A War
It was a bandh, but unlike Kolkata where a bandh would mean that life comes to a standstill (still have happy memories of playing cricket on the streets during these days). Unlike Kolkata, the Mumbai bandh is very manipulative. Come to work in the morning, everything is hunky-dory and as you quit office, Lo Behold! The tranportation is not there anymore. In fact, going one step further, a popular Hindi News Channel reporter said in an agitated voice, "Ye Maa Apne Bachhon se door kaam karne aaye the, ab bachhon ke paas nahi jaa rahe. Iske baare mein Aapki kya Rai Hai?" (This mother has come to work, and now cannot go back to her kids. What do you feel about this?). Factor in emotion 1000 times to this by the reporter, and you have a soap-opera ready to watch from the comfort of your living rooms, where your SMS will make the difference to the hysterical Maa's life.
But as one stood in a line for the shared cab to the station, the comfort of the living room was the ultimate utopia I could imagine. Suddenly the phone rang. It was a friend who had left in the earlier group. "There's a line to get ON the platform! People are clinging on to any bits of a train they can. It's like Doomsday is here, and the only way to escape is to hold on to that moving cliff". Sufficiently horrified, I decided that today was NOT the day to think about saving up. Next option - bus. Suddenly, it was Kolkata back again - only this time the image was that of an 18B near Exide at 5.30 PM. Apart from a couple of fingernails, its just air all around you, and even for that honour you would need to run like Maurice Green and fight like Vijender Singh. The last executive way (and which should have been more obvious earlier) was cabbing it home. But that would mean spending 20 times more than usual. At these times, the personal Cash Flow Statement was the last thing on my mind. Had also read enough in Grisham books about interns (at law) spending nights in the office to dispel such thoughts.
As I saw the cab approaching, I could hear knuckles cracking, necks jerking in anticipation. The 30 odd people had certainly waited long enough. A jump start became inevitable. It was suddenly a war. The nice guy at the next cubicle was suddenly a stranger. As I braced myself for the inevitable scrum, suddenly the three words flashed in my mind..."Korbo. Lorbo. Jeetbo"....
Epilogue : All because assistant train drivers suddenly became irked at being social and economic equivalent of a khallasi [No English equivalent]
The experience of the author went on become a practical guide to a struggling team who lacked the 'fighting ability in crucial moments' to attain greater heights in the next editions of a cricket league.
[Disclaimer: The above article is entirely a work of fiction. Well, almost.]
But as one stood in a line for the shared cab to the station, the comfort of the living room was the ultimate utopia I could imagine. Suddenly the phone rang. It was a friend who had left in the earlier group. "There's a line to get ON the platform! People are clinging on to any bits of a train they can. It's like Doomsday is here, and the only way to escape is to hold on to that moving cliff". Sufficiently horrified, I decided that today was NOT the day to think about saving up. Next option - bus. Suddenly, it was Kolkata back again - only this time the image was that of an 18B near Exide at 5.30 PM. Apart from a couple of fingernails, its just air all around you, and even for that honour you would need to run like Maurice Green and fight like Vijender Singh. The last executive way (and which should have been more obvious earlier) was cabbing it home. But that would mean spending 20 times more than usual. At these times, the personal Cash Flow Statement was the last thing on my mind. Had also read enough in Grisham books about interns (at law) spending nights in the office to dispel such thoughts.
As I saw the cab approaching, I could hear knuckles cracking, necks jerking in anticipation. The 30 odd people had certainly waited long enough. A jump start became inevitable. It was suddenly a war. The nice guy at the next cubicle was suddenly a stranger. As I braced myself for the inevitable scrum, suddenly the three words flashed in my mind..."Korbo. Lorbo. Jeetbo"....
Epilogue : All because assistant train drivers suddenly became irked at being social and economic equivalent of a khallasi [No English equivalent]
The experience of the author went on become a practical guide to a struggling team who lacked the 'fighting ability in crucial moments' to attain greater heights in the next editions of a cricket league.
[Disclaimer: The above article is entirely a work of fiction. Well, almost.]
loved it.....man u r becomin my favourite now.....n thnx for sharing the KOLKATA experiences here.....became nostalgic....18B,21/1,3B n finally our suicidal sweetheart-the metro..suicidal coz it ws the hot fav for most losers to kill themselves.....don get to see any such thing out here in NAMMU URU BENGALURU!!!! keep blogging.
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