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When you are travelling by a local train in Mumbai, it doesn't matter when you are the VP of a corporate entity or the Chairman of a multinational company or a salesgirl in a mall.
When you are travelling by a local train in Mumbai, it doesn’t matter when you are the VP of a corporate entity or the Chairman of a multinational company or a salesgirl in a mall, they all stand together next each other, rubbing shoulders, supporting each other and jostling for that tiny patch of space to fit in your two feet. You may be in high heeled shoes with straightened hair and suited and booted or in a simple salwar kameez or a very non-descript saree. They pull up each others’ trailing dupattas and loose bags which are just about to fall.
The ones who are sitting hold heavy bags for the standing and even offer their seats to the weary and bone tired.Sisterhood is what I would call it!
Two friends even share two ends of headphones as the journey progresses ahead.
They share snippets of the joyous moments n tricky moments from the workplace.
Some try to catch a wink before the pile of work waiting at home welcomes them to the second role of the day.
Mothers with small infants stand while someone else holds the infant for them.
As the night moves on, the handles above dangle as they are finally free for movement.
Those catching a wink are gently woken up from their catnap by their neighbours.
The burka-clad ladies sweat and perspire under their hijab as the makeup so carefully applied threatens to leak. A middle-aged burka-clad lady holds the gift so precariously close to her chest. The thick golden bangle on her chubby arm peeks out for some fresh air. A chubby little finger of the cute little baby extends out in friendship to the person next to his mother.
Then there are the brave ones who stand at the door to eat the ‘hawa’ literally, to feel the breeze caress your cheek not knowing what could be hurled at you from the film of darkness outside.
The fisherwoman wakes up from her deep slumber and gently pulls out fish basket. She is done for the day and she slowly massages her aching limbs.As the train compartment slowly gets less crowded the breeze passing through assumes a thicker ferociousness.You see and hear them all selling their wares.The eating walaThe aam papad walaThe sockswalaThe keychains walaThe samosa wala.Going back, it was assumed to be an empty starting train which soon filled up before one could count to ten. Soon they fish out their cellphones to text, call or message their loved ones that they are in their way home.
Whoever said that women are generally home by evening? No way!
There are so many of them, young and old, well dressed and some in tatters too. Each glad to be getting a space to rest for that probably short or long journey. This train was destined to reach Khopoli, a good two-hour-long journey. Just as they would get fresh, and clear the dinner tables and rest a while, the alarm would rudely wake them up from a weary not yet rested and refreshed sleep.
They move on each day.The day moves to weeks and months and years.The struggle remains the same.They don’t give upThey don’t tire.They don’t complain…It’s a journey worth the while and a quick one too from Thane to now called Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus.I still prefer saying VT…Do you?
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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