I miss Bombay.

Less than two weeks back, everything was at peace with the world here in Pune. The thought of bird flu scarcely passed my gourmetically-inclined brain as I dug into a plate (big) full of sumptuous chicken biryani. How I was thanking my stars for my vertebral column did not have to bear the brunt of the municipal corporation’s apathy travelling to and from office. But the constellations have changed their alignment just that little bit. And I miss Bombay now.

The paradigm shift is indeed driven to a very large extent by the stars, which – hold your breath – are very much visible in Pune skies. Deeper analysis, and I have come to understand that this momentary bout of homesickness has been triggered off by a paucity of Misal Pav in Pune. I have been craving for Misal Pav for the last ten days now – for the first three of which, I did not eat anything at all. I have lost weight, and that is the only piece of supposed good news in this seemingly depressing post. So much for Puneri Misal, restaurant waiters, young and old, look at you with a queer curiosity which makes you think whether you asked for moondust masala dosas with a sprinkling of red Martian earth and blue coconut chutney, with coconuts from Jupiter’s third moon. You really just asked if they served something adequately famous, something my Maharashtrian buddies call a Misal Pav. You repeat the question, and their face contorts as if you asked for – prepare for this – low sulphur unleaded makkhanwala with carbon fibre rumaali rotis. No, don’t get wild at the analogies. I shall spare you; beyond this point, you don’t ask for more. You just have a normal, conventional, boring vada sambhar and walk off. Into the shining sun.

So then, Pune is starting to act pretty dull and dreary. I miss Bombay. And just as my home-town-sickness starts to plunge to the bottommost abysses of despondency, Times of India, Pune has pulled it off and carried a phenomenal news report about Bombay. One look at the insides of the ‘Millennium Rake’ and I was instantly teleported – emotionally of course – amongst a thousand men of varying sizes and hues. I could almost smell the sweat intermingled in just the right quantity with a whiff of cheap eucalyptus oil and cheaper ‘saint’, if you know what I mean. I could almost feel one old chap’s grey hair being thrust into my nose, and another’s facial hair poking my left ear like a thousand needles. I could almost feel muscles in my body that I never knew existed contort to compress my bulk to fit into a pigeon-hole. Remember, we’re talking 6ft x 4ft x 100kg here, just to put things in perspective. Ah wait, I could feel none of those, really. I think I’m taking the ‘homesickness’ theme too deliriously far.

The Millennium Rake, err…in true Railways tradition, is five years late. Five freaking years; not minutes, not hours; not even days or months; years, can you believe that? The Millennium has come and gone. Millennium children are close to five years old now, and can walk, talk, read, write and abuse. All that, in addition to watching (and understanding) porn. So there’s nothing new there, honestly. You can trust the Railways – and no one, absolutely no one – to pull of a stunt as temporally molest-ive as that one. But ‘Rake’?? What where they thinking. Why not call it just a ‘train’? Or better still, a ‘local’? Or if they were determined to be suave and sophisticated, why not call it a ‘multiple-coach, electrically powered vehicle that runs on many wheels and two tracks’? Do they think Mr Paradkar – all 80-pan-chewing kilograms of him – will understand what a ‘rake’ means? And what about that new immigrant from England, Mr Smith? I am sure he wouldn’t make too much sense of it either, what with the Oxford dictionary enlisting merely two meanings for ‘rake’ – ‘collect’ and ‘search’. Picture Mr Smith sweating like a starved pig, 1830hrs, Dadar station and a pleasant female – I am tempted to use ‘effeminate’ – voice booms over the few functioning loudspeakers, “Local expected on platform number two is Millennium Rake for Karjat. This rake will not halt at any station.” Mr Smith, now ferociously sweating like an angry and starved pig, digs deep into the recesses of his knowledge of the Queen’s language. But he’s flummoxed; because there is nothing remotely Millennium-ish about platform number two on Dadar station at 1830hrs on a normal working day. And uh ‘Rake’ – he’s likely to register himself at the nearest loony bin at the earliest opportunity. Mr Paradkar, meanwhile, is hanging on by the skin of his teeth – his left leg snugly fit between the thighs of two unsuspecting, and unmindful commuters; his right leg firmly entrenched in the miniscule millimetres between two other unsuspecting and unmindful commuters’ feet; and his eucalyptus-oiled hair filling up the nose of yet another commuter, who, I must add, is amorously enjoying his daily ogling at page three in Mid-Day – yes Sir, it’s the irrepressible (ahem) Mid-Day Mate.

That, ladies and gentlemen is the saga that unfolds on every rake, day in and day out; be it the Millennium Rake or the Zillennium Quake.

And that is what the Railways is upto nowadays. Surprisingly (and agonisingly for young Indian patriots), the Indian Railways is the world’s largest employer. Larger than General Motors, General Electric or General Pathetic (General Pathetic treats the American masses’ pathological disorders in a pathetic manner)! Capacity addition? The Railways is least bothered. More trains? That features a pitiful second-last on the Railways’ priority list. Cleaner stations? ‘Clean’ doesn’t feature in the Railways’ limited vocabulary. Commuter comfort? “Why does a commuter need comfort? Are sheep herded in air-conditioned caravans?” Commuter safety? “We can distribute free safety pins in trains. That should help! Ae chal Pawar, gheoon taak!”

So what have we got? Dirty stations, toilets that stink so much they could classify as Nazi concentration camps, trains that never run on time, ‘rakes’ that are bursting at the seams with young (and old men) who’s determination to ogle over Mid-Day Mate is legendary. Dirt, grime, sweat and eucalyptus-oiled hair in the mouth.

Sigh, how I miss Bombay.