Bombay
I decided to go to Bombay this past weekend (Sat-Tue) because I needed to apply for a Swedish residence permit at the Consulate there and I also wanted to see the city.

I had the AKI secretary book me a ticket on Tuesday, but by the time the train-people (Indian National Railways, the largest employer in the world) got back to her, my ticket in both directions was a wait-listed ticket. Trains are a perfect example of the functioning chaos of India. To book a ticket, you can call, go online, or go to the station—so far, so good. The choices of train accommodation are crazy—I don’t understand them myself. From what I understand, you can go first class AC sleeper, second class AC sleeper, second class two tier, second class three tier, second class upright seat, and general. I don’t think there is a third class, but I like to think of India as one big third class ride—its more smelly and uncomfortable than other countries, but definitely an adventure.

If you get your ticket, you are not necessarily booked onto the train in any particular space. You have the right to be on the train (you paid for the ticket), but the train can very well not have any space for you. Your ticket can assign you to a specific berth (if you book early enough, for Bombay: more than one week ahead), it can be a RAC ticket (reservation against cancellation—if someone cancels their ticket you get their seat), or your ticket can be WL (wait listed). Since I booked so late, I had a WL ticket.

One guy in the office knows everything about trains and he advised me as follows:

You have a wait listed ticket. If your train leaves at 9pm, show up to the platform at 7:45, because the train might have arrived early. Check the notice board on the platform—your ticket may have been bumped up to RAC or CNF (confirmed berth). Assuming you are still WL, find the TC (ticket checker) and ask him if you can have a seat. He will say no. Then bribe him, but you must not offer less than 50 rupees but pay no more than 100. If he continues to say no, then maybe the train is really full. In that case you can go to the general compartment and sit there, but be careful because people will steal from you. If you don’t want to go to the general compartment, you can find a courier man, who is responsible for accompanying packages from Ahmedabad to Bombay in the mail train. You will not know how to recognize them because they don’t wear uniforms, but if you think you see one you can pay them to give up their seat or put their mail in the aisle so you can sleep wherever the mail would otherwise be. If this doesn’t work, then you can speak to someone at the information desk and maybe then can call the station ahead and see if that station master has any tickets.

I figured there were enough options there to ensure I would not be sleeping on the floor that night, and I was wrong. The train really was full, although the TCs were all the biggest assholes I have ever had to deal with. They were so useless it was funny. Funny, as in I laughed because their incompetence, utter laziness, rudeness, filthy habits, disdain for the passengers, fat-ugly-smelly-hairy-I-cant-believe-youre-the-same-species-as-me existence represented, for me, all that is wrong with India. Funny, as in it caused me discomfort. Funny, as in I laughed just like when I had the warts on my feet burned off with liquid nitrogen and it hurt like hell and all I could do was laugh.

I systematically tried all the options that had been so optimistically suggested to me earlier in the day, and none of them worked. So I walked up and down the train looking for a sympathetic TC, which is like looking for a healthy dog or slim middle-aged woman in Ahmedabad—they simply don’t exist. But in the process, I met some fellow WLs, whom I sat with for about an hour while pondering why I came to this uncivil and most unsavoury country. After realising that the slouched-over cross-legged position is not sustainable for someone of my limited flexibility for any period of time, I decided to see if I could sleep on the floor between a pair of bunks. But I was shooed away repeatedly like some sick animal or annoying tout—people said to me’jow’, ‘go from here’,etc. This wasn’t really insulting me, but I did have the urge (I’m not ashamed to recall) to yell, “You smell! Take a bloody shower and let me have your berth!" But maybe Indian national railways is not the worst thing about India. Maybe it is the great equalizer, because even with my marginal bank account that turns into a fortune here, I can’t buy myself a place on the floor of a second class sleeper train.

I did finally find a charitable couple that allowed me to sleep on their floor, and as I slowly lowered myself into the narrow space between the beds, I think one of them said “god bless”, which made me smile, although he might have been speaking Hindi and could have said something along the lines of “I’m too tired now but in the morning I will spit paan-juice on your face.” I prefer to think he said “god bless.”

The train rocked violently all night on a horizontal axis, which is the axis along which I was splayed out. This means that my body, rather than rocking acceptably from side to side, was rocking top to bottom, and made me feel like a horse was trying to mate with me. This became painful sometime in the early morning, but I was too tired and there were no other options.

I was so excited to get to Bombay that, despite the occasional bubbling fury, I had a good sense of humour, I think, about the whole thing, and was able to keep everything in perspective—having to sleep on the floor of a train is not the worst thing that could happen. There were no bugs on the floor, and it was quite cool down there too.

My first few hours in Bombay were the best—it was early in the morning and quite cool. I noticed right away that the air was clean—what a difference from polluted A’bad. The old Victorian architecture of Bombay was stunning. There were luscious gardens all over the place. I thought to myself, how un-Indian this city is—organized, clean, beautiful, calm—almost peaceful.

But as the city woke up and the streets became more crowded, and as the relentless touts slowly chipped away at that overly-favourable first impression I had, I realised that although Bombay is everything I first thought, it is still India. The poverty there is more tucked away but also more graphic than elsewhere.

My only unpleasant experience after the train was dealing with the petty administrators at the Swedish consulate. They delighted in exposing the weaknesses of my application, and I can’t remember how many times I explained that all the documents had been emailed as I was in India and the originals were in Toronto. At one point, although there was a perfectly good photocopier in the office, that old woman secretary made me find somewhere else to photocopy some documents. At the first place I went to, the machine was being fixed, and although they promised 3 minutes, I left after 10 without my photocopies. The second place I found under the big “XEROX” sign was closed. The third place had a squeaky old machine that churned out smudged and crumpled papers, so that 3 copies had to be made for every one good copy. I lost it when the assistant boy kept stapling my papers as I told him not to. “Don’t staple them them!!!” I finally yelled, I think relieving some built-up pressure, and immediately felt better but also bad because the boy was startled. I smiled at him as I left though, and that was my only precious smile that morning (aside from the frustrated laughs), so I think we’re even.

I realised in Bombay that its better to yell at someone once every day and be over with it rather than bottle up your frustration and let it ooze out of you all day. And this is easy to do in India, where emotions are never far below the surface.

Now for some random notes:

-At the movie theater, everybody stood as the national anthem was played before the movie. The indian flag was shown on the screen.
-R’s friend Y took me to the Willingdon club and I hung up where Bombay’s elite do.
-I visited the Aga Khan boys school and the Prince Aly Khan hospital
-I went to the zoo
-I saw some really nice art at the different art galleries
-I ate lots of good REAL western food
-I realised trying to save money and having the occasional reward is more satisfying than consuming everything
-I walked along marine drive next to the water at night and it was nice
-I also scolded various petty photography equipment salespeople (one when he opened up my camera and put his thumb right on the delicate shutter baldes), and found it highly satisfying.

I hope I havent created the impression that I didn’t like Bombay. I loved all of it and can’t wait to go back, hopefully sleeping anywhere but the floor next time.
- posted by aziz @ 1:10 p.m.