As a kid I invariably began my Sunday mornings by boldly going to places where no man has gone before. Courtesy, the Star Trek on Doordarshan. Years later I saw a black-and-white classic on TNT which showed that there were such places closer home than among the stars. Namely, the ladies' room. At age 25 I discovered another such place: the ladies' compartment of a suburban train in Bombay, where I recently found myself being woken up by a pandu. Sure I like women. Voyeurism is one of my pleasures, but then I take it I'm joined by all men on that count. But I would never think of boldly or otherwise going to a ladies' compartment to engage in that fantasy. But, like I said, I got caught travelling in one. What happened, you see, was this: I broke my glasses, without which I am almost as good as a bat, saw in my blurred vision the familiar yellow-and-red stripes signifying a first class compartment, and hopped in with alacrity. It was empty. But then, the first class being empty during the afternoons isn't an unfamiliar sight. Just before the train started a girl got in. I saw her looking at me. Couldn't make out her expression, though. Women travel in men's compartment, as during the non-peak hours their compartments tend to be empty and they would rather have company than travel alone and get mugged. I closed my eyes and dozed off. When you can't see much you feel very sleepy. If I was really blind I might spend my time in a state of coma or yawning every waking hour, I am sure. Anyway, I thought faraway thoughts. Then I felt a prod on my shoulder. Thinking it was some guy who had lost his balance, I went on thinking faraway thoughts. The next prod was violent. I opened my eyes. A blurry constable was standing over me. "Kidhar baita hai [Where are you sitting]?" he asked. Ah, he wanted to see my railway pass. I put my hand in my wallet and produced it. "Ladies' compartment mein baita hai, chal, ut [You are sitting in the ladies' compartment. C'mon, get up]," was his response. He caught my shoulder. I managed to extract it from his huge palms with some difficulty. (I'm not much in the biceps department.) As we got out I saw the girl still looking at me. This time she shook her head. "Stupid cow!" I cursed mentally. "Couldn't she simply have told me that I was in the ladies' compartment?" Hell, she could have cried 'Rape' and I would have jumped off the running train if she wanted! I started to explain to the cop. He was by then joined by a crowd of locals. "I'm a journalist," I explained producing my press identification card. "I have broken my glasses and can't see properly..." Unfortunately, my ID snap showed me with no spectacles. The fact didn't go unnoticed. So I took out my railway ID card, which had me staring from behind a solid pair of glasses. "Haath mein mobile hain aur dikhta nahin hai [A mobile phone in your hand, but you can't see]?" That was from a brilliant, barefoot tapori in an unwashed shirt. If this was the line of questioning that was going to be pursued, I said, I would rather be taken to the station master. The constable smiled, picked his teeth energetically and, still picking it, took me to a small dinghy, empty enclosure. "Andhar baito, abhi judge aayega tab baat karna. [Sit in there. The judge will come now, you can speak to him]." I looked at him. Judge, hah! Once when I was caught crossing the tracks at Andheri station, two station officials had made me sit in a similar room for the judge to arrive. After two hours they made their play, going through the good-guy-bad-guy-routine. From the Rs 500 they started with, they came down to Rs 50, and finally settled for Rs 30. "Boss, I am a journalist," I started again. The last thing I wanted was to spend the next two hours in that hot room. The constable stopped me. Another pandu called him out for a beedi break. I could overhear them discussing my case and laughing. You know, it's funny. Women travel in men's compartment all the time, even when it is packed like sardines. Yet, if we get in their compartment it's an offence! I mean, I can sit with them in school on the same bench, I can work with them in the same office, I can share the dance floor with them, I can watch movies in their company, I can be in the same shop as them, I can travel in the same bus as them... BUT I cannot travel in their compartment! Did I miss something? School kids with 'mature' intents get into their compartments all the time and local thugs with no tickets hang on to the door railings. They never get caught. And if some guy with a first class pass, with a genuine reason, like me, gets on, he must pay for the sins of the others! Now I knew what Christ went through, being crucified for the sins of mankind. Sure enough, the hustling started soon. Here's, in English, how the constables went about their routine. Good cop: What happened? I told him the whole story. Bad cop: How many fingers are these? I avoided the question and decided to negotiate. "What's the fine?" Good cop: "Usually it's Rs 1,000. But since you are a genuine case it's Rs 500." Well, I knew how to bargain. I started. "The girl didn't complain I was sleeping when he told me I was in the wrong compartment," I said pointing to the bad cop. "Besides, I just travelled three stations." And so it went. Finally, the bad cop announced gruffly. "Not less than Rs 200." That sounded reasonable. I handed over the amount. They shook my hand and smiled. I walked back to the platform, looking for a first class compartment for gents. Suparn Verma takes mighty good care of his glasses now.
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