The man at the back of me says, "Chalo, Chalo, Chalo," while prodding me gently somewhere in my dorsal region, around where my kidneys would normally be. Normally, because now I am tightly wedged between the man at the back, whose face I can't see, and a man with sweaty armpits in front.
"What's the hurry," I say, "the train ends its journey here, in CBD Belapur. It will be here for another ten minutes."
"But I won't get a window seat, na? I want that particular seat. My friends from other stations look at that seat. Besides, I have to read the holy book, and throw flowers into the sea when it crosses the Vashi Bridge."
So I let the man pass ahead of me. Minutes later, he and I are getting down at Kurla station and he is again prodding me, this time around the solar plexus, and, "Chalo, chalo, chalo," he says.
I have seen this in stations, municipal offices, banks, in fact, anywhere a bunch of Indian could possibly be, even airports. No sooner the aircraft comes to a stop than there is pushing and jostling, swearing, and "Chalo, Chalo, Chalo," this time a bit more subtly considering that "firangi [foreign] madams and hawai sundaris [flying beauties]" are around.
But go anywhere, we will be pushing, dhakafying, shoving, cursing, women molesting, because, "We are like this only, no?"
Tags: Push, shove, chalo, Vashi, Kurla, CBD Belapur
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