FROM where I’m sitting, I have to crane my head over the motorman’s shoulder to look out of the window as the last train, the 00.50 (the ‘‘double-odd fifty’’ in railway speak), zips out of Mumbai’s Churchgate station, bound for Virar, 60 km away and the last stop on the city’s western rail network.Sitting in the motorman’s cab feels a bit like it would be, I imagine, at the top of a rocket. Except that it’s, well, horizontal, obviously. The cab is like a cockpit, with banks of esoteric control panels that are a weird mix of old-fashioned dials and digital readouts. And the acceleration is phenomenal. The motorman, 36-year-old Suresh Narayanan Achary, nudges a T-shaped handle (called the master controller), and the 12-car train, carrying 3,500 passengers, leaps forward with an effortless power that is almost smug. It’s easy, I think. There isn’t even a steering wheel. All you do is push the handle forward to speed up, pull it back to slow down. I’m dying to have a go, but there is a zen master-like quality to Suresh that inhibits me from asking. He stares intently ahead but I have no idea what he’s looking at. As the speedometer nudges past 70 kmph, all I can see through the window (a sheet of ‘‘bulletproof acrylic’’, says Suresh) is a mess of formless black and blobs of light. The tracks are dirty quicksilver smears vanishing into darkness. Suresh never expected to be driving trains. ‘‘I thought I would be a teacher,’’ he says. Even when he applied for the job of motorman on the Western Railway, he didn’t know what it was. ‘‘I thought I’d be repairing motors or something. Of course, I was thrilled when I realised.’’ But it does have its limitations. He has to make sure he has total rest before coming on shift, and can’t drink alcohol for eight hours before driving a train. If his regular medical check ever shows his health is anything less than A-One, he’ll have to change jobs. Being a motorman is all about remaining calm and disciplined, he says. ‘‘People sometimes scream and shout at you, especially if the train is late,’’ says Suresh. ‘‘But you just ignore them. We’re only supposed to stop for 30 seconds anyway.’’ Suddenly he kicks a huge pedal and a horn blasts. ‘‘When do you have to blow the horn?’’ I ask him, my Karate Kid to his Mr Miyagi. He shrugs. ‘‘It depends,” he says. ‘‘I did it just then because there was someone on the track.’’ I’m terrified. I hadn’t seen a thing. ‘‘It’s worse during the day,’’ he says. ‘‘Then there are so many. It’s very stressful.’’ He eases back the master controller for our arrival at Charni Road. The station unblurs into platforms and clocks and tired passengers. Suresh stops the engine expertly in front of a white marker between the rails at the end of the platform. I know that dozens die every week on the Western Railway but I’d never really thought about what it would be like to be driving the trains that do the killing. ‘‘Have you ever hit anyone?’’ I ask him. A buzzer sounds twice before he can answer. He hits a buzzer twice in reply, kicks the horn and caresses the master controller up a few notches. We are off again. ‘‘In my eight years as a motorman,’’ he says solemnly. ‘‘I have hit 16 people with my train. It’s a problem for every motorman. And it delays the trains too.’’ It’s simple physics. An average-load suburban local travelling at 70 kmph needs 1,000 metres of track to come to a stop. By the time the motorman has seen a person on the track, they’re either quick or they’re dead. All the motorman can do is blow the horn and hope they get out of the way. This conversation is not good preparation for my turn to drive the train. I hadn’t been sure if I would be allowed, but as we pull into Borivali an hour later, Suresh gives me a smile and steps aside. I take his place as the buzzer sounds. I hit the button and kick the horn, and then push the master controller forward half-an-inch. The engine whines and we move smoothly off. I can feel the 12 cars rumbling behind us like a tail. I’m grinning like a loon. ‘‘Can I go faster?’’ ‘‘Of course,’’ replies Suresh, ‘‘Or we’ll be late.’’ I’m too tentative; Suresh urges me to push it all the way and before I know it we’re doing 70 kmph. I’m desperately scanning the tracks ahead for people, but it’s so dark I can’t see a thing. I can’t tell if Suresh is checking too because I don’t dare tear my eyes from the window. I can’t believe I’m driving a train. Is this legal? What if we hit someone? Suddenly an alarm blares in my ear—we’re going over the 75 kmph speed limit. I pull back on the master controller, but Suresh smoothly takes over and slows us down. Frankly, I’m relieved. I think I’ll leave controlling trains to the masters.
