It's all about Learning

I jumped the second-last step without slackening my pace, as a seasoned traveler I knew it sagged and threw off your stride. One last curve to my destination, then it was a mere zig around the newsstand, a zag around the begging hag who worked the second class compartments.

Ah, I was just in time to dig my out-thrust elbows into the seething mass of commuters for the 8:50 fast local to Churchgate. Two deft digs into plump struggling matrons, they really are soft targets, one wonders why they even attempt this journey, and one brutal shove of a timid student - if they burden themselves with textbooks, what can they expect - and I was into the midst of the packed compartment. There was no need to hang on to the overhead straps; the compartment was so full that if it was a stomach, it would have had massive indigestion..

I swiveled one hip and thrust my buttock against two inches of partition wall, ah, the relief to aching feet. My movement jostled a fisherwoman with a massive basket of odiferous wares; she turned, greeting me in Konkani. A loud vociferous greeting, accompanied by enthusiastic gesticulations; I bared my teeth, “Good day to you, too!”

A college kid, the overburdened pimply-faced one I had shoved, giggled.

“She wasn’t greeting you; she made some slanderous comments on your ancestry coupled with some rather explicit wishes for your future.”

“I guessed that, young lady.” Condescension generally shuts them up, but this one seems gregarious, God!

“Then why wish her good day?”

“She does not understand English; she will assume it to be invective and I achieve my purpose without straining either my vocabulary or blood pressure.”

College-kid found this thought-provoking and ceased talking, another advantage of the Good-day Method, maybe I should patent it.

“Aunty…”

If there is one thing I abhor, more than condescending shop assistants who assess the paucity of bills in one’s purse, it is that generic aging title flung at all women about a decade older than oneself. It was College-Kid, I pretended a sudden affliction of deafness coupled with mental retardation.

She tapped me on the shoulder.

The kid was persistent but oblivious of train etiquette which pronounces: Do not deliberately touch anybody, although your hip may be grinding their bottom.

I sighed, turning my head about 15 degrees to look into two beseeching eyes.

What is it with kids and puppy dogs, they sucker me into things all the time.

“Were you talking to me?”

“Yes, Aunty,” she was not alert to my wincing, “can you tell me which side Churchgate Station will come?”

I mentally grappled my eyeballs to prevent the rolling gesture that should have accompanied such a naive question.

I coo-ed, “Churchgate is the terminus, the train stops there, the platform will be at both sides of the track.”

For those not in the know, the burning question of which side of the train one is, not the side of the track – the side of the train, is of prime determination in whether one can get out at one’s destination. Mumbai’s trains are packed from door to door and the seasoned try to stand near the doorway to get a breath of fresh air, hence the crowd is thicker there. Then comes the press of those vying for the prop of wall to relieve strained vertebral columns. Then the clueless hapless unwashed masses fill in the spaces like tomato sauce in spaghetti. The stations come to either side, in some esoteric pattern forgotten by all, but on one side only. If you are stranded on the wrong side, before you can get to the door, the tide of those getting on pushes you back and the ten second halt is over; you are taken willy-nilly to the next station to come on your side.

At least she knew enough to ask.

My mood softened; I gave her a smile to show I understood.

“Aunty ...”

God, there she goes again. The smile was a mistake.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. My name is Andrea, Andrea Gomes.”

“I’m Ginny Thomas, call me Ginny.”

“Yes, Ginny Aunty.”

I acknowledged the passage of years and the wrinkles on my face, by accepting this modification.

The tikaa-tikka clatter over the lines was lulling me into the semi-comatose state in which I normally travelled, when the idea bulb finally clicked on.

My eyes flew open with the alacrity of a five-year old’s on Christmas morning. Good, the kid is still there.

“Hey, you speak Konkani, right?”

“Yes, I’m from Goa, here for a short course in …”

My hands sawed the air, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“Can you teach me some words?”

“Words?”

“Yes, some conversational phrases.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Great, how do you say What is your name?”

Now, Konkani is similar to my mother tongue - Marathi, and I had soon memorized at least eight useful phrases, including I wish you more of the same. That last was for a Parthian shot at any invective hurling fisherwomen as I got off the train.

I wiggled towards the right hand side exit, ready to get off at Charni Road, my destination. I spoke in the two inches of space under and to the left of my chin, “Be in this same compartment tomorrow, kid. I’ll bring you my spare rucksack for your books. You can teach me some more Konkani.”

I poured out of the train with the other commuters and we spread onto the platform like a pickle stain on a white tablecloth.

As I hitched my rucksack higher onto my back, I felt fulfilled and triumphant. Just-in-time-Ginny had done it again.

Two more days of the old year left.

Learn to speak another language.

Check.

Take that, Nagging Conscience!

That’s all last Year’s resolutions done. Maybe this year I’ll learn a new adventure sport. For one inured to Mumbai train travel that should be a snap.

Words:996

Prompt: A year ago you made a resolution that seemed possible at that time - now, with only two days left in the year, you realize you are nowhere close to completing it. Write a story about trying to fulfill that impossible resolution. 1000 words or less, in 24 hours for Writer's Cramp "The Writer's Cramp"  [13+]

*WINNER*