Shatabdi journeys and fragile egos

Chitvan Singh Dhillon

PASSENGERS onboard the executive-class coach of the Shatabdi Express from New Delhi to Chandigarh make for an interesting case study on the fragility of the human ego. The travellers typically consist of the movers and shakers of the bureaucracy, ‘My Lords’ and kurta-clad netas — not to forget lawyers and journalists.

It baffles me that those who frame and execute policies, supposedly shouldering a gigantic responsibility, find it impossible to lift their own bags. While the apex-level ‘Burrah Sahib’ from Punjab will typically be accompanied by his protocol staff, courtesy the Resident Commissioner, the more self-effacing counterpart from Haryana will manage things by herself — without a whiff of arrogance. They will walk past each other and may not exchange pleasantries, even if they may be batchmates!

At the railway platform, one can spot some officers, sporting their colourful ‘ID cards’, which have become more of a fashion accessory and an obvious assertion of their seniority. Occasionally, one may spot a retired babu, still wearing the lal patta with the expired ID card deftly tucked inside the pocket.

Inside the coach, dishevelled and young vaqeels are often found making a quick dash for their coaches after helping senior advocates remove their black coats and grabbing their files. The servility in their body language is hard to miss.

‘Keep the change!’ the northern-sector auntie dismisses the humble coolie and quickly gathers her shopping haul from Chanakya Mall and Khan Market. An entitled memsahib and her badly behaved progeny, accompanied by their personal staff, enter soon after. A confusion over seat numbers erupts, which quickly escalates into an argument, but stops short of a brawl. The staff is summarily rebuffed, and deservedly so, by the auntie. It turns out that the memsahib’s ticket is for the following day! The helpless but snooty lady is rescued after a speed dial to the rail mantralaya by a fellow traveller who walks down the aisle, presumably her husband’s batchmate.

My co-traveller is an affable auntie from Karol Bagh. She is the quintessential idiosyncratic Indian auntie you don’t want to mess with. And so, I just eavesdrop on her juicy colony gossip. I gather that the menu at Mrs Chadha’s recent kitty party was awful. Later, over hot, cardamom-scented chai, we get talking. She manages only a smattering of the Queen’s English but insists on carrying the conversation forward only in that language.

In less than 15 minutes, she is flipping out rishtas for me from her phone. ‘Puttar, at least have a look! She’s from LSR (Lady Shri Ram College), yaar!’ she chimes. Alarmed, I steer the conversation towards books, but her acquired taste for literature leaves me unimpressed. And, before we realise, the train chugs into Chandigarh. I humbly ask her to upgrade from Shobhaa Dé to Jackie Collins, at least.