#Suffernama: A tribute to the missing Metro drama

Radhika Bhirani

rbhirani@gmail.com

It's a balmy summer evening. I sip away on a calming cup of tea. The terrace, wrapped in lush green. The sky, dotted by birds. The air, resounding with their calls. And the sight, stuck on a once-bustling Metro station.

An empty train passes by.

The mind rewinds.

"Iss yaatra mein thoda vilamb hoga." That dreaded announcement, doing nothing to quell the restlessness every time I was late for office, or in a hurry to reach home.

But distractions were aplenty. Unintentional, or even intentional peeps into the phone screens of co-passengers. Or lending an eager ear to some unforgettable conversations.

I ain't a curious case for nothing!

How else would I know that saving your boyfriend's name as "My Tiger" is seemingly 'cool', eh? Or how a 59-year-old uncle prefers not to colour his all-white hair only because "Baal dekh ke, bachche easily seat de dete hain Metro mein"?

It's a joyride. Well, sometimes it is. It can be. If you watch and hear closely.

If it were still days as usual, proximity would not be a question, with people stuck as though they were protons and neutrons in an atomic nucleus. But social distancing norms in effect since the Covid-19 pandemic spread its wings, I am assuming, will change that.

What else am I hoping it will change?

For one, people's tendency to sneeze unguarded. And then slyly wipe their hands away on poles and seats. Yeah, I've seen them do that. As I've seen some dig into their nose like they're in search of some national treasure, and then stick the booger around. Nah, that ain't happening anymore, ladies, or gentlemen.

Neither will your "Zaraa khisakiye na" plea for that one-butt-of-space.

"Hum ghus jaayenge," insisted one lady, just a few days before the lockdown was initiated.

On another day, a young and slim lady once came and sat next to me. “Thoda shift ho jaaiye,” she requested. I duly complied. Still unhappy, she looked at a petite sari-clad lady sitting at the edge of the seat next to me, before saying, “Aap khisakiye na thoda.”

The firebrand, sari-clad lady retorted: “Kahaan??? Neeche gir jaaun kaa?"

Laugh, laugh, laugh! But truth be told -- the ladies compartment is my safe haven in the Delhi Metro. As it may be for many.

Watching a college-goer trying to substitute the coach window as a mirror; or hearing a concerned mother calling in to check on her little one; a mushy girlfriend doing her sweet talk; or an employee indulging in boss bitching.

"Kisiko itna mat chaato ki chaat chaat ke end mein tumhari hi chutney ban jaaye," I overheard one young girl sharing her pearls of wisdom with her  colleague.

There have also been caring daughters shedding a tear for ailing parents; gangs of giggling girls; anxious mothers trying to calm and feed their babies; kids trying to ace some pole swinging skills; belligerent wives; complaining mothers-in-law; whining daughters-in-law; foodies gorging away on momos or bhelpuri (who cares if eating food isn't allowed)); excited girls planning vacations and wedding paraphernalia, the meeting of long-lost buddies... Uff!

Life... in the Metro, comes alive, in shapes, colours and sizes of all kinds. What doesn't matter is if you fit, literally and figuratively so.

Will that life be the same after the Metro lockdown lifts? Will the queues be as serpentine? Will the coaches be over-packed again? Will the crowd jostle for space day after day? Will people yap away n the cellphone with their masks on? Will the gloves help us feel safe about touching the handles and poles? Will the battle of seat take a backseat over sanitising concerns?

What will it be like when the mind, and not just audio announcements, will keep reminding "Kripya doori ka dhyaan rakhein"... I wonder.