Box Full of Terrors

Dadar is one station where the Mumbai local train vomits a scandalous number of people at all times of the day, and before the train can wipe its face and heave a sigh it is flooded with people again. If the train could have a face, it would be that of my mother's in her engagement ceremony video, when big round rasgullas were stuffed into her face by bigger, rounder aunties as a gift of congratulations.

I travel in the second class ladies compartment. The only difference between the first and second class is that the latter smells of cheaper perfumes and body odor. On my way back, I take the train from Marine Lines- it is relatively less crowded and you can find a spot where you might not be elbowed by perpetually pissed Marathi ladies getting back from work. 

Today was like any other day. The women around me were quiet- some were staring at their phone screens while others stared at unknown faces, carried away to someplace, any place that provided intimacy unlike that of the train- which is of the forced kind. Then Dadar station came and just like that everyone snapped out of their stupor. I saw a bunch of women get in, they struggled through the seats, spotted a bunch of other women and screamed in delight. The train began to move and the screams of delight turned to wails of delight closely followed by screechy laughter. At the same time in the adjacent first class male compartment something seemed to have triggered a fight between two men; their voices rapidly turning into roars. 

I took you through these three tiresome paragraphs just to tell you that together it was the the most unnerving noise I heard. Bloodcurdling noise. The kind that would make babies cry. And then one did.