At the gateway of Mumbai, Victoria Terminus, the business of life has resumed. Don’t talk of spirit, it’s a city without optionsIt’s 11.30 am and the rush-hour crowds have thinned out just enough to give you fleeting glimpses of the platform under your feet. Cleaning ladies in navy blue sarees bustle about sweeping the floor, a continuous battle against the grime that’s as much a part of this station as it is of the city itself.Outside, it’s again life as we once knew it. There’s a scattering of people around the vada pav stall, holding out change and shouting out orders. The man himself works at breakneck speed—he goes through the “split bread-splash chutney-shove in vada” routine without even looking, chatting away all the time, controlling hungry men with a charm offensive. College students wander into the McDonald’s opposite, ducking past a couple of Japanese tourists who stand capturing memories in frozen frames. Fleeting thoughts: How many memories does a structure that has stood for nearly one-and-a-half centuries have? What stories can the gargoyles—ugly gargoyles that somehow manage to add to the beauty of the building—tell about the 120 years that they have watched pass by, and of the 40 minutes of mayhem that played out a week ago? The city has got obsessed with work again— the religion of dhandha, of business—because every free moment is involuntarily spent contemplating terror.12.45 pmAt the main line station, which you enter from the back, Government Rail Police (GRP) officers sit behind sandbags. There are metal detectors at every entrance, and constables pull up people for random bag checks.Two kids are having a conversation with a policeman—they want to feel the gun he’s holding. He smiles indulgently, and shoos them off to their parents. Either the metal seats lining the large foyer are extremely comfortable or Mumbai’s had another terribly late night — at least three in 10 passengers are snoozing as they wait for trains that will take them out of the city.A million dreams come into the city each day. How many of them turn into nightmares?Nooruddin Sheikh, 45, is startled awake by a loud announcement — final call for passengers travelling by ‘2072 Down, Amravati Express’.He is waiting for the Hyderabad Express, he says. He runs a clothes shop in a lane behind Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (Victoria Terminus was the old name). Since Thursday morning, he’s sold nothing and now has to visit his ailing parents. He is as angry as anyone else about the terror attack. Angrier perhaps. “How can they do this in the name of religion?” He has a long beard and wears a cream skull-cap. He feels he is being stared at all the time since the attacks. He doesn’t feel like returning, but knows he will have to.His assertion would have seemed contrived in a city as cosmopolitan, as all-embracing, as Mumbai. But a month after the senseless bashing up of north Indians, a week after the random killing spree, his words don’t seem so unrealistic.4 pmA small crowd has gathered around a blackboard that’s been put up against one of the massive pillars. It’s a list of railway employees who were killed that Wednesday evening. There’s an S.K. Sharma, a deputy chief ticket inspector, and a Harkabai Lalji Solanki, a sweeper. A head constable, a reservation clerk, a booking officer, a porter; bullets had cut through the masses, through the classes. “Aatankvaad ka nahin sthan, ek rahega Hindustan (there’s no place for terrorism here, India will remain one),” the message at the bottom of the board reads.The union has organised a peace march in their memory. Magazine vendors and canteen workers come out to attend. A couple of short speeches are made. Families of the deceased have been promised Rs 10 lakh compensation. People get back to work. “Hum aur kya kar sakte hain? (What else can we do?)” A city with spirit or a city without options?5.30 pmIt’s a sudden transformation. Before you know it, the station is packed again. People squeeze through the tangled mess at top speed, bags slung across the shoulder, talking on the phone. Before passengers travelling towards “town”(south Mumbai) can get off, compartments fill up. The regulars always manage to bag the window seats, they also manage to reserve space for buddies. The others end up with bruised arms and egos, contemplating hour-long journeys with no room to breathe.A single 12-coach train carries in excess of a 1,000 people at rush hour. Trains leave the station every three minutes. But the platforms themselves don’t seem to empty out as a never-ending stream of people, sweaty and tired, prepare for their day’s final battle, one that’s played out over three hours every weekday evening. Three hours of the day when there actually is no time to think of anything other than finding a seat, three hours when you don’t notice the number of policemen walking around. Perhaps the most normal three hours of the day.9.30 pm“Please do not agree to guard the luggage of any unknown passengers. Report any suspicious behaviour or unidentified luggage to the station master’s office,” the announcement blares out every few minutes.At this time on terror Wednesday, the announcer was screaming out to people not to move towards the front of the station, where rounds were being fired, to escape from the back when they could.“We do have some disaster management training,” deputy station superintendent Gyaneshwar Pathak says. “We did what we could. We did save some lives.”He seems slightly on the defensive. The policeman on duty that night have been heavily criticised for their failure to control the situation, some of it valid. He points at a policeman standing a few metres away with a rifle slung over his right shoulder. “When I was a child, they used to have the same guns.” He speaks of Shashank Shinde, a GRP constable who was littered with bullets after he had fired just one. “No one could’ve expected such an attack.”He calls out to Girija Shankar Tiwary, who was there that night. He had switched off the lights in the guard room, he had run to the control room to check if the CCTV cameras were working, he had called up his seniors and told them about the situation. A bullet was fired at him but went past his hip. I only wish I had a gun myself, he says.Too many people died, he says. “Take a look around now,” he points outside the door. The place is still heaving with activity. “Now imagine someone firing at them.” You can’t.Just then, a young lady walks in, looking for the announcer on duty that night. “He saved my life. I just wanted to thank him,” she says, handing over a parcel.She narrates her story, how she got off the train, how she was walking towards the front, lost in her thoughts, how she suddenly heard the announcement and fled out from the back exit. Before she walks out, she hands over her visiting card. She’s an astrologer. As Shinde had said just a few minutes back, no one saw it coming.MidnightThe last of around 1,400 trains that come in and out of the station leaves in an hour. Around four lakh people come in and out every day, a constable on duty says. “Do you really believe it’s possible to check every bag that’s being brought in or taken out?” More helplessness.Only a smattering of people remains on the platforms. Minus the teeming masses, the station looks even more imposing. When you order your last cup of tea, you do it almost in a whisper, anything louder than that seems to echo. The frequency of trains have dropped by now.The police are still out in force, and will be for a while to come, keeping CST station safe. Or, under the circumstances, as safe as they possibly can. .
