Deal on wheels

Many working women living in far-flung suburbs find little time to go out and buy even minor items of everyday use. They spend as many as four hours a day in local trains and end up doing half their shopping on board. And making a living out of this are the bindiwalis, clipwalis and the kerchief sellers who have converted the suburban trains into a bustling market place.

From cheap cosmetics and mehendi to dresses and even undergarments, every day springs a surprise and another novelty is added to the list of odd items on sale. For the people who sell these goods, it is not just a lucrative business, it’s a way of life. They come from slums and small dilapidated chawls that flank the railway tracks and hop in and out of trains all day long. Some of them even take their children along to work, tying them around the midriff with a cloth, pushing their way through the crowd and gracefully maintaining their equilibrium.

For 27-year-old Surekha Ajinath Shinde, it is all in the family. "My mother sells flowers and my brother fruits. These do well in the long distance trains," she says. But since both are seasonal items, Surekha prefers to sell earrings and clips. Living in Kalva on the Central Railway, she starts her day with the 10.16 local. Everyone confines themselves to a well-defined area, which they never cross. Surekha travels to Dombivli and back, a routine that goes on till 9.00 pm. The only break she takes is at around three or four in the evening when she stops for a while at some station for a lunch of wada pav and tea.

It’s the same with 17-year-old Sapna, who sells plastic clips and rubber bands on the Western Railway. She has been hopping on and off the trains since the age of six. Sapna commutes from Grant Road to Andheri, switches trains to go to Borivli and comes back the same way seven days a week, from 9.00 am to 7.30 pm.

These intrepid entrepreneurs are quick to catch up with the latest in fashion. As soon as a certain band or clip comes in the market, its cheaper versions immediately hit the trains. And in two weeks, nine out of every ten women stepping out of the train are sporting this product. The latest design doing the rounds is a clamp-like cousin of the banana clip, coming in varied sizes and a few common shades. There are two types of customers frequenting the trains women who simply have to bargain before buying a product and women who haggle even when they don’t want to make a purchase. While the first is expected, it’s the second, that leaves most of them frustrated.

"They don’t want to buy anything but they will still sit with the tray in their lap. Then they bargain and when you agree to give it for a very minimal sum, they still reject it," says Neeta, who sells cosmetics. Fortunately, their trained eye can easily make out the difference between the two sets of customers.

Business is at its peak during the festival and marriage seasons. People who are not regular commuters are more than surprised to see clips and earrings being dished out for as little as Rs five or Rs 10. And usually buy it without any hassles. The regulars bargain even for that sum and sometimes even warn these occasional travellers. "We earn as little as Rs two to Rs four per piece. But they want to bargain for that as well," says Sapna.

Whereas when the same people go to a shop, they pay for it as per the price tag. Thus it’s not surprising to find boys who sell handkerchiefs, calling out, "Three kerchieves for Rs 10," and continuing in the same breath, "Take four". This consumer psychology works almost always. The unsuspecting woman buys the kerchieves, thinking that she is buying four at the price of three.The 70-odd sellers on both the Western and Central Railways have a tacit arrangement among themselves if you hear someone calling out from a train, you don’t board that train. And if two of them board the same train, one gets down on the next station.

They buy the wares from wholesale shops in Dadar, Mulund and Grant Road, sometimes making two to three trips a day, as and when the wares are sold out. After buying goods worth Rs 200 , they earn not more than Rs 50 to 60 a day. And even out of this meagre amount, Rs 10 is reserved for the policemen standing on the station. "If taken to court, we have to pay around Rs 200 as penalty. It is better to pay them around Rs 10 every week," says Sapna. Garment sellers get a better deal than most others. Anil, who sells night gowns on the Central Railway, earns between Rs 50 and 60 a piece. He sews the gowns himself and sells it on his way to Thane where he then sells it on the roadside. The commuters insist that he doesn’t need to do so, as his gowns are a complete sell out anyway.

They all live and work dangerously — clamouring up and down bridges, jumping off platforms to lunge for a passing train. "All that screaming ends up giving you a headache and a sore throat. And the walking leaves your legs feeling like lead," reveals Sapna. After braving the peak hour crowds and corrupt cops, they still manage a smile at the end of a hectic day. And ready themselves for yet another round of haggling, palm greasing and purse-string pulling.