The Journey Within The Journey......
The clock on my phone looked at me: 08.01 AM. The peak of rush hour. I was standing on the foot over bridge waiting for the indicator to display the status of my 08.14 AM train. The view from above was overwhelming. The massive structure of the station, the colored tin sheets neatly arranged and well spread. The station platform, a sea of people, all with the same singular purpose, to get into the train. It was like a giant ant colony. The atmosphere was charged, a hum of anticipation that felt almost electric. The Mumbai local. Just the name can send a shiver down a person's spine. It's not a train; it's a living, breathing beast of steel and humanity, and I was about to face it.
"The train arriving on platform number 5 is a fast local for Churchgate..." I dashed towards the platform without even hearing the complete announcement. Quickly alighting the concrete and granite steps, clutching my bag pressing it close to my chest, a treasure chest which contained a laptop, my lunch, my bottle and some important papers. My ammunition for the day. It was 08.10 and the train roared into the station. Everything and everyone froze. All eyes aiming their respective targets. It appeared as if a war attack was about to commence. No sooner the train slowed down the soldiers charged in unison. It was a coordinated assault. The people barging in and aiming with precision to grab their thrones. It was a brutal dance, a struggle for space. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and joined the fray.
The first step was a plunge into the unknown. I was pushed from behind, pulled from the side, and squeezed from every direction. It was like being swallowed whole. For a moment I was feeling like an astronaut, weightless and free falling. My feet barely touched the ground. I was just a part of the collective mass, moving forward by sheer, unyielding pressure. I could feel the bodies around me, the warmth of countless strangers, the faint scent of sweat and cologne. It was overwhelming, suffocating. I felt a moment of panic, a whisper of a thought: I can't do this. But now there was no turning back. The crowd had a momentum of its own. I was carried along, a leaf in a furious current. I finally managed to get one foot inside the train, then the other, and with a final shove, I was in. Wow what an achievement. I was enclosed inside a metal box of humanity. The feeling of relief was so intense it was almost dizzying. I had survived the ingress.
Now came the next challenge: finding a place to exist. The carriage was jam-packed. It was less of a space and more of a single, solid block of flesh and bone. I had to create my own space, a tiny island of personal territory in a sea of strangers. I wedged myself between a man holding a briefcase and one with a fairly large bag. My elbows were tucked in, my shoulders were tight, and my feet were almost floating. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but it was my position. I had made it. I was in. Sharp 08.14, and the train started it's journey. The pressure felt a bit eased for a moment. This was my moment of liberation till the next station. The buzz in the compartment began to rise.
From my bunker I glanced around, to survey the landscape of the crowded train. It was fascinating. Everyone was in a similar state of discomfort, yet they were all holding on, finding their own unique way to survive. Some people were standing, their arms stretched high above their heads, gripping the overhead handles with a kind of grace. Their bodies swayed with the train's motion, a constant dance. Others leaned against the train's walls, their faces calm and composed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. I saw a group of men huddled together, sharing a laugh about something, their faces all lighted up and engrossed in conversation, made it seem like they weren't in a cramped metal box but a spacious drawing room.
The Mumbai local if observed carefully, shows you so many colors and contrasts. A man stood near me, an elderly gentleman, his face etched with countless wrinkles. He was holding onto a handle, his hands bony and worn out. He wasn't sitting, he wasn't particularly comfortable, yet there was a soft, contented smile on his face. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be lost in some peaceful memory. He was standing in a place of zero comfort, surrounded by noise and restlessness, yet happy. Content.
Just a few feet away, a young woman sat by the window. She had a seat, the most coveted prize on the local. The breeze from the open window ruffled her dark brown hair. She had space, she had comfort, she had the luxury which everyone standing would be envious of. But her face wore a mask of dissatisfaction. Her forehead was creased like a fieldhad which had just been ploughed, her lips were pulled into a tight line, and she kept sighing, a soft, weary sound lost in the general din. She had it all, at least, all that the train could offer, yet she was unhappy.
This was the first thought that truly hit me. The simple, harsh truth. Happiness isn't a product of circumstance. It isn't about whether you were standing or sitting. It is an internal state. The old man, standing, was at peace. The young woman, sitting, was not. The train was teaching me a lesson, a lesson I had somehow forgotten in my life outside this metal cage.
The most profound thing about the Mumbai local is the absolute lack of ego. Out here, on the platform, we are all different. We have our jobs, our social statuses, our different clothes, and our different accents. We have our pride. But on the train, all of that disappears. There's no space for it. You are a body among bodies. You lean on a stranger, your shoulder brushes against someone else’s, and no one flinches. There’s a quiet understanding, a shared struggle. People will adjust to adjust you, accommodate you. There's no judgment, just a collective, wordless agreement: We are all in this together. And this triggered a the question in my mind, a little whisper that grew into a shout. Why can't we be like this in our life? Why does every day outside this train feel so filled with ego, with judgment, with a need to be better than everyone else? We are so careful about our personal space, so protective of our little bubbles, but here, our bubbles are popped the moment we step inside. And somehow, it's liberating.
The train rattled on, a constant, rhythmic shake and sway. We passed station after station, and at each one, the human puzzle reconfigured itself. Some got off, some got on, and the space shifted. That's when it happened. The man who had been sitting on the seat opposite the unhappy young woman suddenly stood up. Probably he had reached his destination. The seat was free. I watched in amazement. There was a small, almost unnoticeable gap of maybe a second. A moment of opportunity. The train was still crowded, and there were at least five people standing around the now-vacant seat. But there was a gentleman standing right in front of it, probably in his early fifties, with a slightly tired expression on his face. His eyes lit up. He didn't look left or right. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask anyone, "Do you want this seat?" He swiftly moved and plonked himself down in that seat. There was no negotiation, no polite hesitation. No, "After you, please." There was just a pure, unadulterated focus on a single, clear goal: get a sitting space. It was the most beautiful, honest thing I had seen. He achieved his goal. He leaned back against the seat, a small smile on his face, and took a deep, satisfied breath. The beauty about the whole thing was none of the people around him reacted. They just accepted whatever just happened. No ego, no judgement, no claims.
This was another lesson, and it was even more profound than the earlier. In our lives, we are so incredibly choosy. We spend hours, days, years deliberating over decisions. We need to find the perfect job, the perfect partner, the perfect apartment, the perfect coffee. We are constantly searching for the "better" option, paralyzed by the fear of making the wrong choice. We are always looking for more. We want a menu of options, and we want to try them all, to sample and compare and find the one that is absolutely, unequivocally the best. But what if, like that man, we just saw an opportunity and took it? What if we just accepted what came our way and made the best of it? In reality the process of choosing has become a perpetual cycle of hope and disappointment, so much that we become stuck, unable to commit to anything because we wait for something else, something more perfect, just around the corner. But in real life that almost never happens. Its like someone standing on the platform, letting five packed trains go by, because he is waiting for one with an empty seat. Exactly like this we wait for the circumstances to be perfect, which never happens and does that not apply to our relationships? We are so choosy, so intent on finding "the one," that we almost always miss the people who are right in front of us. While waiting for the perfect person to appear, a perfectly good human has got off the train at the earlier station.
The man who took the seat on the train didn't have a choice. He had one option: the seat. It was there. It was available. And he took it. He made the best of what was offered. The seat wasn't new, it was probably hard and a little dusty, but it was a seat, and it was a thousand times better than standing. He didn’t think, "What if a better seat is available at the next station?" He didn't worry if the person who just got up was the perfect person to share a seat with. He just accepted the moment.
This made me feel a deep, aching sadness. Have too many choices spoiled us? We are so used to an endless buffet of options, from what to watch on our smart TVs to what kind of person to date, that we've lost the ability to just be present. We've lost the ability to find joy in what's right in front of us. We are constantly in a state of 'what if,' a state of FOMO - the fear of missing out. The Mumbai local, with its single-minded purpose and its lack of choice, was a powerful antidote to that. It was a place where you either got on the train, or you didn't. You either took the space that was available, or you didn't. There was no room for indecision.
I felt a pang of nostalgia for a time, a time when life was simpler. My grandparents, for example, didn't have a million career choices. They often took the job that was available in their village or town, and they built their lives around it. They didn't have endless options for a life partner. They often married someone from their community, someone they knew, and they worked on making that relationship a success. There was a certain peace in that. A certain solidity.
Another incident took me closer to life. A young boy, maybe seven or eight, was standing with his father. He was fidgeting, looking for a place to sit. An older woman saw him and patted the tiny space next to her. It was a space so small, no adult would have even considered it. But the boy didn't hesitate. He wiggled his way in, a perfect fit for the small gap. No questions asked, no choices considered. He just took it. He was a miniature version of the man who took the seat. And in that moment, in his small act of acceptance, he found comfort. He leaned against his father, his eyes closed, and seemed to fall asleep.
The steel beast was a lesson in humility, too. The train doesn't care who you are. The CEO of a company is just as squashed and sweaty as the chaiwala. They share the same air, the same struggle, the same destination. There are no judgments about how you hold on, or how you stand, or what you're wearing. All that matters is that you're there. You've made it. It's a great equalizer. It forces you to shed the layers of ego and the false appearances that we so carefully build in our lives. It strips you down to your most basic form: a person trying to get from one place to another.
The train began to slow down as we approached my station. A sense of dread mixed with relief. The journey was almost over. The lesson was almost complete. The moment I alight from the metal box, the spell will be broken. I would step back out into the world of choices and expectations, a world where everyone is on their own, a world of "me first."
I braced myself for the final push, the struggle to get off the train. It was just as brutal as getting on. The wave of people coming in was just as strong. I had to push, and be pushed. I had to say, "Excuse me," and "One minute, please," and "Bhaiya, thoda aage badho." The train wasn't finished teaching me. It was reminding me that life is a constant push and pull, a constant negotiation.
I finally stepped onto the platform, and the cool air hit me. It was a stark contrast to the humid, dense air of the train. I stood there for a moment, just breathing, feeling the space around me. The crowd on the platform was still dense, but it was manageable. It was a different kind of chaos, an organized chaos. I walked toward the exit, my mind still reeling from the past hour.
The journey on the local was more than just a commute. It was a pilgrimage. It was a journey into the heart of humanity, a brutal but beautiful lesson in acceptance, humility, and the simple joy of finding your place in the world. The man who took the seat, the old man who was happy standing, the little boy who found comfort in a small space—they were my teachers. They didn't choose the perfect situation. They just chose to be in the situation they were in.
I walked out of the station and onto the street. The world outside was full of light and noise. Taxis honked, people shouted, and the smell of street food filled the air. I had a hundred choices. I could walk, I could take a rickshaw, I could get a cab. I could eat at the expensive restaurant or the street stall. I could go home and complain about my day, or I could appreciate the simple fact that I was home.
I stopped for a moment, in the middle of all the choices. I looked up at the sky, at the blue canvas and I felt a quiet sense of peace. I smiled to myself, a small, grateful smile. I had arrived. And I had learned something. The Mumbai local, the beast of steel and humanity, had not just taken me home; it had shown me the way. It had given me a new kind of freedom—the freedom to be content, even when life is a little bit of a squeeze.
