystery behind the mood swing.
In any case, it was a gift that was neither a compelling need nor that I aspired for ...but the humour of the situation has me in splits to this day, despite the many years that have passed by.
The moving frame of reference of this narrative is the iconic Virar-Churchgate train, world renowned for the mixer grinder in loose motion that it actually is. There's an old jungle saying - endure the wounds of a moving Virar train and you can travel anywhere across the globe in extreme comfort. Simply because every other discomfort elsewhere is supremely comfortable before the third degree torture of this legendary locomotive ride.
For the uninitiated, Virar is the last station on Mumbai's suburban rail route, which is well known for its Jivdani temple, as also for being the once-upon-a-time abode of actor Govinda, cricketer Prithvi Shaw, cricket columnist Rajan Bala, and gifted music director O P Nayyar. Wish the Midas touch of these celebs across different eras had turned the Virar train experience into gold!
The train was packed to capacity, as Virar trains almost always are. They have an insatiable urge to accommodate strangers of all kinds. I managed to secure the serene space next to the window - the best bet for a standing commute, sandwiched between the rows of seats on either end, but then there's an irksome rider. The spot is sweet no doubt, but as the journey progresses, it becomes a pain in the neck literally, thanks to the incessant requests by embarking passengers to tuck their luggage on the adjacent overhead racks.
Our train had begun its journey, slow and steady, away from Chuchgate.
At Charni road, an elderly gentleman, after much struggle, squirmed his way in my direction. I sensed a deflated vertical frame shoulder to shoulder with me, involuntarily swaying to the defining clickety-clack number that wheels compose on tracks. He seemed huffed and puffed, both literally and figuratively. Green with envy, he was eyeing the seated passengers like they were part of the royal family.
Just then, lo and behold, he was saved of the penance. A young guy at the window offered him his palatial throne in a gesture of exemplary charity. Getting a seat in this fashion is nothing short of hitting the jackpot, any Mumbai train veteran will tell you.
While the old man was visibly relieved, the young man had no idea of the trouble he had invited. In fact, no one had any idea of the Greek tragedy in the offing. Hindsight is cruel, it throws light on the manhole after one has landed in it.
"These days, people like you have become antique pieces" the old man laughed aloud what he reckoned was an exceptionally witty remark.
The sacrificial lamb smiled, perhaps hinting at a full stop to further conversation, like most Mumbaikars instinctively do. But Uncle was not in the mood to give up. He had just about warmed up, like Al Pacino had in 'The Scent of a Woman' before his Oscar-winning monologue 'You're building a rat ship here. A vessel for sea goin' snitches. And if you think you're preparing these minnows for manhood you better think again....'
"I tell you...in our days.."began our Virar train Pacino ....
The young guy's exhaustion grew with each nod he put forth in proof of his attention to each of the out-of-context tales that followed.
First came a short if not sweet acccount of how the once-young old guy saved money and effort for his first employer - by repairing his timeless Favre-Leuba wrist watch and winning a movie ticket to Eros for himself and wife!
The brevity of the first tale was inspiring, but misleading all the same.
The next story was an elaborate narration of how his dear son smartly spotted a loose connection that sprung their dead television back to life.
Earlier, the TV had been diagnosed with tube failure by a mechanic who recommended a costly replacement for which the old man was to withdraw money from the bank.
This tale was replete with nerve-wrecking direct speech references like:
"Oh, the TV seemed fine as I came home that day."
"How come, I asked myself - Did my wife withdraw the money from the bank? Or did the mechanic work without advance? What could have happened".
But the most nasueating of them all was this:
"Bravo I am proud of you, my dear son, Keep it up, I told my dear son!"
This was immediately followed by the saga of a leaking LPG cyclinder...
I simply could not keep track thereafter. I was fed up to the point of extreme exhaustion that could lead one to suicidal thoughts if one lets go. I was now faking sleep, lest his preying eyes fell on me.
Our poor friend - the direct victim of the onslaught - looked abnormally pale, rather asphyxiated...Simply not fair, enduring this suffocating fate after the ultimate selfless act - the sacrifiice of a prized seat in a Mumbai suburban train. Many more agonisingly elongated tales were being unlocked and unleashed, going by the ashen-faced scapegoat's visibly shaken gestures.
As the fag end stations passed by, we had the entire row to ourselves - just the three of us - but two of us lacked the courage to share any more time and space with a blaring and blaberring All India Radio.
When I fled towards the footboard in some time, the other victim was nowhere to be seen. I have a hunch he got down a station earlier, simply to escape the agony on board. Better wait for another train than be crushed by the one with endless bogies.
Our old friend, all alone in the compartment, wore a broad smile, probably thrilled with the day's broadcast.
Date: Out of memory Time: 10.30 - 11.00 am
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 into my lungs (only as fresh as Mumbai can fetch) , 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, or his son. 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.
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 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 unwrit rule of this 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 for their utterly repulsive 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 didn'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 economic stature or age ; in fact, elderly men top the list of routine offenders on this ignoble front.
But there was something more sinister 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!