Train journeys and way too much ado

As a mother of two under-fives, I am put to the test almost daily. There are some days when I know I won’t make the grade, no matter what; like when there’s a train journey involved.

The ordeal starts with the crossing of the overbridge - fairly painless unless you have only two minutes or less left. That being the norm for me, I have to take the steep steps two at a time carrying the younger one and a heavy bag and coaxingscoldingcajolingthreatening the older who will invariably come to a stop to inspect that greenish blob of God-knows-what.

When I make it to the other side, perspiring and foul-mouthed, I hear the dreaded announcement – the train is late. After an hour of Lays, Frooty, Appy and similar junk, the train arrives. But as I see it chugging into the station, my relief melts into trepidation.

Picture this:

Overweight, high-strung woman in her mid-thirties, trying to hold the hand of a four-year-old girl who might just be the most restless four-year-old on the planet and carrying a one-year-old who is – hallelujah! – as calm as her sister is not. With her third non-existent hand, she carries an overpacked strolley, and a bulging handbag which, she prays to God, has her wallet, mobile and tickets. The woman is hot, sweaty, has not been in touch with her loyal friends for years, is not active on Facebook and has no career. She used to be a journalist and used to dream of singing in night clubs. Throw her frustrations into the picture and last, but not least, add recalcitrant hair and slightly cracked heels.

At this particular station, the stop is for a mere two minutes and the platform so low that getting into the train involves climbing up three or four widely spaced steps,  90 degrees to the floor of the train. Between the steps and the platform, there is enough space for a child to fall into (you don’t want to know what lies on these all-Indian tracks) and break a limb. If the child falls, there is also the imminent danger of being crushed under.

During the two minutes, people get on the train at the same time as those who get off. There are also those who stand close to the door, refusing to let go of parting hands or planting kisses on parting cheeks.

As I take a deep breath and run to the nearest door, I know that little miss tsunami (a family friend’s description) will try to get in on her own, like she always does. I also know that though I will use superhuman effort to power myself and my belongings into the train, I will need divine assistance to prevent me from falling back when I’m halfway up that stairway-almost-up-to-heaven.

Once inside, the worst is over. All I need to do now is make sure that the kids don’t eat anything off the floor or put hand or leg out of the window, keep the older one’s hair out of the ceiling fans and discourage them from using the toilets. The last one was tricky till I figured out how much water they needed to stay hydrated but able to wait.

When we finally reach our destination, I am spent. So spent that I walk to that blessed car I know will be waiting at the porch, totally at peace.