The Realm of Ladies Compartment of Delhi Metro

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women only


The ladies compartment is one of the most awe-inspiring places in Delhi. Each metro train has six-eight compartments, yet the most crowded one is the one adjacent to women’s compartment. Even more fascinating part of this compartment is the kinds of women/girls one can finds in this compartment. Entering the world of women’s compartment can be a very fascinating experience. This article aims at showing you the view of this inside world of the compartment, a place where women feel that they have complete freedom to do anything they like without being stared at. This is the world few men are hateful of because women have been given a reserved compartment and yet some of them dare to enter the other metro parts. Anyway, this article does not aim at these men or their thoughts rather just this world of wonder and awe. Why it is a world of wonder will soon be answered too.

I’ve seen women who enter the metro with handbags which seem to be worked on by an undetectable extension charm. Once, two women entered the metro with their average sized handbags. They took the corner seat because nobody asks you two “adjust” when you sit there. Now, what I next saw happens only in this compartment. It was fun to watch, don’t judge me because it actually was amazing. The women kept their bags on the floor and then one of them pulled out a hair straightener out of it and plugged it to the socket. I really got a live training on how to straighten your hair without burning them. After both of them were through with hair straightening, came a mirror, blush, foundation, eye shadow, et cetera. I don’t even know the name of half of those products. They took turns to do each other’s makeup and after 30 or so minutes, I couldn’t even recognize if they were the same girls. I was officially smitten by the hotness dripping from their gorgeous made-up faces. This is not it, next came sunglasses, umbrella and two denim jackets. I was going to lose my mind! But before I could see what else was the train stopped and the women de-boarded. Phew! Worth watching, wasn’t it?

sitting on the floor

Let’s go on another adventure. A tall girl entered the metro in hot pants and a tank top. Why I remember what she was wearing, has nothing to do with my gender or her beauty. I remember this because, as soon as she stepped foot inside the metro, almost every woman was staring at her. A couple of old women gossiped about the blasphemy of today’s women and college girls stared at her out of jealousy or awe, I don’t know. A few other women who were standing closer to me were gossiping about how thin she looks or she’s too pale or why isn’t she wearing anything. The girl was obviously aware of these eyes, which were much different from the male gaze yet as uncomfortable. She merely drowned herself in the music of her headphones and soon everyone forgot about her. Then there are seat hoggers who will push their way through into the compartment, ask you to “adjust” and try stuffing themselves anywhere they think it possible to fit a pin. Not far behind are the “sleeping class”, they tend to sleep a lot. They might even doze off on your shoulders and their head keeps bobbing around heavy with dreams of the unknown realm.

I’ve seen an old lady everyday in shades. Once she took off her sunglasses, her eyes were brimming with tears. What pain hid in those old eyes cannot be guessed but this compartment holds a lot more than what its color depicts. Another day, I saw a woman board the compartment with a man. Common, tell me you did not think that men could not enter this compartment at all. It is only the fine that keeps them at bay; a casual stroll at times is not a rare site. Anyway, this couple seemed to be in an argument and the woman kept saying, “Don’t touch me.” I was a bit concerned as to what if the guy is a pervert jilted lover but soon it was clear that they were actually a couple and the girl was just angry. This compartment blooms with amorous relationships. No, you won’t find love birds sitting around like the ones we see in parks and monuments. The love here, blossoms by phone calls at on the concertina section at the edge of this compartment. The phone love can be seen in endless smiling faces staring at their phones and sudden shy yet reproachful replies on the phone. The concertina lovers won’t step into the general compartment rather stand on the border and just punch their beloved on his arms. Oh, Love!

Beside them is the cool lot of these highly chirpy-english speaking-college girls. They laugh and scream for no reason and discuss their love life at the highest pitch humanely possible. Their voice makes you cringe beg for peace but nobody can shush them. You can stare or comment or even tell them to shut up but this group has a I don’t care attitude or maybe even if they try, it is a grudgeful few-seconds silence after which they re-burst into a group of chattering birds. They don’t mind sitting on the floor because “who cares”. The group has no face, because you hardly look at one and they seem life a fleet of birds so it is hard to look at them individually. They love talking in a very amusing English language where every sentence has three-four Hindi words and a million “like you know”. Yeah, I might seem pretty harsh towards them, but sincerely these women have already burst my brain cells a lot many times and hence I have the right.
Finally, the last most amusing thing about this compartment is me! Yes, me. I am the lurking guy who stands at the concertina section. I love this place because suddenly the metro is devoid of all women population and the only way to find so many women at one place in this country is here. At times you would find me staring at one or two women but don’t worry I do not mean to harm them, just ogle. The gender ratio is so lopsided in this country that I feel like soon we will hardly have any women left. Female feticide and obsession for a son is the main reason for decline in female population. I wish I could stop this.

I am soon going to have a child; I wish it’s a boy.

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