A day

The tracks lie forlorn, a subject of scrutiny of hundreds of awaiting eyes. Impatient eyes glance the dial and eyebrows rise in anxiety. Beads of perspiration begin their descent from the nape of the neck traveling along the spine...the blotches of sweat on the otherwise starched cotton shirts, reminds one of a successful water balloon attack.

An occasional stray breeze is greedily enjoyed. Normalcy assaults, “the train is delayed by 10 minutes,” the mechanical voice announces, immediately targeted by curses and profanities. Victim of a delayed time zone, the Mumbai station resumes buzzing.

Dadar, a suburban Mumbai station - a living graveyard of sleeping people, dogs and luggage carts, in the wee hours of the morning. The silence is broken as the usual goods carrier train rumbles by, the natural alarm clock for the sleeping inhabitants of the platform. A hierarchical array of sounds is heard- The station is waking up. The fizz of the boiling milk , gushing tap water meeting the aluminum pot with a clang, a crackling of oil and immediately a wafting smell of fresh vadas assails the nostrils.

Gradually the station fills up, every hour bringing in an influx of different sorts of commuters. Clumps of students, women and workers engage in animated conversations peppered with exclamations and giggles. The beggar kids, palms outstretched, flit between various groups, briefly touching arms, tapping them lightly or tugging at saree pallus and pant pockets, requesting for a rupee or two, gesturing to their malnourished stomachs. Often their tiny arms are roughly jerked off , adult faces spilling distaste. Their eyes momentarily reflects hurt; despair lining their grimy faces. But money has to be made and food to be eaten. Shrugging their emotions off, they scamper away.

The tapping of wood against wood blended into the sounds of thousands of footsteps is spontaneously rhythmic. The boot polisher, sits amidst his world of shoes, a livelihood earned by touching scores of feet. Unemployed interviewees, blue and white collar, service sector workers, betel-chewing businessmen and corporate personnel place their shoes on the pedestal with equal authority, united against grime. The brush gets to work, a rag chafes the excess polish and the shoe glimmers

Colourful plastic baskets concealing a treasure house of cheap accessories under a rag cloth are seen bobbing over the crowd, precariously balanced on adolescent girls and boys’ heads. These amateur business men and women come armed with the little tricks of the trade. “One hair clip is for Rs 10 , but I will give you two in eight rupees, after all you are my ‘favourite’ customer”, says the grinning face. Often, while making through a jostling crowd, their little, swaying bodies are unable to steady the basket on their heads. Their strength giving away, the basket topples to the ground and clicking plastic bodies are strewn on the stone floor. With a quick curse, the treasure is hastily reassembled and the rag cloth restored.

Hard-work and hunger inscribe every nook of the railway station, misery being a harsh reality. Every station, having an assortment of smells, sights and people unique to its own. A part of permanence- a part of the station’s inimitable history!