Let's start with the F trip of my life – my journey to femininity. It was in 2001, perhaps early 2002, when I was still a bachelor, living alone in Delhi.
It started one fine morning when I heard my brother yelling: Hey, Rishi has become a female! Female? Me? I was in the bath, getting ready to leave for Kerala after spending a couple of days in Mumbai. I could hear everyone going hysterics. There were five of them, all my siblings. What's wrong with these guys?
I checked myself in the mirror. My everything's in place. I changed and rushed out, triggering a fresh burst of laughter. Still in splits, Rajan handed me my train ticket. It read: "Lokmanyatilak T to Quilon Jn S10 24 SU F 29". That's my ticket. Lalchechi, a journalist in Mumbai, had taken it. She made me one year younger, but...
Lalchechi tried her best to look apologetic: "Rishi, I am really sorry, hee hee, it was just, hee hee, you know, hee hee hee..." She couldn't hold her breath anymore. "Rishichetta, why don't you go for a clean shave? Then you can get away as a woman," said Navan, the youngest one. By now I too couldn't control it. Madam Rishi!
My train was leaving in a couple of hours. I had to reach Thane from Borivili to board it. There was hardly any time to brood over my just-found femininity. So we rushed through our 'for the rail' and 'for the female' toasts and set off to Thane. At the station, there was not enough time to get the ticket corrected. So I boarded the train, assuring everyone that I would manage it.
Any way, I had my I-card and other documents. Only I'd be looking like a fool in front of all those people, which, according to my see-offers, was nothing new. Hmmm. Its hugs and kisses time yet again, then the waving...first eye to eye, then at their hands, then the station, a couple of days of fun...I'll miss them.
But then, it's home, sweet home, waiting for me at the other end of the train, not Delhi and work. I was happy. The world was beautiful. I went to my seat and checked my bags to see what all had I left behind in Mumbai. Oh no, the Picasso pen I bought for my father was missing. It was OK, they would mail it, or my brother would carry it the next time he went home.
Now the female problem came back to me. Let the ticket checker come. After all, it's a clerical mistake, I thought. I leaned back on my seat. It was a side seat. I always liked it, the side seat, facing the front of the train.
My mind went back to the last couple of days as I stared blankly into the endless procession of trees and buildings under the afternoon sun. We hardly had any sleep the previous night. It was a binge. And it was too good. The best was Lalchechi rushing to the door to check her own address while ordering dinner... I slowly slipped into a nap.
It must be the morning's booze on top of the sleepless night, or the afternoon sun, the sound and commotion that always accompany ticket checkers in long-distance trains failed to wake me. He shook me up. As usual, a crowd of unconfirmed ticket holders followed him, making him look like a local political leader going around with his group of followers.
There was no scope for any privacy. I told him about the mistake in my ticket. He took the ticket from me, had a look and told me it was not valid. "C'mon, sir, I've got enough documents to prove that I'm Rishi," I said.
"But I cannot let a man travel with a female's ticket. TICKET, TICKET." He moved on, my ticket in his hand, the crowd after him, busy and unmindful, checking and ticking tickets. I followed, now wide awake but eyes still trailing the mind.
"Sir, but it's not a female's ticket. It's Rishi's ticket. Female is a silly, clerical mistake. C'mon, sir, there can't be any woman in the name of Rishi. You know that," I told him that much, between several interventions, perhaps over 10 minutes. "I know it's a mistake. But I've to follow the rules. That's my job... Madam, aapki ticket?"
My God, what's wrong with this man? It's ridiculous. He knows it's a mistake and he can't do a thing about it! And rules? They are for checking frauds, not silly mistakes. "Sir, please, you have to help me," I'd started losing my temper. "I told you I can't do anything. You have to get down with me at Panvel," he won't slow down.
What he needs is one tight slap, MTV-style. I knew it. My head was what earth was 20,000 years ago--a boiling planet. My mouth was full of abuses. The world is now what Gotham City would be without Batman: corrupt, unjust, full of conspirators with a single-point agenda of making my life hell.
I shouldn't have had rum in the morning, I thought. The smell must be there. Any aggressive move would be termed "drunken misbehaviour". "Sir, please, this is the 150th year of Indian Railways. (Yes, it was early 2002.) And your ads say customer service is your focus," I make a last plea. It was there in the newspaper. "I have to follow the rules, I told you," he was determined. I could feel that it was all about money. But I never mastered the art of bribing, so it was out of question unless he initiated it.
But I was tired of chasing this son of a rulebook. He was a thin, frail man and I could well picture myself beating him up. But of course that would be the end of my trip. I was making all kinds of calculations...
What to do? If I get down, at best they'll reimburse the ticket fare. Travelling all the way back to Borivili with the two sacks of bags! And even if I managed it, I won't get a confirmed ticket for at least the next couple of days. And I just didn't want to cut short my stay in Kerala; no way! All I had was just one more week of leave. So?
What if I say I'm a woman? That I went to Mumbai for a sex-change operation. That the moustache and beard will go only after a couple of weeks. That I'll charge him with sexual harassment if he continued to harass me. After all, I am a feminist sympathiser. Come to think of it, I may even have more feminine characteristics than masculine. Or would I be able to sit back and think like this in a critical situation like this?...
I was thinking away to femininity when the ticket checker returned to me. He offered me a berth in the Tatkal coach. But I had to shell out the full charge with some fine for travelling without ticket.
By now, I was positively feminine, if you consider safety-first approach a feminine characteristic. I went for it.
In case you call it frailty, forget your gender, you're masculine. I too was not fully converted into femininity, not yet. I couldn't let that son of a rulebook get away with it so easily. I wanted revenge. I vowed to take it up with the railways or approach the consumer court.
I kept my original ticket, the tatkal ticket, challan for ticket-less travel, everything safe and secure. I even had started composing the letter to the authorities with a copy to the minister.
But on the third day of my landing in Kerala I met with an accident and broke my leg. When one can't pee without somebody's help, one looks for support, not vengeance. So the ticket collector went out of mind and, constantly encouraged by my mother and having no way to run away from her, I started considering marriage – for the first time since my college girlfriend's wedding years ago.
A naughty thought is creeping into your head, huh? Well, go ahead, break his leg, be it your son or your brother who refuses to talk about marriage. Success guaranteed. You have the guy pinned down for at least three weeks and he just can't walk out and hide behind his friends in a bar.
My F trip hardly ever came to my mind until one fine day I went to book tickets for a trip with my wife and kid. There was this man who returned to the counter after collecting his ticket – it had F against his name. He had to cancel the ticket and take a new one. Poor thing, missed the train to femininity!
It started one fine morning when I heard my brother yelling: Hey, Rishi has become a female! Female? Me? I was in the bath, getting ready to leave for Kerala after spending a couple of days in Mumbai. I could hear everyone going hysterics. There were five of them, all my siblings. What's wrong with these guys?
I checked myself in the mirror. My everything's in place. I changed and rushed out, triggering a fresh burst of laughter. Still in splits, Rajan handed me my train ticket. It read: "Lokmanyatilak T to Quilon Jn S10 24 SU F 29". That's my ticket. Lalchechi, a journalist in Mumbai, had taken it. She made me one year younger, but...
Lalchechi tried her best to look apologetic: "Rishi, I am really sorry, hee hee, it was just, hee hee, you know, hee hee hee..." She couldn't hold her breath anymore. "Rishichetta, why don't you go for a clean shave? Then you can get away as a woman," said Navan, the youngest one. By now I too couldn't control it. Madam Rishi!
My train was leaving in a couple of hours. I had to reach Thane from Borivili to board it. There was hardly any time to brood over my just-found femininity. So we rushed through our 'for the rail' and 'for the female' toasts and set off to Thane. At the station, there was not enough time to get the ticket corrected. So I boarded the train, assuring everyone that I would manage it.
Any way, I had my I-card and other documents. Only I'd be looking like a fool in front of all those people, which, according to my see-offers, was nothing new. Hmmm. Its hugs and kisses time yet again, then the waving...first eye to eye, then at their hands, then the station, a couple of days of fun...I'll miss them.
But then, it's home, sweet home, waiting for me at the other end of the train, not Delhi and work. I was happy. The world was beautiful. I went to my seat and checked my bags to see what all had I left behind in Mumbai. Oh no, the Picasso pen I bought for my father was missing. It was OK, they would mail it, or my brother would carry it the next time he went home.
Now the female problem came back to me. Let the ticket checker come. After all, it's a clerical mistake, I thought. I leaned back on my seat. It was a side seat. I always liked it, the side seat, facing the front of the train.
My mind went back to the last couple of days as I stared blankly into the endless procession of trees and buildings under the afternoon sun. We hardly had any sleep the previous night. It was a binge. And it was too good. The best was Lalchechi rushing to the door to check her own address while ordering dinner... I slowly slipped into a nap.
It must be the morning's booze on top of the sleepless night, or the afternoon sun, the sound and commotion that always accompany ticket checkers in long-distance trains failed to wake me. He shook me up. As usual, a crowd of unconfirmed ticket holders followed him, making him look like a local political leader going around with his group of followers.
There was no scope for any privacy. I told him about the mistake in my ticket. He took the ticket from me, had a look and told me it was not valid. "C'mon, sir, I've got enough documents to prove that I'm Rishi," I said.
"But I cannot let a man travel with a female's ticket. TICKET, TICKET." He moved on, my ticket in his hand, the crowd after him, busy and unmindful, checking and ticking tickets. I followed, now wide awake but eyes still trailing the mind.
"Sir, but it's not a female's ticket. It's Rishi's ticket. Female is a silly, clerical mistake. C'mon, sir, there can't be any woman in the name of Rishi. You know that," I told him that much, between several interventions, perhaps over 10 minutes. "I know it's a mistake. But I've to follow the rules. That's my job... Madam, aapki ticket?"
My God, what's wrong with this man? It's ridiculous. He knows it's a mistake and he can't do a thing about it! And rules? They are for checking frauds, not silly mistakes. "Sir, please, you have to help me," I'd started losing my temper. "I told you I can't do anything. You have to get down with me at Panvel," he won't slow down.
What he needs is one tight slap, MTV-style. I knew it. My head was what earth was 20,000 years ago--a boiling planet. My mouth was full of abuses. The world is now what Gotham City would be without Batman: corrupt, unjust, full of conspirators with a single-point agenda of making my life hell.
I shouldn't have had rum in the morning, I thought. The smell must be there. Any aggressive move would be termed "drunken misbehaviour". "Sir, please, this is the 150th year of Indian Railways. (Yes, it was early 2002.) And your ads say customer service is your focus," I make a last plea. It was there in the newspaper. "I have to follow the rules, I told you," he was determined. I could feel that it was all about money. But I never mastered the art of bribing, so it was out of question unless he initiated it.
But I was tired of chasing this son of a rulebook. He was a thin, frail man and I could well picture myself beating him up. But of course that would be the end of my trip. I was making all kinds of calculations...
What to do? If I get down, at best they'll reimburse the ticket fare. Travelling all the way back to Borivili with the two sacks of bags! And even if I managed it, I won't get a confirmed ticket for at least the next couple of days. And I just didn't want to cut short my stay in Kerala; no way! All I had was just one more week of leave. So?
What if I say I'm a woman? That I went to Mumbai for a sex-change operation. That the moustache and beard will go only after a couple of weeks. That I'll charge him with sexual harassment if he continued to harass me. After all, I am a feminist sympathiser. Come to think of it, I may even have more feminine characteristics than masculine. Or would I be able to sit back and think like this in a critical situation like this?...
I was thinking away to femininity when the ticket checker returned to me. He offered me a berth in the Tatkal coach. But I had to shell out the full charge with some fine for travelling without ticket.
By now, I was positively feminine, if you consider safety-first approach a feminine characteristic. I went for it.
In case you call it frailty, forget your gender, you're masculine. I too was not fully converted into femininity, not yet. I couldn't let that son of a rulebook get away with it so easily. I wanted revenge. I vowed to take it up with the railways or approach the consumer court.
I kept my original ticket, the tatkal ticket, challan for ticket-less travel, everything safe and secure. I even had started composing the letter to the authorities with a copy to the minister.
But on the third day of my landing in Kerala I met with an accident and broke my leg. When one can't pee without somebody's help, one looks for support, not vengeance. So the ticket collector went out of mind and, constantly encouraged by my mother and having no way to run away from her, I started considering marriage – for the first time since my college girlfriend's wedding years ago.
A naughty thought is creeping into your head, huh? Well, go ahead, break his leg, be it your son or your brother who refuses to talk about marriage. Success guaranteed. You have the guy pinned down for at least three weeks and he just can't walk out and hide behind his friends in a bar.
My F trip hardly ever came to my mind until one fine day I went to book tickets for a trip with my wife and kid. There was this man who returned to the counter after collecting his ticket – it had F against his name. He had to cancel the ticket and take a new one. Poor thing, missed the train to femininity!
