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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Deadly Commute

Mumbai has always taken pride in its local trains, which have been celebrated as the city’s lifeline. It has long been a democratic institution that carries millionaires and labourers alike, and a symbol of the resilience that Mumbaikars so often boast about. The brutal murder of a 22-year-old passenger inside a moving local has exposed a darker reality. The city’s most cherished public service is no longer merely overcrowded and uncomfortable but is becoming steadily unsafe. The victim,...

Deadly Commute

Mumbai has always taken pride in its local trains, which have been celebrated as the city’s lifeline. It has long been a democratic institution that carries millionaires and labourers alike, and a symbol of the resilience that Mumbaikars so often boast about. The brutal murder of a 22-year-old passenger inside a moving local has exposed a darker reality. The city’s most cherished public service is no longer merely overcrowded and uncomfortable but is becoming steadily unsafe. The victim, travelling in a first-class compartment of a Churchgate-Nallasopara fast local, became embroiled in an argument over whether the train door should be kept open during heavy rain. The disagreement escalated into fatal violence after the accused pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the abdomen. As blood pooled on the floor of the compartment, passengers merely stood there watched in horror. A video of the aftermath showed the alleged killer walking away with the weapon in hand without anybody stopping him. For years, a rough but effective social order prevailed in the Mumbai local train. While commuters may have jostled for space and exchanged harsh words, there remained an unwritten code of conduct for keeping outright criminality at bay. Mumbai’s trains have long been dangerous in one sense. Every year, hundreds die while crossing tracks, hanging from footboards or falling from overcrowded coaches. But passengers rarely feared being murdered inside the compartment itself. S Even more troubling was the reaction of those present. The footage suggests that dozens of passengers chose self-preservation over intervention. While few citizens would willingly confront an armed attacker, the images nonetheless reveal a growing atomisation of urban life. Millions travel together every day, but increasingly as strangers who feel no responsibility towards one another. Mumbai’s famed collective spirit has now become a slogan repeated only after disasters rather than a reality visible in everyday life. The authorities, too, have questions to answer. How did an individual carrying a knife manage to board and travel through one of the busiest suburban rail networks in the world? Why does visible security remain so sparse despite years of promises about surveillance, modernisation and passenger safety? The Railways have invested heavily in technology, announcements and infrastructure upgrades. Yet commuters continue to encounter inadequate policing and an absence of deterrence. The larger concern is cultural. Across India’s cities, there is evidence of rising public aggression. Minor disagreements increasingly escalate into violence. Road-rage incidents, neighbourhood disputes and social-media-fuelled confrontations frequently end in bloodshed. Patience, compromise and restraint appear to be in retreat. Mumbai likes to imagine itself as different from the rest of India. The local train murder suggests otherwise. A city is judged not by its skyline but by the safety of its ordinary spaces. When passengers can no longer assume that they will return home alive from a routine train journey, something fundamental has gone wrong.

Police & Pandits: Biggest Beneficiaries of Devotion

Updated: Jan 29, 2025

Corruption is rampant at Kalighat Mandir under CM Mamata Banerjee's nose

Kalighat Mandir

Kolkata: The Uber ride from my hotel to Kalighat Mandir was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like a journey into another world. A cold and crisp Tuesday morning in Kolkata, known as the City of Joy, set the stage for my reluctant pilgrimage to one of Hinduism’s holiest shrines. Reluctant because, as someone who believes you don’t need to stand in line to meet God, I’ve never been much of a temple-goer. But family insistence has a way of bending even the firmest resolve, and so I found myself en route to the famed temple of Goddess Kali.


Kalighat’s significance in Hindu mythology is immense. Believed to be the site where Maa Sati’s right toe fell, it is one of the 51 Shakti Peethas, sacred abodes of the goddess. Yet, the sanctity of the temple often feels at odds with the chaos surrounding it. The hotel receptionist had warned me: Tuesdays draw larger crowds, as the day is considered auspicious for Maa Kali. I braced myself for long queues, pushy devotees, and the unpredictable chaos that defines India’s spiritual epicentres.


The temple’s entrance was just as expected, teeming with energy and opportunists. Before I could even locate the gate, an elderly man in a traditional kurta and dhoti appeared at my side. His demeanour was calm but calculated, his movements choreographed for maximum effect. “The gate is there,” he pointed, steering me toward one of the many pooja stalls lining the entrance.


Within moments, I was engulfed by men preparing a pooja thali before I could even process what was happening. Hibiscus garlands, a coconut, incense sticks and bangles were swiftly piled into a bamboo basket while chants in Sanskrit were murmured over my head. Prices were declared in quick succession as though I were at an auction rather than a temple.


My self-appointed guide led me to the main entrance. “VIP entry?” he asked with casual authority. I hesitated but handed him Rs. 200 - the price of convenience. Inside, two lines diverged: one, a snaking queue of ‘ordinary’ devotees under the sun; the other, a shorter line dominated by Pandits, exuding an air of hierarchy.


At the inner sanctum, a separate system operated. Two men collected money on either side of the deity, while the main priest handled offerings. The cramped space was packed with devotees in a single line. “Sister, give only Rs. 20, not more,” my Pandit advised. “If you give Rs. 100, they’ll demand even more outside.”


The idol of Maa Kali was a stunning, terrifying figure - her blackened face adorned with gold and silver, her four arms poised with weapons and gestures of blessing. The priest stationed before her barked at devotees, his temper short and his hands quick to push overzealous worshippers back into line. When a group of rural women, wide-eyed and eager, tried to touch the idol’s feet, they were scolded and physically pushed away. The irony was stark: here stood the goddess of empowerment and strength, worshipped in a space that thrived on intimidation and control.


As I exited the sanctum, my Pandit guide ushered me toward a coconut-breaking shrine. Another man waited there, collecting Rs. 500 notes from devotees who sought to add this ritual to their spiritual checklist. I negotiated down to Rs. 100 and cracked the coconut, watching as the pieces were whisked away, ostensibly to be distributed as prasad. “Didi, idhar sab paise se chalta hai,” the Pandit muttered matter-of-factly. Everything here, it seemed, came at a price: access, blessings, even the right to break a coconut.


Back at the pooja stall, I was handed a bill of Rs. 1700. “Round it up to Rs. 2100,” the Pandit suggested, offering to arrange a Bhandara in my name. He even presented a QR code for online payment. Faith, it seems, has embraced fintech.


As I waited for my Uber, an elderly woman persistently pleaded for money, and I reluctantly gave her Rs. 100 - yet another addition to the temple’s bustling economy. In just 30 minutes, I had spent Rs. 2730 for a fleeting glimpse of divinity.


Situated in the heart of Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee’s constituency, Kalighat Mandir presents a stark paradox: women jostled within its sacred walls and left begging beyond its gates.


As my Uber pulled away, I couldn’t help but marvel at the audacious commercialization of faith in a space meant to transcend worldly concerns. “Jai Maa Kali,” I muttered under my breath, the irony unmistakable.

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