Chepe Boshun

“Chepe Boshun”, I heard someone instruct sternly in the metro rail as I waited for the train to start on my Day 1 of shopping. WOW, I had not heard these 2 words in years. I don’t even know if there is an apt translation for it, but for the simplistic “Please squeeze in a bit to make space for me”.

Chepe Boshun is something you get to hear very commonly if you use the public transport in Kolkata- buses, metros, anywhere you can think of. Dada, ektu chepe boshun. Dada ektu shorey daran (please move and make space). Asked and masked with courtesy, don't fail to recognize the underlying threat in the request if it isn't carried out instantly. What a complete contrast between the concept of space in two countries: In the US, you are expected to keep an arm’s distance while standing in a line. Privacy and space are important. Period. You’d never sit next to a person you don’t know in a bus if there is an empty seat.

My prolonged absence from Kolkata has led to some profound observations. These observations are solely mine of course and cannot be traced back to any scientific paper, journal, or article. First, the average obesity or the flab-index of the Bengali has gone up. Second, the seats in the metro were wrongly designed in the first place, to seat eight women, shopping baggage and wiggling kids et al. Perhaps a few extra inches to the seats and the problem could be solved. Or would it? Women are designed to be plumper around the you-know-where areas. Nature meant it to be so. Lack of exercise and a proper carb-rich Bengali diet definitely ensured so. I tried feigning an act of wiggling myself, thighs and butt and all, to fake an act of actually moving this way and that way to make space. Honestly, there was no space to make. And this brought me to the last deduction. The average observation power of the commoner has gone down. You see, there’s no cardinal rule about how many ladies a “ladies seat” should seat. 8 adult, “fully bloomed” women can barely make space for each other without some elbowing, rubbing sweaty arms, and muttering expletives while ducking under each other’s armpits. So the next time you see 7 women and a mere 2 inches of space, please don’t try to wiggle into those 2 inches, barely touching your bum to the seat and falling all over the place every time the brakes are slammed. It’s okay to stand for a while, isn’t it? I’d prefer it any day over pushing, elbowing, and squeezing in under sweaty armpits. As I try to shrink myself to half my width, almost wincing at my physical proximity with another sweating soul I am sexually not attracted to while trying to accommodate another pushy woman who just screamed “Chepe boshun”, I try to think of my choices. My reverie and my musing about my theories have been obstructed suddenly. I look at the fat woman, vermilion on forehead and all, towering above me and looking like the live version of Goddess Kali, only taller. Asked and masked with courtesy, I don't fail to recognize the underlying threat in the request if it isn't carried out instantly. I contemplate telling her, “Chepe boshte parbo na” (I cannot squeeze in, sorry and thank you). I imagine how her facial expression would change. Suddenly, my choices are clear. Quietly, I obey her and jiggle myself some more so that she can sit. I’m willing to travel like cattle herd jam packed in trucks for the next 30 minutes. I’ll get off the train in the next station to ensure her a seat. I’ll learn to drive the next time if need be.

sunshine