I grew up riding Mumbai trains, and it was an initiation rite into human endurance. Over time, I had mastered the art of boarding the most crowded ones. Waiting on the platform, I would position myself behind the burliest person who could cleave through the crowd, to find the luxury of a foothold. My strategist from Chinchpokli advised me to attach myself to able-bodied men who would start pushing much before the train trundled into the station. A mighty heave- ho, and I would be swept into the womb of the 6:59 am local, feeling a great sense of accomplishment.

Some cunning ones would board an empty train in the opposite direction half an hour earlier, so that they could watch this human charge from the comfort of their window seat, on the train’s return trip. They had needed to contend with their fleet-footed competitors galloping along the station like Arabian steeds, trying to hurl handkerchiefs at the seats from the outside as place markers.

There is that latent instinct for survival in all of us, just like our forebears may have led the charge with hoots and clubs. It is during such moments that the most decent-looking professional suddenly metamorphoses into an unbridled beast cleaving through the throng, growls and all, trying to seek his spot in life. Even in less crowded locales from Australia to Arkansas, there are holiday-shopping stampedes for something as humble as a discounted iPod.

Mob frenzy is mostly acquired behaviour, though I won’t be surprised if a scientist one day discovers a certain genetic code for storming public transportation vehicles. Last week I was waiting at the Frankfurt airport to board a flight to Bangalore. No sooner had the families with children been called out than the usual rumble of restlessness took over the largely Indian economy class passengers. Many of them were moving closer to the boarding area trying to gain that advantage of proximity.

... contd.