The train reached Panvel station at around nine in the night. They deboarded the train, kept their luggage aside, freshened up a little and drank tea at a nearby stall. They got into a local train after that. This was Asrar’s first journey in a local. There were few people in the compartment. He took a window seat. A few youths on the platform who were chatting jumped in as the train started. Even before it reached Vashi station, tall buildings all around, shopping malls, huge hoardings on the streets and the red, yellow and blue lights seemed to be pulling Asrar towards them. Asrar had never seen so many advertisements and such blinding lights! Before he could get completely lost in the magic of this glamorous light, the train entered the next station. Through the window he saw an ocean of people on the platform, which scared him for a second. Then he immediately recalled the various scenes of Mumbai that he had seen on the television where the crowds of Mumbai were beautifully showcased. Even before the train could stop completely, people started shouting and pushing each other to board. The coach was overflowing with passengers. Asrar silently observed them.

An inquisitive-looking boy asked him, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Bombai,’ Asrar replied staring at him.

Wherever his answer was heard in the coach, the tired faces started smiling. Some even laughed at it.

A man, with smallpox marks on his face, smiled and remarked in a Bombay accent, ‘This is Bambai!’

A Gujarati boy who had just boarded the coach and had secured seats for his friends mocked, ‘These “bhaiyyas” are going to ruin Mumbai.’

‘I’m not a “bhaiyya”!’ Asrar immediately snapped.

This unexpected answer made the Gujarati boys smile. ‘The moron must be a Bihari then,’ one of them said and the others started laughing loudly.

‘I am from Maharashtra,’ Asrar clarified.

The Gujarati boy spat the mawa he was eating out of the window and said, ‘Nowadays even Chinesewala have started calling themselves Marathi!’

The Gujarati boys again burst out in laughter. Suleiman could not resist speaking. He said loudly, ‘Apla manus aahe re [He is one of us].’ Asrar and his friends started conversing in Konkani delicately dipped in Marathi.

The Gujarati boys fell silent. One of them also apologized. ‘You see it isn’t written on anyone’s face where they come from.’

Asrar did not say anything. As a matter of fact, he did not even understand what was going on. Seeing that the Marathi-speaking boys were in a majority, the Gujarati boys were now quite polite. They offered Suleiman water and said, ‘We are true sainiks too!’

The crowd reduced after a few stations. But the congregation of passengers at the station made Asrar inquisitive. He asked Qasim, ‘So many people even at this late hour?’

‘Till eleven nearly all stations are crowded.’

‘Everything shuts down so early back home.’