There is a distinct absence of empathy when it comes to the people tasked with carrying millions of us across the city every day. I used to sense this as a college-going student, on mornings when the local train supposed to take me to Marine Lines would judder to a halt before entering my station. It would stop whenever someone slipped and fell onto the tracks. One never forgets that memory, no matter how many years pass: a fellow commuter’s life cut short, coupled with the thought that it could easily have been you.

In any other country, the sheer number of accidents on railway tracks would have led to systemic change; here, those numbers are filed away on shelves alongside other grim statistics. I used to think of the impact those incidents would have on the mental health of motormen. Numerous reports describe how they are left traumatised, unable to get behind the dashboards of their trains for a while. And yet, there is no point asking if they are offered the support they need because we all know the answer to that question.