It’s 11 am. The met department says its 33 degrees Celsius outside. Feels like twice the reading inside the doorway of a crowded ladies compartment. We’re holding on to our bags, purses, plastic containers, sticky fish baskets, and use the other hand to clutch on to the handlebars for balance as if it were life support.

Amid this daily slice of life of the Mumbai commuter, insights tend to surface as well. “Ash (short for Asavari), your daughter couldn’t get through, no?” asks Prajakta Tipnis, a woman in her early 40s, looking at her friend who’s roughly the same age. Despite the heat, she looks unaffected in her crisp Calcutta sari. The friend, in a trendy kurti and streaked highlights, was crestfallen with the reminder. “Pra, I tried so hard. I wanted Mitrali to learn ballet. But the instructor was biased, I feel... because we were from Bhandup.” Letting out a gasp, ‘Pra’ replied, “No way! That’s so unfair. Our kids can be as good as those Peddar Road Parsi kids.” Prajakta had no answer. Like the other women who were listening in. The train had moved out of Vidyavihar station. Nobody disembarked, a few entered, and announced, “Zara sarak, na”, in their quest for foot space.

“Why didn’t you try elsewhere Colaba or Altamount Road? Malabar Hill too had classes that my office friend had mentioned. At least, mala sangaycha, na…?” asked ‘Pra’. By now Ash wasn’t keen on going down that road. The hunt was over. May was over.