ACE OF SMALL SPACES OCT 2022

(An account of a not so lithe, not so frequent user of the third AC coach of the Indian Railways) 

When was the last time I had travelled third AC I asked my closing-on-50-years-old brain, upon receiving the delightful message from IRCTC that my berth, which was waitlisted 39 yesterday, had been assigned B1, 29, four hours before today’s travel (much rejoicing for emergency quota). I suppose the question should have been directed more to my body than my cerebellar cortex because, irrespective of the answer regarding the date of past travel, my spine was to be the principal bearer of the fruits of the said travel but let’s not get ahead of the story.

​I arrived at platform 9 and performed my usual ritual of looking for a wall between platforms 9 and 10 to ram my body through, and as usual I found none; so I walked on to find coach B1. I saw it past A2 and a cursory glance told me that the passengers from 25 to 30 had not yet reached. Fifteen minutes later, fortified with two dosas, some weak sambar and some still weaker chutney, I boarded the train. I could swear the two large white pancakes I had ingested were uthappams but did not feel the need to educate the surly vendor on the subtleties of dimensional differences and percentage of fermentation. Berth 29 turned out to be the middle one and did not look intimidating since it hadn’t been turned up as yet, but rather a number riveted to the dividing wall. The journey started and after about two hours of sitting, I started noticing the discreet twitching-of-the-leg and furtive sideward-glances from the other occupant of the lower berth (these surreptitious movements are part of the South Indian nonverbal lexicon to indicate a call to action, the present case being ‘Let’s put up the middle berth so I can sleep’). I acknowledged as any good South Indian would, with a wobbling head nod — a quick one paired with raised eyebrows meaning ‘Shall we?’ to which he echoed with a similar head nod and a smile that disappeared milliseconds after genesis ‘we shall’. This infinitesimally small smile is truly an art, which takes years to master for if it should linger a fraction longer it could be misconstrued as an invitation to … lets leave it at that.

The appearance of the middle berth halved the earlier free space, and as I went through the motions of preparing my berth for sleep a conflict of sorts started. A fight between my ever-optimistic brain and my skeptical baody (a pronunciation learnt from my brother-in-law’s imitation of a Texas drawl) ensued as to whether I would be able to get into the said cramped space. After much deliberation on point of entry, projected trajectory and all such Newtonian equations (directly proportional to one’s torso, inversely proportional to the square of the distance between one’s two big toes yada yada), I made my move from the conventional tail end and within seconds rued my decision. It's only once both hands and legs are on the berth that you truly appreciate the lack of space. My spine was bent in an upside down U shape (resembling the Malayalam letter ‘Ra’) and my movements were restricted to hands first, followed by body and legs. I resembled a mosquito larva slowly wriggling its way forward (letters ‘Cha-Kha-Ra’ in Malayalam). Eventually after much huffing, puffing, wriggling and wiggling, I managed to reach the other end. Phase one of Operation Middle Berth having met with success, I stayed in that position (Baby Cobra) for a good two hours watching some random movie, feet getting nudged by passengers trudging down the aisle until the muscles of my lower back said ‘enough with the yoga’. It was time to put phase two into motion.

Phase two was that of having to turn around without falling off and still keep the bedding wrinkle free — Tai Chi supine style. Within a minute I knew it was a battle I wouldn’t win so, in order to save the ignominy of having my body parts suffer the ridicule of gravity, I chose the latter of the two evils. Twist, adjust, twist, adjust, plonk …breathe. I had done it. I lifted my knees and realised that the space in the middle berth was … the length of one’s thigh. Anyone with a six-foot frame would be stuck in Phase one (Ra position).

​One thing that is proportionate to age is the inclination to evacuate the bladder and this urge usually peaks during the ghost hours of the night. Sure enough around 3 am, I felt a familiar discomfort halfway down my baody (see above). For any God/Gods watching, this provides Him/Her/Them the much-needed comic relief of their otherwise plea-bitten lives. Phase three commences. The most appropriate way to negotiate the space now would be to reverse your approach and thereby return to ground level with your eyes facing your berth, but at 3 am your brain allows you to imagine a different strategy. Why waste time turning around? Just slide forward and slide to the ground … Yes I think … Why not? Now here is why this is a terrible idea … especially with a fast-filling bladder. The initial slide is easy and you are lulled into a false sense of achievement. But suddenly, you find that your legs bend at the knees downwards and your back arches upwards. To rectify this, you bend forward and bump! You realise that the combined length of your torso and head is longer than the length of your thigh. Now you can’t sit upright; so you have to compensate by bending even more and soon you get stuck very awkwardly, as neither can you push off the berth nor can you unfold yourself. Think about this position with that bladder still un-evacuated and you will first laugh before feeling sorry. Well, thankfully, instinct and reflex are two body reactions that help you in times of trouble (apologies to Paul McCartney and Mother Mary). By some miracle, I inched forward and got enough space to push my head through the small gap. Hurrah! After this, sliding down to the ground was easier and, having got out of dire straits, I did my ‘walk of life’ to the loo and back.

​Returning now as a veteran of all three phases of mid-air railway combat, I found getting back to a foetal curl a lot easier. The wrinkles of the blanket under my back no longer worried me and I proceeded to relax. To my satisfaction, I stayed so until way past dawn. As I awoke I noticed that the middle berth opposite mine was empty, its inhabitant probably on the morning ordeal of negotiating stream accuracy while being jolted from side to side. After a few minutes he returned, quite relieved and proceeded to swing himself on to the berth through the gap in the middle, between the two chain links supporting the berth. I watched in awe as he made the transition from vertical to supine in a matter of seconds and made two notes to self —one, the theory of evolution holds good and two, this is to be tried on the return journey.