I wrote a Salon essay yesterday about why Bombay local trains are both beautiful to ride and difficult to secure. Dilip D’Souza wrote a companion piece, a first-hand account of the bombing aftermath. If you like his piece better, I blame his ridiculously cute kids. Meanwhile, that nefarious neophile Siddhartha Mitter scooped me on my own story.

This is my first piece ever in a mainstream pub. It was written on a tight deadline. Post-editing, neither the title nor the conclusion were mine, so let’s call this ending the director’s cut:

And Bombay is a crowded city. The victims of yesterday’s bombings purchased first-class tickets not for luxury, for first class is jam-packed during rush hour too. They did so to escape Bombay’s relentless demands on your space: to rent a touch more elbow room for an hour or two, to negotiate an extra sliver of air so their commute could pass a bit more comfortably.

In a cruel twist of real estate, shrapnel intruded.

A commenter informs me that the Bombay local trains do in fact have sliding pocket doors, but they’re never closed.

My thoughts are with the bombing victims and their families.

Related posts: Feeling blue, seeing red, Terrorists blow up Bombay trains (updated), Mob rule, Lands End, Page 3, The republic of fun, Chor Bizarre, Kamra obscura, Night Watch, She sells seashells, Navi Mumbaikar, Bombs bay in Delhi, Livin’ la vida Sepia, Madrid on the march, The Spice Trade, again: Indo-Chinese cookery at Chinese Mirch