The Great Line Divide

India has always been famous for drawing lines – lines based on region, on religion and if all of that match, on caste, on economic status and what the heck, if nothing else, lines based on dialects. Bombay, being Bombay, just does not have the time for all that primitive stuff. We, the people, are divided on our adopted Railway Line. As all divisions go, it is a matter of deeply personal (and usually, economically forced) volition, pride and snobbery that go into which line you belong to – Western, Central or occasionally, even the Harbour Line. The Central Line is seen more as a ‘working class’ line and the Western as the ‘elite line’ meaning you get to sniff perfumed underarms instead of the sweaty ones. Smelly underarms or no underarms, the unifying factor over all the above is the Ladies First Class.

Behind every successful man, there is said to be a woman, but on our train lines, beside every successful man in the First Class, there is a woman in the Ladies First Class who has managed to fight her way into that 1/4^th of a rake called the Ladies First Class. Being a Central Line girl myself, who lives in Thane, I have the relative luxury of boarding a Thane originating ‘slow’ which automatically entitles me to a relatively peaceful boarding process (to be read as I do not throw myself into the train in pursuit of a few inches of cushioned bench to plant my arse on) and a comfortable standing place as far as ‘comfortable’ goes in a Bombay local during the peak ‘superdense crush’ load. Then the Bangle Jungle comes to life.

The first sign is of the various cliques. Travelling with the same set of ladies over the years in such little square footage means you make friends. Presiding is the (maternal) pride of the pack, which includes the ladies with the loudest roars and the biggest bites. To belong to the pride, one must

a)       Be 40+ or at feel 40+

b)       Work in a bank/ insurance office/ sarkari organization

c)       Have your office at Nariman Point

d)      Refuse to work for a second over your regular work time

e)       Carry enough Tupperware to feed a small African nation

f)        Have enough girth in your body to occupy standing space for 2

g)       Have the ‘I own it’ all attitude

h)      And optionally; grow gardens in your hair

The pride ensures that they have the seats, the best standing space and that nobody in the pride is left out. Also, there can be only one pride per rake.

Generally occupying the non-window seats or the non-wall standing space is the murder of crows. The crows are characterized by cacophony, concern for the lone college girl hanging out by the rod at the gate, general denouncement of the ‘youth’ and their ways and most important of all, by their ability to cordon of an entire area on the sheer strength of their personalities. Most murders aspire to be the next pride.

The college girls, the muster of the peacocks, are the ones with the trendy haircuts, svelte figures, dumb conversation (mostly on these Overheard – 3 lines) and shrill tones. Usually spotted talking to each other or to their phones with no discernible reduction in volume in either case, these are the most unwanted by the pride and the most anticipated by the rest of the compartments.

The prides, the murders and the musters, all heavyweights in their own time, blanch in comparison to the great Western. Gentlemen, move over for the Western line First Class ladies are here! They are loud, ageless, wear the strongest deodorant, can mouth expletives with the élan of a Delhi driver: they, are the alpha-females. The conversation, your place in train and the menu for the next day’s tiffin entrain, all are theirs to decide and you better toe the line. Else, you might find yourself detrained a long way off from your destination faster than you can spell Churchgate.Both lines of course, have their share of the hands-free wonders enjoying through their ear-buds the best of both worlds – the local radio and the non-local conversations, the starers and the readers.

On a Bombay local, the conversation never ceases and there is never a dull moment or a lull in the chatter. Over a year of local train travel, I have been enlightened (unwillingly too) on movies, the neighbour next door, the bullshit boss, the pain of childbirth (I kid thee not) and the best friend’s love life. The Ladies second class, not to be ignored, is a different jungle. These rakes are the mobile equivalents of downtown shopping districts. Where there is no place for another toe, there is always space for another hair-clipwallah and his buddies – the dresswallah, the colouring-bookwallah and the fruitwallah. The evening trains are usually (not to mention, thankfully) more subdued, the exception being the Ladies Specials which are not a just a world but an entire galaxy apart. Despite the deceptive ‘calm’ the commute is not always a fuzzy peach. It only takes a stray 2^nd classer trying to widdle her way to the hallowed First for the pride to turn into Gorgons or a territorial dispute that starts off as a minor commotion and culminates in  increasingly vociferous exchanges of the phrase ‘you shut up’ for the party to temporarily wilt until interest fades and the routine resumes.

In the Bangle Jungle, conversation does not just flow; it overflows.

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