He swayed six inches from my nose, his eyes shut, a ring of sweat gleaming in the crevices of his neck. His sparse, graying hair, thrown over his balding pate, was in disarray. My elbow dug into his fleshy forearm, sawing incessantly against his bone. His eyes opened briefly and he tilted his head just that bit to the left. Please, he meant. Don't. I drew back about half an inch before the man behind and to the left of me stirred into life and pushed back. There is no place for that here. There's never any place in the second class in a peak-hour Virar train, unless you make it. So I pulled just my arm back, shifting shirt and sweat in the process. The man just behind straightened, opened his eyes, didn't react to my ingratiating nod, and then sank back, his head against his arm. It wasn't tiredness really, just a state he -- and everybody else -- entered into once they got inside the compartment. It's hot and muggy, and the fans circulating the humid air, did little to reduce our discomfiture. But we hung on to the straps, the rest of our bodies limp, waiting for Bhayander where the pressure will suddenly ease as the train spits out a part of its load. Things are not very different in the first class, of course. But there, a kind of muted snobbery ensures that no one will rest his weight on the other -- unless pushed, of course. As the railway demands, only one person will occupy a seat. And, other than a few unruly elements, very few passengers speak very loudly. It is, of course, a statement of the injured: They may have to endure the indignity of life in the distant suburbs, the press of people, the insult of being jostled by those many classes beneath them, but their status is intact, their amour propre jogged but rarely. To differentiate themselves from the rabble, they ensure they courteously allow those who come in early to occupy a vacated seat first. And then they stand back stiffly, eyes averted, awaiting the arrival of their destination. Those in the second class who have managed to occupy seats have come in early, placing their belongings on the surrounding seats to book seats for their friends. Some of them sing dolorous songs from the yesteryear, their energy flagging as the journey wears on. And slowly the inexorable clacking of the train takes over. The crowd has increased and I'm actually bent over. The old man is leaning away from me, pressing into the man in the corner seat. He looks up, just to ensure that I amn't feeling aggressive and grabbing more place than I should. I smile ruefully at him and he smiles back; there's nothing to be done. Today, the trip is a little more comfortable than most, for, earlier than we expected, the seats began emptying. Quite suddenly, we weren't scrunched up together like pebbles in a box; the saturated air was actually drifting down slowly through the crevices between people. Another station and we didn't even have other passengers leaning on us. The seats began emptying and the old man found a seat. Immediately after, the man opposite him got up and I slid in quickly. I've been hanging on the straps and, anyway, it was either me or the next man. I looked up at the old man. Our eyes met and then quickly turned elsewhere. Friendship, except that of necessity, can be an obligation. My stop came and I got off. Naturally, I didn't know if the old man was still there or not. Senior Assistant Editor P Rajendran resumed travel by the Bombay suburban rail network recently. Illustrator Dominic Raja Xavier has travelled by train for 15 years now.
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