Being robbed at knife-point – or in my rather unique case, screwdriver-point – is an experience few can boast of, and even fewer would want to. On one not-so-magical night, while attempting to return from a day spent jousting in the courts, I vividly recall my encounter with Bombay's infamous 'gardullas' as I made my way back from a tiring session of courtly endeavors to my modest sanctuary in 'Nalla Sopara'. I was nestled in the bosom of my beloved first-class compartment, which on that particular evening, was suspiciously empty. Most days, these coaches are so full they seem on the brink of a dramatic explosion. But that night? It was like attending a funeral for an unpopular relative – eerily quiet and no one you’d recognize.
The hour was encroaching upon the witching time, and the lack of the usual hustle in the coach made my spider-senses twitch. As the train trundled into Mira Road station, I spied a motley crew of gentlemen who looked as if they'd been rehearsing for a heist scene in a B-grade movie. Their poised readiness to board felt like I had an audience awaiting my next move. Trusting my instincts, I sprang to my feet and hastily disembarked, seeking refuge in the adjacent, reasonably populated general compartment.
As they exited stage left with grace and alacrity, I was left, not with anger, but with an appreciation for their flair. There I was, amidst an audience of weary travelers, pondering the artistry of my own personal pocket-theatre, staged by hardworking men in search of a different kind of payday.
The hour was encroaching upon the witching time, and the lack of the usual hustle in the coach made my spider-senses twitch. As the train trundled into Mira Road station, I spied a motley crew of gentlemen who looked as if they'd been rehearsing for a heist scene in a B-grade movie. Their poised readiness to board felt like I had an audience awaiting my next move. Trusting my instincts, I sprang to my feet and hastily disembarked, seeking refuge in the adjacent, reasonably populated general compartment.
The universe seemed to smile as I snagged a window seat. Across from me sat three seemingly worn-out souls, whom I mused were just returning from their 9 to 9 grind. Yet, just as I began crafting a heartfelt narrative about these diligent men, Naigaon approached and the plot twisted. One began a loving dance with my wristwatch, another serenaded my phone into his pocket, and the pièce de résistance? The third presented his rusty screwdriver, perhaps thinking I needed a bit of DIY in my life. Their ballet of theft was so swift, it deserved a standing ovation.
As they exited stage left with grace and alacrity, I was left, not with anger, but with an appreciation for their flair. There I was, amidst an audience of weary travelers, pondering the artistry of my own personal pocket-theatre, staged by hardworking men in search of a different kind of payday.