It has been funny. I have oft tried (in vain, I might add) to salvage a little pride in me from all the faux passes I very unknowingly indulge in. This insignificant situation almost forced me to leap frog from the train to any piece of solid ground (while carefully avoiding what a friend describes as shit cookies) in absolute agony.
First to present a case with all the relevant background.
Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.
Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.
One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.
A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.
“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.
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