One of the things I was told would be most difficult, startling and new in India is commuting.
For the first week and a half of my stay here, I was traveling from Chembur to the college in Churchgate. An hour and a half commute, that began at 6:00 a.m., with a rickshaw, then the train and finally a cab. Initially, every aspect of this journey was arduous.
First, you must ask the rickshaw driver to take you to the station, and he arbitrarily decides whether or not he will take you. Very often the answer is no, even if there is not another customer in sight that may bring the opportunity of a longer ride and more money. (Although I often misunderstand when the answer is yes or no because it does not come down to a head nod or shake, but a kind of round about bobble that means anything and everything.) The money on the meter, does not actually dictate the fare of the ride but corresponds to a card you must ask for, which states the cost each number on the meter stands for. If the driver sees that you are foreign, the card will never be mentioned and he will likely charge you three times more than the ride is worth.
Then at the train station, there is almost always a long line up, which you can jump if you choose to buy a first class ticket, which costs 78 Rupees rather than the second class ticket which is about 8. The first class train does not look much different than the second. Just a couple of days ago, I even accidentally got on the first class train thinking it was the second class, and ostensibly the only difference was that people were somewhat snobby. Of course it was the one day where an officer was checking tickets, and yours truly was dragged off the train and fined. They tried to fine the two of us 760 Rupees, but I managed to talk it down to 340. You can bargain with everyone here.
The trains stop for mere seconds, and most of its riders are still boarding once the train has already begun to move again. There are a lot of elbows, pushes, and yells. Getting on and off the moving train is tricky, but often necessary because it is hard to squeeze through the crowd and the train moves so quickly.
The train is divided into ladies and gentleman cars. On one of my first days, I ran to catch the train and jumped into a car, only to find out it was the men's car and quite packed. It was a very awkward few stops.
The women are tough, it is their train, and they will move anyone who is in the way out of the way. On the 13 stops to school, I can buy anything I want on the train: hair pieces, fruit, chips, flowers, freezer bags, or even ear muffs. The train is an incredible opportunity to see the city, and heightens all of the senses. I am taken by the vibrant hues of all the beautiful saris that cover the entire spectrum of colours; the communities that line the train tracks; the repertoire of sounds, a layer of which always seems to be music, faint or blaring; and the smells, which have at times been more helpful in indicating that I have reached my destination than the sights.
At 5"7, I stand about half a foot over most of the women. The train is often so packed that I don't need to hang on to anything as it jerks on the tracks, because I can't move even if I want to. Many women look at me with curiosity, some are wrapped in a kind of commuter's daze that falls on so many of us, and if I look clueless, and I usually do, a very kind woman comes to my aid.
It is a relief to get off the train and hop into a cab, but it is so important to know the directions to where you are going. The cab drivers usually do not know the street names, so it is really helpful to know landmarks. If you are me, however, you will probably butcher the pronunciation and end up going round in circles and arguing with the cab driver over the massive charge at the end of the ride.
(Excuse the picture quality. They are tiny for a reason.)
For the first week and a half of my stay here, I was traveling from Chembur to the college in Churchgate. An hour and a half commute, that began at 6:00 a.m., with a rickshaw, then the train and finally a cab. Initially, every aspect of this journey was arduous.
First, you must ask the rickshaw driver to take you to the station, and he arbitrarily decides whether or not he will take you. Very often the answer is no, even if there is not another customer in sight that may bring the opportunity of a longer ride and more money. (Although I often misunderstand when the answer is yes or no because it does not come down to a head nod or shake, but a kind of round about bobble that means anything and everything.) The money on the meter, does not actually dictate the fare of the ride but corresponds to a card you must ask for, which states the cost each number on the meter stands for. If the driver sees that you are foreign, the card will never be mentioned and he will likely charge you three times more than the ride is worth.
Then at the train station, there is almost always a long line up, which you can jump if you choose to buy a first class ticket, which costs 78 Rupees rather than the second class ticket which is about 8. The first class train does not look much different than the second. Just a couple of days ago, I even accidentally got on the first class train thinking it was the second class, and ostensibly the only difference was that people were somewhat snobby. Of course it was the one day where an officer was checking tickets, and yours truly was dragged off the train and fined. They tried to fine the two of us 760 Rupees, but I managed to talk it down to 340. You can bargain with everyone here.
The trains stop for mere seconds, and most of its riders are still boarding once the train has already begun to move again. There are a lot of elbows, pushes, and yells. Getting on and off the moving train is tricky, but often necessary because it is hard to squeeze through the crowd and the train moves so quickly.
The train is divided into ladies and gentleman cars. On one of my first days, I ran to catch the train and jumped into a car, only to find out it was the men's car and quite packed. It was a very awkward few stops.The women are tough, it is their train, and they will move anyone who is in the way out of the way. On the 13 stops to school, I can buy anything I want on the train: hair pieces, fruit, chips, flowers, freezer bags, or even ear muffs. The train is an incredible opportunity to see the city, and heightens all of the senses. I am taken by the vibrant hues of all the beautiful saris that cover the entire spectrum of colours; the communities that line the train tracks; the repertoire of sounds, a layer of which always seems to be music, faint or blaring; and the smells, which have at times been more helpful in indicating that I have reached my destination than the sights.
At 5"7, I stand about half a foot over most of the women. The train is often so packed that I don't need to hang on to anything as it jerks on the tracks, because I can't move even if I want to. Many women look at me with curiosity, some are wrapped in a kind of commuter's daze that falls on so many of us, and if I look clueless, and I usually do, a very kind woman comes to my aid.It is a relief to get off the train and hop into a cab, but it is so important to know the directions to where you are going. The cab drivers usually do not know the street names, so it is really helpful to know landmarks. If you are me, however, you will probably butcher the pronunciation and end up going round in circles and arguing with the cab driver over the massive charge at the end of the ride.
(Excuse the picture quality. They are tiny for a reason.)
I would totally freak out on a train like that if I was on my own.
ReplyDeleteOr start a brawl.
whichever!