Bambaiya

Another day, another satisfied customer, another unfortunate victim as Yadav, a small-time Mumbai Central ticket tout and pickpocket scrambles to make a living and support his family back home.

The street throbbed with the excited energy of the raucous crowds. The regulars lounged waiting silently, watching impassively. A valiant radio struggled to be heard. Mohsin’s kababs sizzled, his rumali rotis floated weightlessly.

Each person at the liquor store was in a world of their own, wrapped in a bubble of their own dreams. Yadav downed the contents of his half empty glass and grimaced. The desi surged like wildfire down his throat. He lit a cigarette and stood up as the warmth reached his belly. “Time to go,” he announced to no one in particular, swaying gently. Then he stepped out on to the street, reached down to pick up the ends of his lungi, and tucked them at his waist.

The early morning argument at the water tap outside woke him up the next day. An hour later, he stood all dressed, looking around his bare room. The mattress was rolled up, his shaving mirror lay face down on the steel trunk with all his possessions. He reached into his shirt pocket for the letter from his village. The harvest was not good, one ox was getting too weak to plough, his mother would need a new blanket this winter, the children would need new sweaters. He folded the letter carefully, tucked it under the mirror, and scanned his list of train tickets for today’s customers. It was going to be a busy day.

Eight complete travel requests with passenger and travel details wrapped around money for each request nestled in his hands as he reached an open ticket counter at the Bandra railway station.

“I need these tickets,” he announced nonchalantly to the startled young lady behind the ticketing counter. “I am in a hurry,” he added as he slid the requests toward her.

“Some are waitlisted,” she reminded him a few minutes later as she handed him the tickets, “and here is the balance from the money you gave.”

Yadav flashed her his disarming smile. “Your maths is weak, madam. No problem, you are new, you will learn,” he said as he picked up the tickets and slid the money back to her before sauntering off.

“Excuse me…” Yadav turned to the voice behind him.

“Arey, sahib,” he said, recognizing the well-dressed nervous young man, “I was coming to look for you only. Here are your four tickets on the Swaraj Express to New Delhi tomorrow.”

“But these are waitlisted,” protested the young man examining the tickets, “I told you I have to take my wife and her parents. What will they think of me!”

“Sahib,” Yadav reassured the young man, “You be at the platform with your family at ten, one hour before departure time. Leave the rest to me. I will take care of everything.”

“There you are!” Yadav beamed at ten the next morning. “This is Pandey, he will take your luggage,” he said, pointing to the porter standing by his side.

“I can manage,” the young man protested.

“Let him take care of it,” Yadav said gently, “he is licensed and will do it for standard charge only. Give me your tickets and take care of your family. Your father-in-law does not look very happy. I will come in ten minutes.”

“Do you have the passenger list for Swaraj Express?” Yadav asked the harried train conductor. “I have four passengers on waitlist.”

“First four on waitlist are confirmed. Colonel Gill party.” The conductor replied curtly.

Yadav spotted the colonel followed closely by his wife and two children heading purposefully down the over-bridge toward the train. He started walking.

“Keep this. I will come in five minutes only,” he said, handing the tickets to his anxious client.

The crowds milled around him scurrying to find their seats on the train. Yadav suddenly stumbled and bumped into the colonel before continuing on his way. He stopped near the over-bridge steps and called Pandey’s mobile. “Put the passengers and their luggage in coach A, seats 68 to 72.”

Yadav appeared at coach A just as the train started to leave. “OK?” he asked the relieved young man. “Call me next time you need tickets.”

“Sir,” he overheard the exasperated train conductor tell an irate colonel, “I cannot let you travel without tickets.”

“I put my waitlisted passengers in seat 68 to 72,” Yadav called out helpfully to the conductor as the train pulled out of the platform. 

The station clock struck eleven. Yadav looked at his customer list for the day. “Platform seven two o’clock,” he muttered, tucked the list back in his shirt pocket, and hurried toward the ticketing counters. He pulled out an envelope from the folds of his lungi, found the colonel’s mobile number on the waitlisted tickets, and reached for his mobile.

“Hello, Colonel Gill sir?” he said. “I am Mohan Yadav, sir. I found your waitlisted tickets on platform over-bridge. Swaraj Express is gone, sir. I am at ticketing counter. Do you want tickets for Ambala, sir? Pashchim Express is leaving in half hour from platform one.”

The street throbbed with the excited energy of the raucous crowds. The regulars lounged waiting silently, watching impassively. A valiant radio struggled to be heard. Mohsin’s kababs sizzled, his rumali rotis floated weightlessly.

The liquor store was buzzing with people. Yadav downed the contents of his half empty glass and grimaced. The desi surged like wildfire down his throat. He lit a cigarette and stood up as the warmth reached his belly. “Time to go,” he announced to no one in particular, swaying gently. He stepped out on to the street, reached down to pick up the ends of his lungi, and tucked them at his waist.

Then he meandered down the street, back to his room where a new blanket nestled in his steel trunk. The streets of Mumbai would provide more delights, new sweaters, an ox, even a shawl for his wife. They didn’t call him Bambaiyya Yadav for nothing.