The train pulled into Churchgate station like it always did day after day, month after month, year after year with a deafening screech. Full to the brim, with the stench of sweat and people jostling to get out. The crowds had doubled or maybe tripled since my first ride to ‘town’ forty or was it fifty years ago. Back then, it was an adventure to the far pavilions, the Elysium of charm- Nirvana imprinted on the soul delivered via the railway tracks.
Colaba, Regal, Fountain, NCPA, the Taj Mahal hotel and the Arabian sea. Not Just Jazz By The Bay. In the train, you could get a seat, talk to the smelly pan-chewing uncle next to you or hear the electric buzz of the Wankhede stadium when the match-day buzz was at its peak. Nowadays, it was earbuds, smartphones, designer clothes and sneakers- self-obsession and indifference perfected to a new art form.
The city had grown richer, louder and crasser. Swankier cars. Absent-minded me steps on somebody’s foot exiting the bigger gates of this new railway station. “Abe, dekh ke chal na, bhai! Andha hai kya?” A sharp voice cuts through the chaos.
I blink and look up. A burly man with cheap oversized shades is glaring at me,his mouth twitching with impatience. The snarl of a street cur. The crowd around us presses closer, bodies packed tighter than sardines. Huff and puff, this world’s so gruff.
“Sorry, boss. Didn’t see you there,” I mumble.
But he’s not having it. “Nahi dekhna ka hai toh mat chal na! Fultu yede log. Itna rush hai, jaane ka tension hai!” His voice rises to a roar. Maximum city, maximum frustration.
The words hit me harder than they should. My chest tightens. This city, this moment—it wasn’t always like this. I glance around for empathy, but nobody’s looking at me. They’re all too busy—faces buried in phones, lost in the cacophony of their own lives. I decide to head back to Andheri. And then, like a gust of cool wind, I’m pulled back—years ago—same Churchgate platform. The day I first saw her. She had a slender book tucked under her arm, waiting for the same train, her laughter light and carefree, carrying over the hum. I accidentally nudged her elbow while adjusting my bag, and she turned, eyes twinkling, no hint of anger. .“Arre, careful,” she had said, smiling. That smile…could melt mountains, make angels descend on earth. “Sorry! Full rush?” I had joked, heart thumping.
“Koi baat nahi. Bombay. Everyone’s rushing,” she had laughed again, and in that moment, I felt like the city wasn’t so cold. Now, it’s gone. Just like her.
A man shoves past me, but I barely notice. My mind is lost in that flash of memory, of her—how we met, how we took the train to Andheri together, every day after college, laughing.. She became my wife on those tracks, through stolen glances and shared conversations. Now, all these years later, I’m on my last ride back to Andheri, alone. The crowd presses in, the lights blur, and suddenly… I feel it—this is it. The last train to Andheri.And everything goes black.