by Sroojana Iyer
Sroojana tells the story of how twenty, in a society that glorifies the sweet sixteens, twenty-fives and fifties, is a forgotten age. However, twenty is when you’re on the verge of the rest of your life, reeling from the puberty-ridden years of adolescence, which sparks the feeling of freedom, comfort… and joy.
A train rushes past the platform, leaving a blast of humid air that ruffles the mop on her head. Sighing, she adjusts the bag-strap cutting into her shoulder and squints balefully at the sign above her. CH 00:30 F 07 blinks bleakly at her, looking as tired as she feels. Her train is still seven minutes away.
Still, as the sound of a train from the opposite track washes over her, she feels an odd sort of joy at the thought of the familiarity of it all. After confusing years as a teenager, struggling to understand her place in society, her identity, her position as a member of the ‘sisterhood’, she finally knows where she belongs: as one more tired person waiting for a train.
It sounds sad, she knows, but she revels in the feeling of belonging.
Riding this new surge of joy, she begins to observe her surroundings a little more, evaluating whether there was really logic to the love rippling through her veins or whether the all-pervasive smell of urine had just knocked her senses out.
The platform is emptier than the usual mass of humanity that graces the cement in the legendary (and incorrectly named) rush ‘hour’. The typical night crowd greet her (though not really, because who has the energy after a long day to make friends with strangers? Not a Bombay-ite, never a Bombay-ite): the other 20-somethings returning home from heavy work days, the much older Uncle-Aunties with their families on their minds (and probably their dinners), the odd group of excited teens thrilled about ‘hanging out’ around midnight, and the tired-looking constable sadly flicking through an oversaturated music playlist.
(She catches a glimpse of the songs he’s dully flicking through every now and then, and smiles.)
She doesn’t fit into any of these little categories, because a single college graduate who’s spent the day doing who-knows-what doesn’t particularly fit in anywhere.
For some reason, she feels that mad flood of joy at the comfortable sight in from of her. It’s like she can see her future and bygone past before her, and it’s giving rise to something deep inside.
Someday, probably in the near future (if that one job interview goes well), she’ll likely become one of the twenty-somethings wearing ‘office casual’ and carrying a laptop. She eyes the women’s hands to see if she can spot engagement rings; when do the urban working girls begin to get hitched now anyway? She tries to imagine an equally-tired fiancé or husband, but can’t quite fathom how old she’d have to be for that to come to pass. The women in front of her don’t seem a day older than 25, which seems far too early for her newly-minted adult self to recognise as an age to tie the knot.
Shaking her head, she turns to the middle-aged uncle standing a little farther down the platform, his beer belly straining the buttons of his shirt a little bit. He is clearly on the phone with a spouse, talking about an offspring. It might be social conditioning, but it’s easier to imagine being in his place. Distasteful though, considering that children seem a sticky and avoidable nuisance to lay claim to. His shoulders slump soon after ending the call, and she feels a pang of pity for the man so clearly eager to get home and put his feet on a soft pillow. (Or watch a match, is there one on? She’s never sure anymore, every sport and tournament just mixes into one colourful Sports section in a news daily now.) The forties, if she’s being honest, actually could be anything, and therefore… the most terrifying.
A loud laugh breaks her attention, and she turns in time to see the group of teens shushing a particularly happy-looking girl throwing painfully obvious glances at a friend. She smells the alcohol reeking off them and wonders idly if she should warn them about a parent’s innate sense to smell alcohol and smoke off a kid. She discards the idea almost immediately. It’s midnight and they’re all waiting for (possibly) the last train of the night; she has no interest in being friends with intoxicated adolescents.
The train finally chugs into the station, and she walks sedately into First-Class-General with her companions. Eyeing the old couple seated in the corner and forbidding teacherly woman with a sleepy child and bag, she shakes herself. This is shaping up to look like an enactment of the Seven Ages of Man, she thinks dryly. The Six Ages of Mumbaikars.
The idea interests her, so she seats herself and contemplates her new targets properly.
What must it be like, then, to be a young mother? She appreciates the lines on the woman’s face with some respect – it can’t be easy. The kid shuffles closer to his mom, tiny hands grasping at her simple kurta, eyes wide and staring out the window. Vaguely, she recalls doing the same with her mother, though she had been more of a whining brat. Soon enough, even the rapid-pace of the Railways won’t surprise the kid. Such is the fate of a Mumbai- baby, after all. By fifteen, he won’t be surprised by anything, let alone trains. In her mind, the woman is a hard-working fifth grade teacher with sixty additional kids to mother every day, dispensing knowledge and justice.
The withered couple looks vastly more interesting, engrossed in quiet conversation. She notes their grey hair and sleepy eyes. They’re tired, but a spark in their expressions betrays their true age. Some people never grow up, she supposes. They animatedly whisper to each other as the sound of masala ads filter through the Western Railway speakers, clearly making jokes about the new soundtrack to the journey.
She can imagine being the little old lady with white hair, gently holding the wrist of a grizzled old paramour. Or rather, she knows she wants to be her. She can imagine spending the rest of her life, like the couple, in this city.
And that, she supposes, is the reason for her joy – the understanding that she knows who she is. And that maybe Mumbai likes her enough to keep her.
The cop at the door coughs and shuffles. “Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,” she mutters under her breath, with a smile.
She’s the seventh Mumbaikar, who can see her life and its stages play out around her, along with the sounds of the train. Maybe that’s the real beauty of being twenty – you’re a part of the tableau, without the pressures of a role.
It’s a good place to be, she decides, finally accepting her joy in the comfort of it all.
As the train passes Bandra creek, she changes her mental list to Eight Stages. Who knows what’s floating in the murky water?
Image credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/ashwincjohn/
Type A is probably the best way to describe Sroojana Iyer. Another accurate description would be to call her a ‘cat lady’. Mostly, Sroojana is waiting to turn fifty so she can become a legitimate hermit who writes all day, drinks coffee, and can act like a crazy old person. She also bakes at midnight, but don’t ask her why. She doesn’t know either.
Very expressive. Well written!