Life in Metro Part III—Of Aunties, Seats and Sardars

What is it with aunties and seats? They just can’t get enough of them, even if it is for a 10-minute journey. This is a case with every woman who falls in the aunty-category i.e. a woman in her late thirties and above. Now a woman in her thirties cannot be so old that she cannot stand for as short a time as 10 minutes and that too in an AC coach, which is only a bit overcrowded. And if they so badly want to sit, why don’t they exercise themselves a bit, like we do.

That day, the metro station in question was overcrowded and me and Bitch no. 3 decided that instead of taking the one straight home, we should take the opposite metro and then double back. This way we will escape the crowd and get a seat as well. And we did just that. On that very metro station, as usual, people entered in hoards, pushing and jostling with each other, trying to make even those, who want to get off, complete—or if you want to put it like this—stretch their journey. We were sitting in seats made for two just where two coaches meet. Both of us prefer these seats as we can chat properly without anyone around and they’re damn comfortable to sit on, with proper siderests and all.

However, as is the case with all good things, our good fortune and the pride in it came to an end—an abrupt one. This particular aunty—must be around 40s—comes and says, “Please adjust kar lo”. Me and No.3 looked at each other’s faces. Hello? Seat… Do you see this is a place made for only two? Where would you like to sit? On our heads? In fact, before I could even think of such supposedly funny witticisms, I, to my horror of horrors, realised that I just didn’t know what to say. Such gross foolishness… But then, I realised you can expect such things out of aunties. No.3 shrugged and got up. I, then, decided there was no point sitting with that stupid aunty and I would rather stand as well. I gave my seat to an elderly woman, one can call her aunty too, but then this one was different from the crowd. She was old, must be in her 60s and even then didn’t ask for “adjustment”. I respect her for that, but had she asked for a seat, I would have readily given it to her.

I joined No.3 at the joint (for the uninitiated, it is the point where two coaches meet) and started venting my frustration about that stupid woman. She too was rather angry. After all, we had spent 10 minutes in trying to make ourselves comfortable in the metro. “I mean, honestly, how can she say stuff like that adjust kar lo? Typical sardar talks,” I spoke rather loudly, actually not that loudly, but, I think, it must’ve been enough for the people at the joint to hear me. No.3 tapped me and asked me to look behind. And to my horrors of horrors yet again (too many horrors for a day if you ask me; I’m getting rather tired of them), there was a sardar standing just behind. I turned back quickly and tried to console myself saying he most probably didn’t hear me. No.3 though insisted that he must have as she thought I was loud enough. Who gives a damn about what she thinks? But actually I do.

But the Sardar didn't react and thankfully for that. No.3 asked me to be careful about what I say. Well! she of the sanest of all individuals. Hrrrrmph! But by now, I had gotten another reason to crib about apart from that stupid aunty, "Why is it that whenever I crack Sardar jokes does a Sardar have to be around?" I kept riling on it for long and not without reason. This always happens with me, but thankfully, I have never faced the music. I get away with it. :)

But that aunty, I hope she never gets away with it again.......

The colours of today

View from atop the Pitampura Metro Station. Lovely ain't it?

Heel-ed

What happens when a not-so-girlish girl tries to be girlish? Disaster.

The day began with the usual nautankis of mine. I forced dad to drop me to the Metro station because it was him who made me get into that freak course (though I have started enjoying myself there but I’m not telling him otherwise I will loose my pick-and-drop service). After the course I had plans to go and watch Spidey 3 with Bitch No. 1 and Bitch No. 3. I am no. 2 (You can find us on bitchno.whatever@kaminepankihadd.com. The website has been under consideration since two years.)

Bad luck struck (as usual). We couldn’t manage to get the tickets despite stalking a pair of men who were waiting for some of their friends and had just two tickets. We decided to sit in our good ol’Mc Donald’s where we usually hang around and can be found either tarot carding or making fun of others. Even the staff knows us well. In fact, I did a tarot session with them too for which they gave us free ice-creams. All details later.

So, we were just sitting idle and watching television there when we happened to meet a friend, who was with his friend. This friend of his is known to us and it so happened that he is more into girls now. Let’s call him bug. He has turned into a major irritating factor. He suggested that we paid a visit to the newest mall in town and we agreed.

Now it so happened that No. 3 was wearing pencil heels. Since she had thought that all she was going to do was to watch the movie and then hitch her ass on to a rickshaw and get home, she thought she might as well wear heels. While pencilled heels need one to sit and look pretty and not walk around much, you need to make proper use of your feet to explore a mall. As it is No. 3 walks a bit slow and add heels to that, you get Snail No. 1. She said her ankles were aching. So, being the benevolent friend that I am, I decided to put an end to her miseries. I asked her to change footwear with me.

And the misadventure began. Destiny and heels made me realise how tough modelling can be. It needs brains to manage yourself and I suppose nothing short of a management degree would do. Trying not to fall on somebody, I started walking. Even normally, I sleepwalk most of the times and keep bumping into people. So not bumping into anyone and not stepping on their toes became a perilous job. I would rather have Mr UM's story to edit everyday (He writes shit and I hate doing his stories which are about crappy issues anyway. I don’t know who clears such stories).

We couldn’t get a rickshaw till the Metro station and had to walk. On top of that, No. 3 decided to treat us with ice candies. I wanted an ice cream but she will have none of it. Ice candy it was, and that too from a vendor who didn't have my favourite raspberry-mango candy. I had to settle down for a cola. (She is such a bitch). So, finally there I was, balancing the bag, the ice candy, the heels and myself, walking, or rather trying to walk, and people giving me company from time-to-time. No. 1 was quite sympathetic (she could have been better) but couldn’t help much as Bug was irritating her. No. 3 was acting Mommy, trying to help me cross the road.

Finally, I saw heaven. There it was, smiling benignly at me, asking me to take refuge in it—the Metro station. But God decided to have one last bit of fun at my expense before he retired for the day. An imposing flight of stairs greeted me. That could have been enough to dash all my hopes. But I am a shameless git. I simply took off the heels at the metro station and walked barefoot. Braving the stupefied glances and smirks, I walked on and on and finally boarded the Metro and slumped myself on to the seat and then proceeded to taunt No. 3. I told her what a big fool she was (she still is and will perhaps remain one all her life) and how I got her a boil because of her foolishness. However, being a thick skin, she took my taunts in her stride and I was unsuccessful yet again to reform her girlish ways.

The boil has healed, but not before I was heel-ed.

Life in Metro II—How to comb your hair in the train

If you do not have a mirror at your place, please do not worry. The Metro train is there to help all the hapless mirror-less poor souls in the dustbin of Delhi. Here's what you should do:

• Buy a Metro token for the metro train. It will be better if you have a smart card with you. Makes job easier and faster. Even more better if you take the token for the underground stretch.
• Press your token or card to that entry barrier-thing (Dunno what's it called. If anyone knows the correct name, please be kind enough to get back to me)
• Next thing, climb down (if you want you can climb upstairs as well. But if you really want to use the Metro train as a mirror, it would be better if you use the underground. Makes the peering job better). Use the escalator but it would be better if you make use of your natural escalators (your feet, silly boy/girl.. depends upon what you are. If you are none... then I am sorry, my English vocabulary ends here). Using both man-made and natural escalators together increases you speed (confused how? Well read Life in Metro Part I. Scroll down Honitus or save the agony of scrolling by clicking the link I have provided you lazybones).
• Wait for the Metro train to arrive. Many-a-times, it arrives 1-2 minutes late. If it is, then mouth some abuses at the driver. Trust me, that'll help.
• Rush into the Metro as most of your co-passengers do. If you are not that rush-type, then please stand back and enjoy the scene. Just make sure that you do not miss the train in your moment of enjoyment. If you do, start again with point number 4.
• Now that you are inside the train, I will tell you the position of the mirror. It is the glass of the doors my dear friends. Brace yourself for the most difficult part: the combing itself. Just try and stand near the gates and it'll be fine. It would be better of you stand near that gate that remains closed throughout the journey. The logic behind this is that since the other set of gates would keep opening and closing and a swarm of medieval Red Indians will keep coming in, chances are that you won't be able to comb your hair and the entire exercise would be rendered fruitless.
• With a hand on the handle, try peering into the glass and straightening your hair. The effects will be visible better if you are in the underground stretch. The darkness always helps. *wink*wink*
• Now your hair stand combed and you are ready to face the world. Who says the world needs a mirror? The metro is enough.

P.S. As a precaution, try not to step on the passenger standing next you while doing your hair. Just hold the handle tight so that you do not fall. Otherwise, there may not be any hair left on your scalp for you to comb.

I would like to express my gratitude to the anonymous co-passenger whom I met in the underground stretch and who demonstrated the elegant way in which the above exercise can be conducted. Thank you sir. May God bless your soul and may the Metro train glasses be spotlessly cleaned everyday to enable you to do this exercise daily and demonstrate your expertise in handling such delicate situations.

Life in the Metro

This has been a rather frustrating end of the year. However, I want to end it on a humorous note. So, now I present a little anecdote from my life in the Metro (Metro as in the Metro train), though I must admit my Haryanvi language is extremely bad. So my apologies.

As usual the day began with lectures—that how I do not exercise and stuff like that. As usual I ignored it and settled down with the newspaper and shouted at my brother to stop bothering me with his set of Maths problems (Maths and I hardly go together and nor can we tolerate each other. I refuse to solve its problems and its problems just refuse to be solved by me). Anyways, we are digressing from the topic. Finally got ready to go to office after wondering what to wear today as everything that was staring at me from my wardrobe was O! so boring! The water as usual was hot and I was still feeling cold. After dressing up in all the finery and having had a typical unexciting breakfast of bread and butter with Bournvita milk, I stepped out of my house armed with a P.G. Wodehouse to read in the Metro. As usual I contemplated what mode of transport should I use—rickshaw or bus. I settled down in favour of the bus thinking that since it is winters, I would be better off in a warm bus, even if it is crowded, rather than a windy rickshaw. So left-right-left (I had just watched this programme on TV. The effects were still to wear off. The programme is about army cadets and features quite a number of eye-candies. Anyways, back to the topic again) I went to the bus-stop, boarded the bus and thanked God that it wasn’t too crowded and mentally uttered abuses at a few gawk-ers (Lord! How I hate such people) and finally reached the Metro station.

Again the usual—huffing and puffing, I finally climbed the stairs of the Metro station (They do not make escalators in our part of the metro station. This is what happens to the minority community in this country— injustice. The number of people who travel in the Metro from our part of the station is smaller than the other side—this makes us the minority community among the Metro travellers. We want reservation! We want reservation! Hopefully I will get a seat in the train from now on). Oho! Again we digress. Coming back, this time I got the escalator and climbed up. You see, that makes it quick—climbing the escalators with the escalator climbing in the same direction takes you up faster (This is Nobody’s Devil Law of Motion! But I hate Physics too!). And so I am on the platform now. The train arrives 1 minute late and I mentally reprimand the driver for being “so” late forgetting that it is India we live in. Then as usual, I stand back bemused watching the way in which people are trying to get into the train, literally pushing and pulling each other as if the train is going to leave them there and the next train isn’t going to come. I make a mental note of this and nod to myself in a righteous sort of way that at least I am not a part of this rat race quite forgetting the fact that it is me who has made an effort to remember the exact point on the platform where a door of the train opens.

(And now for the real bit) After being successful in finding my favourite place to stand in the train, I look around just to make sure nobody is gawking at me (if I had found such a person, I would have taken the pleasure of calling him a few names as well. Sadistic! One may say. However, I have found a new victim for that—my boss). Then I fished out my P.G., as I lovingly call it, and started reading. The train keeps halting at Metro station and moving again, as it is supposed to do. Comes: Pratap Nagar Metro Station. Enter: Mr. Haryanvi Jaat.

Mr Haryanvi Jaat (let’s call him HJ just like that weirdo Michael Jackson—MJ or maybe Mary Jane of Spiderman fame): Oh bhai! Ye Shahadra jayegi k nahi? [Will this train go to Shahadra?]
Helpful Passenger: Haan haan jayegi tau. [Yes, yes, it will uncle]
(Methought: Is it a f*****g bus?)

HJ is unable to balance himself. Falls on the passenger standing nearby who is looking distraught at having been relegated to such a torture. I, meanwhile, try to contain my laughter.

HJ: Ib is goley ka k karoon main? [What am I supposed to do with this token. Please note, the gola in question is the Metro token?]
Helpful Passenger: Is ko jab Shahadra utrogey tab dabbe me daal dena. [When you arrive at Shahadra, put it in the box].
HJ: Ye Shahadra jayegi na? [Will this go to Shahadra or not?]
(Methought: How many times are you going to ask that? Shut up now and let me read! The fool!)

The guy standing opposite to me is gaping at HJ in wonder contemplating whether he belongs to some other planet. I grin at him. He doesn’t grin back, clearly lost in thoughts. (Methought: Of course HJ belongs to the other planet—Haryana. Now that was a racial slur. Bad girl!)
By now it seemed that Helpful Passenger had gotten tired of him.

Helpful Passenger: Tau Metro me zyada bolna mana hai. [Uncle speaking too much is banned in Metro]
But HJ is damn smart.
HJ: Ib dikha de k kidhar likha hai Silence. [Show me where is it written: Silence, obviously he meant Maintain Silence.] (But this was no time to display my subbing skills. There was too much excitement on the ground, or maybe in the air, or mid-air. Oh whatever! Just read on!)

Repeats the dialogue a number of times, much to the amusement of the people around.
(Methought: This guy is just too cool. I am his fan. Autograph please!)

HJ: Acha beta! Manne ye bata k je tumhara thaila kho jaye, to kahan report likhwani padti hai. Mera thaila kho gaya tha pichli baar Metro me. K wo mil jayega? [Son! Tell me where should I report if I lose my bag in the Metro. I lost my bag last time here. Will I get it back?]

By now it seemed to me as if Helpful Passenger was in a mood to have fun with HJ.

Helpful Passenger: Tau agar paise honge to kabhi na milega. [If it had money, you will never find it]
HJ: Na beta. Paise na the. Bas kuch kagaz they, kachcha aur baniyan tha. [It did not have money. It had a pair of undergarments]
Helpful Passenger: Driver se pooch lena. [Ask the driver].
(Methought: The driver must be wearing your kachcha [underwear] and baniyan [vest] right now. That too over this pants playing Superman. Now that was an old joke)

In between the conversation, HJ had already asked whether the train will go to Shahadra at least once more. While most of us were getting down at Kashmiri Gate (wonder why Kashmiri Gate. Kashmir is in Jammu and Kashmir, not in Delhi), he asked once more the same question.

(Methought: If he says it once more, I am gonna scream and say... No, this one goes to Timbaktu)

Miles to go...

The woods are lovely dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

-By Robert Frost

(Quoted from his poem: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)

The dadi ma of traffic

Cars and motorbikes. Trucks and buses. They all whizz past this gajagamini at a speed hardly visible to the naked eye. The gajagamini moves steadily and almost smilingly to herself as if it were the dadi ma of the traffic. Old, yet stable- almost like an old wine and now-a-days in a new bottle. After the IITians decided that rickshaw-walla bhaiyas would be better-off using these specially designed light rickshaws, these new bottles have been fastly replacing the old bottles in the by-lanes of Delhi. You'll find yourself lucky to find the older versions of cycle-rickshaws in Delhi today. May be in Purani Dilli.

With great impatience, I approached Hari, the Bihari rickshaw-wala bhaiya who hailed from Sirsa. Hari, his red T-shirt matching the red seat if the gajagamini, insisted that I pay him Rs 7 as he had to pay Rs 30 instead of the usual Rs 20 as the rickshaw rent. Moreover, with August 15 appeoaching, policemen had increased their pestering activities.

My growing impatience with the Universe (I returned home only to find it electricity-less. Hell! The Universe is out to get me) and the mounting interest in him persuaded me to give up my cribbing sessions of having to pay Rs 2 extra and to mount myself on the chariot. My Krishna (coincidence to the Mahabharata Krishna purely co-incidental... But hey!!!! I didn't notice that Krishna and Hari are the names of the Makhan-chor) started talking. "These policewallas are making life more and more difficult. If we get caught, we have to shell out Rs 600. After paying all sorts of rent, we are left with hardly Rs 100-125 in a day and Rs 600 comes as a big shock for us. We have to pay at least Rs 900 per month as rent. I live with 3 other people", he keeps on talking, like the Chameli of the movie Chameli, pointing expressedly to the policemen standing nearby.

"Don't you live with your family?", I goaded him into talking more. He shakes his head violently and goes on, "My family lives in the village. But there are several people here who live with their families." "So, when do you visit your family? Near Chath? (Chath is an important festival in Bihar. It is celebrated to mark the visit of Sri Ram to Bihar after he returned to Ayodhya from his Vanavas.)", I inquired. "Yes. I catch the North- east from New Delhi Raliway Station", he replied taking his eyes off from the road for a moment to look at me, eyes wondering why on earth this girl is asking so many questions.

"Do you know how to read and write? Till where have you studied?", my journalistic instinct had told me to loose all shame and ask more questions as it had the makings of a perfect little anecdote. "Yeah. I know how to read and write. I have studied upto class V. But I know only Hindi. I don't understand English", he adds sheepishly, almost ashamed. But he adds defensively, " We weren't taught English at that time before class VI. But today, even the little kids are taught English." He repeats the last line 2-3 times to strengthen the arguement that it wasn't really his fault that he didn't understand English. I agreed and mumbled a few incomprehensible sentences in agreement which Hari really didn't listen as he was already well into his story. "But I read the newspapers. These roadside vendors know me well." He puufs his chest, looking as proud as Aishwarya Rai while poiting at the newspaper vendors sitting by the road.

I noticed that it was time that I got off my stead and proceed towards my divine electricity-less abode. I ask Hari to stop the rickshaw-cum-dadi ma near the bend and climbed down clumsily. (Eating too many potatoes has turned me into a couch potato, I observe silently.) I pay him Rs. 7, never really feeling the Rs. 2 pinch as I had got the story that was much worth the extra 200 pasie I had to shell out.

Journalism is a dog's business, I conclude (Sorry, a bitch).
{But really, you guys should rather not repeat the last sentence. Remember, am a devil, out to get everyone.}