Makhi’s mantras

IT was the first day after our court vacation.

As I met with lawyer friends at the railway platform at Bandra to board the local train to Churchgate, many of us were not just wearing spotless white newly laundered shirts and trousers but also our black jackets, which had been brought home for 'vacation laundering'.

Some had their folded black jackets wrapped around their forearms.

As we waited for our usual 'local' near the boarding area for first-class passengers, a strange thing happened.

Passengers disembarking from the first-class compartments of trains arriving at that platform every three minutes, upon seeing this bunch of black coats and white trousers, voluntarily started showing us their tickets and passes.

It was obvious that they had mistaken us for railway ticket checkers (TCs). Some of us, not wanting to disappoint the law-abiding, even checked their offerings, flashed a smile and nodded.

In a couple of cases where their season tickets had expired, we even pointed it out to them and let them go. Some of them may remember the day some benevolent TCs let them go!

Then our local train arrived. When we boarded the train, as expected it was very crowded. A passenger who had no room in that crush of sweating bodies to even scratch his backside inadvertently stepped upon the just-polished shoe of my black-jacketed colleague who was standing next to me squeezed and immobilised by the weight of train-travelling humanity.

My colleague winced but somehow managed to wriggle out an arm and tap the offender on his shoulder. The offender turned his head, saw us and immediately said, "Saab mere pass ticket hai lekin mai hil nahin sakta." (Sir, I have a ticket but I cannot move.)

My colleague snapped, "Ticket ko goli maro … Tum mere payr pe khade ho!" (Forget the ticket, you have stepped on my foot.)

The guy then took his foot off my friend's shoe and apologised profusely.