Trains, Planes, and Automo-rickshaws

14 August 2011

An autorickshaw, often just referred to as an 'auto.'

If you had asked two weeks ago, I would have told you that I have only lived in one city in my life: Kathmandu.

If you were to ask me that same question now, I would say I have lived in one city in my life: Mumbai. Kathmandu, I have learned, is a ‘rural’ city. By size comparison, I think it could fit in Old City Bombay. Still, by the end of my time in Kathmandu, I felt victorious--'mastering' any city in some small way, even just by knowing how to get to and from the 'most important things' (cultural landmarks, government buildings, neighborhoods, shops I liked, my apartment) like everyone else was thrilling. Coming to India, I relished the idea of taking public transportation, fond memories of Kathmandu informing this symbol of my comfort in a place.

The first time I saw a Mumbai train station I almost peed my pants. I could barely see the platform for the people—people getting on and off, selling things from stands in and outside the station, rushing from one platform to the other, hanging from the door of the train. Just an unreal amount of people.  

Mumbai is obviously bigger than KTM and I knew that—it’s the biggest city in India for heaven’s sake. But I was unprepared for how different it would be. It is a sprawling expanse of concrete buildings struggling for even practical survival, making no attempt at aesthetic pleasure. It is arteries of mostly unmarked roads, so to get anywhere you have to know someone who knows someone who knows where you want to go and finds the same landmarks important to mention.  It is trains that save hours in transit by never closing their doors. It is a fast dance of millions and millions of people living together.

It’s awesome though—moving around here. India is not so cheap, as Poonam would say, but it does depend on what you’re talking about. Flats? Forget it—many are as expensive as Manhattan. Transportation on the other hand—I took an autorickshaw to the train and a bus back from it and spent 25 Rs. That’s about 60 cents. Take those price hikes Washington, D.C.!

Of course, Washington would never snuggle so well. Shilpi's sister Anshu was surprised when I told her that in the US, if a train was going to become so crowded, under most usual circumstances, they just wouldn't get on. Here, everyone just needs to get home. For women traveling alone to safely ride these trains, there are Ladies Only cars, denoted by yellow and green stripes. It is awkward enough literally being butt to butt with people up and down the stairs during rush hour, so I’m glad I’m riding the train with another woman who understands if my elbow grazes her in a sensitive place. We seem to become one accepting bundle. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of shoving involved in getting on and off the train, but the aggression isn’t malicious. It’s just a thing. We’re all trying to get off and on in the 20 seconds it “stops” at the station and that’s the only way to make sure it happens. My western idea of my personal bubble has popped. Once you get on, you’re pretty much where you are. It is possible to shift where you’re standing, but it’s tricky. There is a lot of half smiling and finger pointing in this nearly wordless ritual, “Are you getting off on this side? Oh ok, me too,” or  “Dahisar? Yeah, I’m getting off there, excuse me.”

Maybe think of it as that kooky flour based 1^st grade science experiment, I forget what it’s called—putting pressure on the mixture makes it solid, releasing the pressure it makes it liquid. We’re one mass between stations, but flow away from each other on the platform.