The Virar-Churchgate Local
Total Word Count-2503(Including Title)
For twenty-seven-year-old Maragadham, who had spent her formative years in the town of Tirupur in Tamil Nadu, the prospect of navigating the local train system of Mumbai was nothing short of a challenge. The mechanical precision with which locals recited train timings—8:13, 9:09, 6:11—was a stark contrast to the laid-back lifestyle she was accustomed to.
It seemed, at first, like a playful puzzle. Little did Maragadham realize that these seemingly trivial numbers would soon weave themselves into the very fabric of her new existence, dictating her daily rhythm.
“You really ought to consider the 8:12 Virar local,” her husband, Ratnavel, advised, his gaze fixed on the screen of his mobile phone that displayed the train timetable.
“My branch doesn’t even open until 10.” Maragadham protested. The thought of leaving home two hours ahead of her scheduled bank hours filled her with a sense of bewilderment.
For the past three years, since she had secured a bank job in Tirupur, Maragadham had developed a routine so relaxed: Getting on to her bike just fifteen minutes before her work began at 10 AM. She would effortlessly glide home by 6:15 PM, where her mother waited with snacks and hot coffee.
“So?” Ratnavel’s eyebrows arched. “This isn’t Tirupur! Your branch is miles away, located in CHURCHGATE.” He pronounced that last word with exaggeration as if to underline its significance. “It’s going to take precisely 1 hour and 27 minutes from Virar to Churchgate.”
“One and a half hours!” she gasped. It suddenly shook her when she realised that she had to return home also via the same route.
“No, one hour and 27 minutes,” he corrected her again, as though reassuring her that the precious three minutes saved would somehow make all the difference.
(1)
“But… isn’t our place named Vasayee? What’s this Virar business?” Her eyes widened with confusion as she began to grapple with the local nomenclature.
“It’s not Vasayee; it’s Vasai,” he clarified, and she wondered if the distinction really mattered.
“Virar is where the train begins its journey. The 8:12 local will take approximately 10 minutes to arrive at Vasai. So, the train will reach our station at 8:22 and arrive at Churchgate by 9:39,” he explained.
Maragadham’s head spun with the daunting precision of the calculations.
“And then,” Ratnavel continued, his tone casual, as if this entire scenario were merely part of a play. “You can catch the 6:11 PM local back home. Lucky you, your bank is just a stone’s throw away from the station.”
Was he attempting to put a silver lining on a rather grey cloud? Who was lucky, she or he? Ratnavel worked in a company that was in Vasai. He could leave at 8:45 for a 9:00 AM office and be home by 6:00 PM.
‘And 6:11 plus 1 hour and 27 minutes…’ Just as Maragadham began to unravel the complexities in her mind, Ratnavel interrupted her thought process again.
“It will actually take 1 hour and 17 minutes to reach Vasai,” he asserted confidently, as though the ten-minute nuance could tip the balance of her entire daily routine.
“The morning train will, of course, be crowded at 8:12. There is a 50 percent chance of you getting a seat, but there’s an alternative.” He seemed to delight in offering her an endless supply of optimistic alternatives.
“What’s that?” she asked, her interest waning. Secretly, in her heart, she wished for a branch closer to home, wondering what lunacy propelled the administration staff to assign her to a far-flung corner of such an expansive city.
“Well,” Ratnavel cleared his throat. “You could take the 7:37 AM train to Virar. It’s a much better plan! You will find a seat where you can sit back and relax until you get to your destination. The train reaches Virar by 7:47, and then it transitions seamlessly into the 8:12 Virar-Churchgate local.” Oh, how cleverly laid out this grand vision seemed!
(2)
He had, however, conveniently overlooked one substantial detail: Catching the 7:37 train would necessitate her leaving home by 7:20 AM. The local station was a good ten-minute walk—and on a lucky day, she might snag a share auto for just ten rupees, but more often, the auto drivers would demand thirty-five rupees for a solo fare.
If Maragadham had to be out by 7:20, that meant she would need to rise at 5 AM to prepare breakfast and pack lunch for both herself and Ratnavel, before taking a bath and getting dressed presentably. The latter would hardly assist in kitchen activities, for his mother’s stern words echoed in her ears: “He can’t cook anything. He doesn’t even know how to make a cup of tea!”
What an accomplishment that was for a thirty-two-year-old man!
The notion of hiring a cook or a helper had sailed right out the window. With an EMI for their home loan looming over their heads, financial constraints acted like iron shackles, binding their choices.
And so, life unfolded. On Maragadham’s first day of work, fortune smiled upon her as she miraculously snagged a seat inside the women’s compartment of the 8:12 Virar local.
‘How is this compartment supposed to accommodate any more individuals on its route?’ Maragadham found herself bewildered by this maelstrom of human activity. The only crowds she had ever seen before were during festive seasons in her beloved Tirupur.
The morning journey had only just begun, but already, she knew there were stories to be written, lessons to be learned, and a life being carved out in ways she had never imagined.
“Which station are you getting off at?” A lady draped in a vibrant yellow saree that swayed with her authoritative demeanour, asked. Her voice, sharp yet laced with an undertone of concern, cut through the chatter of the compartment. She spoke in chaste Hindi, but Maragadham could understand Hindi very well.
“Churchgate,” Maragadham replied, her voice barely rising above a whisper, tinged with a hint of trepidation. The lady muttered an assortment of expletives under her breath and began to work her way down the aisle, interrogating each woman seated in turn. She was trying to get a seat when a commuter would alight.
(3)
A flicker of hope illuminated her face upon hearing the reply of a college girl seated a few rows down. However, the moment of joy was fleeting.
As the college girl stood to vacate her seat, another lady, quick and cunning, slid into the vacancy. What ensued was a cacophony of voices, sharp and accusatory, as the two women hurled words like missiles at each other.
“Did you pay to reserve this seat?” demanded the lady who had taken the place.
“But I told her I’d take it when she gets up! Didn’t I?” retorted the woman in yellow, her indignation palpable as she gripped the arm of the commuter who was trying to extricate herself from the rowdy brawl.
“Just let me through, you both can argue till eternity. I’m late for my first lecture!” The hapless college student pushed her way towards the exit. The quarrel persisted, with both women pointing fingers at each other.
Amidst the turmoil, Maragadham found herself disoriented. The train sped through, and she had no clue what the stations were called. The digital display board, with audio, within the compartment, was usually a reliable source of information, but it was obscured by the sea of draped fabrics and animated chatter surrounding her.
She wasn’t perturbed anyway. Hers was the last station, and everyone was expected to disembark there, unless someone wished to take back the route in the same train, which would now assume the name of the Churchgate-Virar local.
A man stepped into the ladies’ compartment, a bundle of wares in tow. His arms were laden with bangles, earrings, hair clips, and an array of glittering items. Maragadham’s first instinct was to question his presence—wasn’t this against the rules? But then he was selling ladies’ goods, what would he do in a men’s compartment?
The commuters seamlessly shifted positions, intrigued by the unsolicited market stall that the man unfolded before them.
By the time the train rolled to a stop at the next station, the sly salesman had managed to sell nearly 250 rupees worth of goods. He disembarked with a self-satisfied smirk while the ladies who had indulged in his wares began adorning themselves on the spot, adjusting their new purchases with glee.
(4)
With each station that passed, it seemed that the tide of women boarding far outnumbered those exiting. Maragadham couldn’t shake off the sense that every woman in Mumbai must have embarked on a collective journey heading toward Churchgate.
Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a small boy—no older than nine-who clumsily wedged his way through the throng of passengers. He sidled up to each person, nudging knees and elbows in his path, and displaying his bare, bleeding feet with an earnest plea for charity to buy a pair of slippers.
Almost as if summoned by fate, a man selling slippers appeared out of thin air. Empathy stirred within Maragadham, and she decided to act. Without hesitation, she offered to purchase a pair for the young boy. His face lit up with a radiant smile as he accepted her kindness, and just like that, Maragadham’s purse felt lighter—110 rupees spent. As she observed the dispassionate responses of the other ladies around her, she couldn’t help but feel a swell of anger rise in her chest. ‘Poor child, his feet are bleeding, yet no one else cares enough to help him,’ she mused bitterly.
A pause enveloped the compartment as the minor drama subsided. Maragadham leaned back in her seat, her gaze wandering to a woman knitting a sweater. The rhythmic motion of her needles seemed untouched by the surrounding chaos as if she were in a world of her own, painstakingly creating warmth despite the chill of the cramped space.
On the other side, another woman was equally engrossed, fashioning a beautiful crochet coaster, her artistry blossoming exquisitely as time slipped away. By the time she had to disembark, her handiwork was complete.
Maragadham’s attention, however, was swiftly broken by a troubling sight. With the stealth of a seasoned con artist, she noticed a decently dressed lady reach effortlessly into the handbag of another commuter. The unsuspecting woman was entirely absorbed in her phone conversation. Maragadham watched in disbelief as the thief deftly extracted two hundred rupees from the purse.
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. There was a silent plea from the thief, a warning not to make a scene, as if she were caught in a web of desperation herself. Stunned into silence, Maragadham could hardly utter a word, her mind racing with the implications of what she had witnessed.
(5)
Finally, the train screeched to a stop at precisely 9:39 AM. The passengers surged towards the exit. Maragadham, still digesting the chaotic medley of emotions and actions she had encountered, found herself among the last to alight. Just as she stepped onto the platform, the woman from earlier, the thief, approached her with a pleading look.
“Madam, please,” she implored, pointing in the vague direction of the station exit. “My child is gravely ill with pneumonia and is in the hospital. I need some money. I swear, I’m not a thief.” There, in that moment, as the two women stood in the swirl of bustling commuters, Maragadham was torn between disbelief and compassion, grappling with the tangled web of humanity that existed within the very train compartment she had just exited.
“Can you help, madam? Even a small amount would do.” Her eyes became misty, stirring the heart of Maragadham. She fumbled for her purse and gave her a 100-rupee note. The lady touched her feet with reverence and left.
It was already 9.50 when Maragadham got out of the station.
She heaved a sigh as she found her way to the bank and arrived five minutes before office hours. After completing the formalities, she began her work. It was a packed day, unlike a few customers in her hometown, people swarmed here.
After a hectic day, she got back into the bustling station. The 6.11 Churchgate-Virar local was there. She got into the lady’s compartment, and as if God had heard her prayers, there was a window seat empty.
As the train buzzed, she looked at the moving buildings and trees. At the next station, she caught a glimpse of the same nine-year-old boy who had asked for a pair of slippers in the morning, on the platform. His feet were conspicuously naked again, and he was having biscuits sitting with the same man who had sold the slippers.
Maragadham couldn’t help but smile. ‘What a Modus Operandi?’ The boy would ask commuters for slippers. The man, probably his father, would suddenly appear, and a benevolent commuter like Maragadham would buy a pair, which the man would take back, and the play would continue on another train. Maybe she thought they would change the route after a few days to avoid confronting the same commuters.
(6)
No one was knitting in the compartment, but some ladies had bought leafy vegetables, and some peas. They were peeling the green peas, holding it in their lap with precision, and leaving
the skin in a bag. The leaves of the leafy vegetables were neatly removed and placed in a bag. They looked set for preparing dinner for the night, while Maragadham’s stomach churned, wondering what she would prepare for dinner, and when.
How she missed her mother’s evening snack and steaming cup of coffee!
Suddenly, Maragadham heard two ladies conversing about the price of a saree. The intonation of one of them sounded very familiar.
Who did Maragadham know in this city? She was new here. Nevertheless, she strained her neck to look at the person speaking and was shocked to see the female pickpocket dressed elegantly, discussing designer sarees.
Where was her kid affiliated with pneumonia? Yet another drama!
Should she open up to Ratnavel about her having been a victim of subterfuge? No, she better not, he might either flare up or laugh at her.
When she reached home, Ratnavel was waiting for her.
The table for two was neatly laid. “Here, darling, I made this dish learning from YouTube,” he said with a smile as he displayed a mass of curry. “Rotis I got from out. I will learn to prepare it soon.” He assured her. “Go freshen up and let us have dinner.”
Maragadham could see the effort her husband, who lacked the basic knowledge of brewing coffee or making tea, had put forth to alleviate her distress. Though the kitchen was in a mess, Maragadham’s heart felt light. She had help now, maybe in the morning too.
The Virar-Churchgate local and the return journey had taught her so many life lessons, and it had dragged her husband into the kitchen.
Would she prefer to apply for a branch closer to her?
(7)