Ladies Only Folks

After putting it off for two weeks, I decided to take the train home from work with a friend. The train is fast and cheap, but most of the people I know in Mumbai shun it—it’s dirty, it’s crowded, it isn’t done. One takes a driver—think civilized—who zips you around in air-conditioned silence. Inside the car you are protected from smells and dust, gratuitous external honking and the heat. But, I didn’t come to India to be shielded from its elements. I came to live here fully and completely. (Note: Check back in with me in a month or two to see how fully and completely I am still living).

That said, I have been splitting a car and driver with four friends to get to and from work because it is, above all things, convenient. And the train is intimidating. From the road, in my metal cocoon, I’ve seen bits and pieces of train cars flashing between the trees and buildings. Crammed to the gills, the train barely stops as it moves through each station. People dangle out the side of each open doorway (and a few choose to sit atop the train) and jump on and off as it pulls through the station. There is an artful dance within the chaos—I just can’t hear the beat.

The driver couldn’t take me home from work today, so tonight when my co-worker, J., asked if I wanted to join her on the train I couldn’t refuse. I was excited to have a reason to brave the crowds and try it out.

We took a rickshaw to the station, and walked a shortcut to the tracks around open sewers and unpaved lanes, through vegetable stands and past stores selling combs and shoe soles, samosas and fried snacks. I had to move quickly to keep up with her, and panicked when I lost her for a moment. I only had 100 rs. ($2.50) with me, which wouldn’t help me much in this spidering, staring crowd.

Other people seemed to be conquering the space I was walking into with each forward stride. I straightened up and took wider steps and pushed my elbows a little distance from my waist. I am woman. I am strong. Right?

A second class one way ticket costs 6 rs. ($.16). First class is 52 rs. ($1.25) No second thoughts. Second class it is. What about first justifies charging more than 8 times than second?

Perhaps there are 8 times less people in first. My friend and I raced down the stairs—as if we were double-timing it for the Manhattan subway—and joined the other women pushing into the car. I would estimate that there were at least 300 women in the second class train car I climbed into.

This was a “Ladies Only” car, the creation of which is a godsend. In Mumbai, as with many places in India, you can choose between the ladies section, or you can stay with the general population. However, India is a country of men, so if you choose to ride with the general crowd, you will likely be one of few women. It’s the same at the airport—there’s a ladies line for security. And on buses—there’s a ladies side. I’m not sure if it’s to preserve women’s modesty or protect them or encourage them to ride/fly, or all of the above, but it is effective. The men pack into the general cars and the women cram into the ladies cars.

Hitting my head on the handles, I concluded that these trains were not built for 6 foot tall ladies. My line of sight was such that I could watch the swinging mustard-colored handles do their synchronous dance the entire way—like rockettes doing perfect kicks.

There isn’t room on these trains for dance troupes to do flips and twirls down the aisles like they do on the A,C,E. But sellers do come aboard peddling plastic hairclips and bindis with which to decorate your third eye. The kids who sell the stuff have round eyes lined with thick black kohl. One little girl with a firm belly had a tenor-deep voice—the kind that reverberates off walls and down halls—the better to sell you with.

We stood near the open door and my dress flirted with the breeze. I watched the tops of buildings go by. Most of the other women wore salwar kameez’s, their diaphanous scarves whipping up around their heads, like plastic bags that get swept up in air currents.

Our stop at Bandra station brought hordes of men and watermelons hanging in pink nets like swollen teats. We made a running dismount and resumed our sharp elbows walk. As we left the station, J. showed me the board with a digital read-out of the arriving trains.

She tells me which one I should take in the morning if I come. I understand her instructions perfectly. But there’s no way I’m ready to do it alone.