One Moment on the TRAIN

A wordless encounter on a local train leaves a lasting imprint that time can’t erase

- Viney Kirpal

It was the mid-1980s. The sun hadn't yet reached its peak, but Mumbai's lifeblood—the local train—pulsed with movement. I was headed to Chinchpokli, squeezed into the ladies' compartment among women clutching tiffins, textbooks, bags heavy with vegetables, or nothing at all. Each held a story, a destination, a day they hadn't yet lived.

The train shuddered along the tracks. Across me, women arranged themselves with practised choreography: elbows tucked, bags on laps, eyes distant. It was a ritual—the silent morning procession of the city's women, enduring the same daily journey without complaint or drama. Then, the order shifted.

A ticket inspector boarded, her shoes striking the floor with the clipped rhythm of authority.

“Tickets,” she ordered.

There was a flutter of motion. Occasional travellers like me reached quickly for our passes—safer to be seen complying. The veterans didn't flinch. They knew how long they had before trouble reached them. Their tickets emerged slowly, almost theatrically, from blouse folds, purse linings, and shoes. In Mumbai, even your breath is budgeted. You learn what to protect. What to reveal.