Physical Strength, Indomitable Spirit and Things in Between
I wasn’t as new in Bombay as I would like to claim. I’d been living in the wonderful city of crows and pigeons for almost eight months. To say I loved Bombay would be a gross understatement. I would give anything to be there. The sheer hope in its insanely sweaty weather is irresistible to a dreamer like me. I was a regular in the local trains and took quite a pride in the expertise I had donned in such less time. That was about Bombay.
To tell you about me, I’m a person who overflows with Pride. Not in an arrogant way, but in an optimistic visible way. I’m tiny by my age and experience standards but my face comes glued with the confidence and enthusiasm of Alexander (before he came to India).
And it makes me mad even today, that even I couldn’t stand up for myself.
I was waiting at the Bandra station on a Sunday. I don’t have to tell you what a colossal disorganization that is. But I waited, with my shopping bags in both hands. Patiently for the train to arrive to take me to Grant Road. I stood in front of the expected spot for the ladies compartment. But something went wrong, and instead of the ladies compartment, there was mens’. Shit, I didn’t expect this, that has never happened, wait, what do I do now? With an under standard BMI and a height when I feel the common Indian folk is always a foot taller, I got swept in the crowd. I had no say in it. I was just swept, just like that. And there I was, inside the guys compartment, which was full and felt like a moving gas chamber. I couldn’t find any place to stand, but somehow, the people around me wont let me move in any direction what so ever. So I kept standing.
This guy, I still remember wearing a black pathaani, looked at me. I could feel his eyes. Made me even more uncomfortable then I already was.
I was standing in the middle of the compartment, holding nothing as my hands were full. And he started moving alongside me. Right when he was behind me, I felt him pushing against me. It weren’t hands. And tears started rolling down my eyes. My eyes weren’t just wet, I was crying. Silently, like a coward. I couldn’t bring myself to speak up, to scream, to do anything really. I just stared, and cried.
There was a burqua clad woman right beside me. She saw what was happening and when I didn’t protest for another three minutes. She lifted her veil, and held my hand. Then she spoke very loudly, “Koni utha aur de zor ka” ( take your elbow and hit as hard as you can). I still didn’t move and cried even more. Then she turned around and pushed this guy fiercely and yelled, “Dur hat us se!” (stay away from her).
The guy didn’t dare come close to me then, since so many people saw what she did. And he got off at Dadar.
Then when there was some breathing space, she made me sit and said, “chup rahegi toh log le lenge! Apne liye kab ladegi”. (If you’re going to be quiet people will take from you what they want, when will you fight for yourself?)
She was a small girl too, an unmarried, burqua clad woman and from her tone I could tell not much on the educated side either. She saved me.
It was hours after that I stopped crying, but I still never forgot the guy neither this woman. The Real hero. Not the talker, not the blogger, but the doer.
