Relay: All (Except Men) Aboard!

The train was like the Hogwarts Express, but only for women. An insider’s knowledge was needed to locate its whereabouts. Even the stationmaster, who sat under a twirling fan in his office of cockeyed grandeur, could only waggle his head and say, “No idea,” when I asked what time the next Ladies Special train would leave Bandra — a neighborhood of Mumbai — for Borivali, at the northwestern end of the city.

Riding a commuter train during rush hour in Bombay (sorry, only CNN weather reporters call it Mumbai; no one in Bombay does) is not for the timid. I hadn’t been on one since I was 12 and lived in Bandra. Today, despite Bombay’s eye-popping new wealth, commuter trains remain as bloated as ever, with an average of nine train-related deaths every day. 

My childhood friend, Rita, has been commuting to work by train for more than 25 years. She used to have to fight her way on board twice a day amid lots of jostling. And pinching, and often groping. Or, as it’s euphemistically called here, “Eve-teasing.” The problems of harassment on trains were so persistent that in 1992 the government decided to simply remove men altogether, and Bombay introduced the world’s first women-only train. Today, Ladies Specials run eight times a day during peak hours in Bombay.

At 6 p.m. on International Women’s Day, I stand at Bandra station trying to figure out where to catch the Ladies Special to meet Rita, as agreed, at the end of her workday.

Railway stations in India are special places. Once, they were monumental tokens of British supremacy, and one of the benefits the empire brought to its subjects. They remain to this day a marvelous memorial of the Raj. The engines rumble now, rather than hiss — no streaming smoke plumes trail — but still, beneath the echoing vaults of Bandra station, the timeless thousands swarm, the hawkers cry, the whistles sound, and the stationmaster reigns imperious.

I spot a group of brightly clothed women and ask about the Ladies Special. “Yes, here. This platform,” one answers.

There’s no indication of a platform number anywhere. Perhaps this is Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. 

With an announcement over the P.A. system wishing women “a special and happy day,” the Ladies Special arrives. It is pink (where were the pink trains to Washington, D.C., in January?) and, like all commuter trains, doorless. 

Women stream aboard like ribbons of color, happily chatting and smiling with their friends. Men stand back and sigh. They have to wait even longer in the stifling heat for the Testosterone Express.

Inside the train women continue to enjoy themselves, speaking an intoxicating mix of English and Hindi. I join a cluster of women in their 20s. One shows off her shopping, another tears opens a packet of crispy bits and passes it around. Another woman shares a Facebook post on her iPhone and they all giggle into their hands. The absence of men appears to be quite liberating for the young women.

A conductor in a flowing blue sari walks through our compartment, inspecting tickets. “Happy Women’s Day,” she wishes me and smiles.

I know my feminist friends in the West will be furious about the need for female-only spaces. Oh, the pitfalls of a gender-segregated world, they will say; women should feel safe wherever they go. There are larger societal issues, they will caution, that no pink carriage can fix.

Unarguable stuff. 

But what they don’t see — can’t see from a first-world vantage — is something I glimpse that day as the train glides into Borivali station, where I am to meet Rita. 

Male commuters line the platform, a forlorn bunch. They have been cast out, and their faces register resignation with a touch of defeat, like remorseful schoolboys. They look wistfully into the superior and joyful Ladies Special as if to say, “Maybe if we can learn to behave ourselves and not be brutes toward women, we might be allowed to ride this nice train home.” For now, the men are patient, even respectful. Not one tries to jump on.

Besides, they know that if anyone does, he’ll be instantly turned into a eunuch.

Judy D’Mello is a reporter at The Star.