Time was when a Bombay to Goa journey by bus was romantic. It inspired Bollywood to make Bombay to Goa in 1972. Now, Bombay to Pune (or back) by train has that same romanticism and may some day inspire Hollywood. Off on a doctor's visit, to meet friends in Pune (or Poona, where I worked for three enjoyable years), by the Deccan Express (or was it the Queen?) at 06:35 hours IST from Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (Victoria Terminus or VT to you and me) meant waking up at 04:00 hours IST. I'm paranoid about missing early morning trains. If I wake up on time, I'm afraid about a breakdown in the suburban rail services that will make me miss my outstation train. Or anything unexpected. Bombay is unpredictable, you just cannot tell. Fortunately, I reached CST well in time. An hour before departure time. And I thanked God for that. The Bombay to Pune train journey was so enjoyable that I could bore you with details. Everything was fine. The weather (cool). The nearby passengers (including a 52-year-old woman who read old magazines all along). The caterers (a hot cuppa tea). The view (scenic). Everything so boringly fine. The trouble began a few minutes before departure, on my return journey. I had the 16:05 Koyna Express to catch the same day and my friends were well informed about it. So, they reached me (after jumping a few traffic signals and scrapping past another careless scooterist) precisely five minutes before departure, at Pune railway station. Two bags in hand, I made a dash for the train. A few minutes went in locating the train and the platform. Another minute in boarding it. And, wow, I made it! But, there was more trouble ahead. All seats were occupied and there was hardly an inch of empty space in the alleys. Was it not supposed to be a reserved compartment, I wondered. Was not my ticket confirmed, I wondered. I was paranoid again. I dug out my ticket, checked the seat number, and pushed my way ahead, shoving every perceivable person in my path aside and stomping on their toes. Dammit, I had my seat to find. I located my seat. Horror: It was occupied! There were four passengers seated on a seat meant for three. I stared (killer looks) at the guilty and told him to get off. He arose in a second, very sheepishly. The lady by his side (Mother? Grandmother?) also arose in fear and then plonked herself back on realising that I was only claiming only one seat in the middle (or was it in the muddle?). I looked around after all that happened in a little more than a minute. The train moved (I thanked God, yet again) and picked up speed quickly. Thank God, I had made it. A boy opposite me grinned as I settled down, adjusting my bags and my backside and legs to a comfortable position (impossible, I soon realised). I stared at him (again, killer looks). He continued grinning. I was paranoid again. I checked my pant zip, adjusted my hair, wiped my face with a brand new handkerchief. It helped not. There was nothing wrong with me, I confirmed. Five minutes later, we reached Shivajinagar station in Pune. More people boarded the already packed compartment. There were innumerable arguments all around, of passengers claiming their reserved seats. Some claimants were challenged, others went unchallenged. ''Who are you? Are you a ticket collector? Show me your reservation,'' yelled one, struggling to keep his mother and his two sons intact. Infants started wailing. Women got more vociferous. Temperatures rose. All through, the lady to my left sat, feet on the seat, unperturbed, while the lady to my right kept getting shoved (and shoving me in the process) each time someone (hawkers, fellow passengers wanting to visit the loo...) decided to move along. She cursed, but it did not help. The boy opposite continued grinning at me. The next station brought some relief. Nearly. All those seated opposite me were forced into standing positions. I now grinned at the boy opposite me. Served him right, naughty brat. I could not stand him. As each station passed, I tried various angles for a comfortable sitting position. It did not work. All positions (nothing to do with the Kamasutra) led to aches in various parts of the body. The wailing increased. The yelling continued. The heat increased and sweat flowed like a flooded river as we neared Bombay. Karjat saw a flood of vada paav (Bombay's cheaper answer to McDonald's burgers) hawkers enter the compartment. Hot stuff. Steaming hot and pungent were the vada paavs and the passengers. My appetite spiked, I was just waiting for the nightmare to end. The shoving, nudging, stepping-on-toes continued. Those in the alley threatened to spill over into the space between the seats. I warned off one of the evicted men. He protested, but it did not help him much. I had my way. The windows did not help freshen up the air too. It all had the touch of a mobile market place. Regulars told me it was a common sight. One of them, in the public relations business in Pune, even proudly showed off his fractured hand, which he suffered while trying to claim his reserved seat. Five hours later, I was back on home turf. I actually survived the Pune to Bombay journey. Bombay to Pune, how romantic? Not always. It will make a good Hollywood chiller. Never shall Anthony D'Costa make the mistake of a railway reservation again! Illustration: Dominic Xavier MORE FROM ANTHONY D'COSTA: I heard it on satellite digital radio The wife is angry. Very angry. Tell us what you think of this diary
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