I always consider taking a taxi.
Every time I land in Bombay, I take an auto to Santa Cruz station. Then I come back the next time and consider taking a direct taxi again. But I never do.
Even the attendant at the exit looks at me, a fancy IndiGo flyer hauling a suitcase and managing not to trip, laughs at the thought of a prepaid taxi, and advises me to just take an auto to Parla. Airports have normal people and normal people recognise normal people. I agree with the flight attendant and as he leaves, he gives me a thumbs-up.
The taxi driver outside thinks he’s caught me when I tell him I need an auto to go to Fort. “Arre, madam, Fort mein autos nahin chalte hai, na?” he says in a singsong voice. “Par Santa Cruz station tak chalte hai, na?” I sing back cheekily. Still, he is amused. He doesn’t think someone could make it on the locals with a suitcase in the monsoon. It makes me sad to realise I didn’t think so either.
But after making eye contact with the auto driver in the meter queue, changing my mind is not an option, and I don’t want it to be. Even if the auto driver I’ve made eye contact with gestures for me to get into the auto in front of his, because there’s a line I haven’t noticed. I shove my suitcase inside and open the curtain to the rain, half wondering why people have more trust in the desked and uniformed system inside than the one here, half felling sad at the answer.
There is a line of autos parked in front of the stairs at Bandra’s east entrance. One of the drivers pulls his auto back to give me room to go through with my suitcase. There is a sign on the bridge that says, “Restricted Entry: Bonafide Passengers Only.”
The beggars, the shouting vendors, the children playing on the bridge, all before the sign – in the “unrestricted” area – all sink in as slowly as the meaning of the sign. Not everyone who lives and works and moves in the station is a passenger. I have spent the past year in restricted areas thinking they were normal. As I walk past, I look down the staircase before the sign, and see the rows and rows of houses on the tracks that I knew existed and never realised were home to people who were not allowed into the station like I am.
When I enter the Restricted Area, the surroundings speed up again, a dull pace, like a fast but bored machine.
I stand at the door of the train with my suitcase. I am vaguely aware of Dadar when I see half the compartment emptying out of the corner of my eye. Here is the last place where anyone will care that my salwar rolled up out of reach of my heels makes me look like I’m in very shabby pyjamas. The wind is too distracting. It comes in waves, hitting my face with the sound of the sea crashing against a boat; lurching, needing breathers, rhythmic in its unpredictability. Sea spray doesn’t smell this good. Nothing smells this good. Not even the disgusting fish at Churchgate station welcoming me home with raw, saline familiarity, mingling with the sounds of the cobblers, clapping their wooden boards.
The cab driver outside Churchgate refuses to take extra money when we find that neither of us has change. I like to think it’s because I put my head out the window singing, and wanted to talk about how long a wait it had been for the rains. He takes me to college quickly and I reach well ahead of time. Still, I will probably consider taking a prepaid taxi straight from the airport again next time.
bombay on the rocks 