Grin-f***ed in Chennai

My boss in my new organisation spent more than twenty years in the United States before returning to India for good. Like most who have spent a length of time overseas, he has found that re-adjusting to an Indian workplace isn’t exactly a breeze. Somewhere near the top of the list of challenges is what he calls our national habit of grin-f***ing people.
“Kartik”, he tells me, “I have been grin-f***ed so badly, it’s not funny. People will nod their heads and grin at you, when you explain what you need from then. Then they go and do the exact opposite of what you have told them.” I think I now know what he means.
This morning I made my first official trip in my new job. Up at four fifteen, out of the house at five and walking down Margosa Road a little after. Ears straining to catch the rumble of an auto that will materialise from somewhere, as autos usually do. Walking on the main road, and keeping away from the footpath to avoid the odd stray dog that may emerge from a side alley. I don’t know if there is any research on this, but I’m pretty certain the strays have got more territorial over the years. The same dogs that lie docile on the footpath inviting you to trample them over during the day transform into snarling hounds at night, in that lip curled display of fangs that can give the stoutest soul the shits.
Anyway, true to form, my saviour auto appeared soon enough, and the train trip to Chennai happened without too much event. Except that I had forgotten how cold Bangalore could get before dawn, and now made a mental note to wear a jacket the next time I made a similar trip.
After two customer meetings in Chennai, an excellent South Indian meal at Ratna Café, and an hour of report writing at the branch office, I left the office with my colleague at four thirty. We apparently had enough time on our hands to make the station by five thirty, being the departure time of my train.
Traffic was pretty heavy, and at five ‘o’ clock, when it seemed that we were still in pretty heavy traffic and the station a fair distance away, I glanced at my colleague and said, “Er…my train is at five thirty…hope I can make it.” He smiled back and said, with supreme confidence, “Don’t worry, Sir, we have plenty of time.” I wondered about his confidence when a minute later, I caught him stealing a quick glance at his watch.
5:03: A tempo brushes against the left side of our taxi, wrecking the side mirror.
5:05: Our driver has pulled the car up by the side of the road, and is engaged in a civil but forceful discussion with the tempo driver, seeking five hundred rupees as damages. The tempo driver does not seem like someone who has seen that much money in his life, let alone carry it around in his pocket.
5:08: Above discussion does not appear any closer to resolution.
5:10: I nervously ask my colleague again about the prospects of making it to the station in time. “We have plenty of time,” he smiles again and says. I wonder if he knows of some secret expressway that I don’t.
5:15: The driver steps inside the car, to my relief, having collected what looks like one hundred rupees and a phone number from the guilty tempo driver. We remind him that we are cutting it fine. Thankfully, by now, my colleague seems somewhat concerned as well. The driver cheerfully says, “We have plenty of time, it’s only four thirty, isn’t it?” We inform him that it is actually five fifteen.
The next fourteen minutes is a vague memory of our taxi straddling the footpath and the road, and making a series of continuous honks to cut its way through the traffic. As we near the station, the driver nonchalantly says, “ I will drop you near the side entrance. It will be easy for you.” The tone seems to suggest he is upgrading me from economy to business class at no extra cost.
“Easy, this is effing easy!!??,” I think.
At exactly 5:29, I am deposited outside Chennai Central, alongside platform 10. Thankfully, having made the journey a couple of times recently, I know my train starts from 2A. I run faster than I have in years, and see that the train on my platform is yet to start. Relief. No…there’s a green flag waving…it’s pulling out! I kickstart again, and somehow propel myself through the crowded platform to catch the rear end of the train. It is the generator van and the railway official at the door shakes his head and points me to the next carriage.
“I am never doing this again”, I think as I run and push open the door of the next carriage, hauling myself in. As I board the train, my progress is blocked by a bearded youth lying on the floor with a glazed look in his eyes. Bloody drunks, why do they allow them on the train?
Another passenger explains, “He came in running to catch the train just before you did.” I nod and the two of us exchange a weak smile amid the huffing and puffing, bonding in our shared experience. I place a hand on my chest, expecting stabbing pains to occur. A few seconds later, I am satisfied that there are none, and make my way to my seat in the next carriage.