Siddharth Watve
There are few ways to feel insignificant as a human being as to wait for the arrival of the next metro at Delhi’s Rajiv Chowk station. It’s a human tornado: the pandemonium never stops. Amongst the chaos though, a fleeting moment of calm appears every six minutes when the metro does arrive. For three brief seconds you will see a relatively unperturbed compartment of the train blur past you, and for the next twelve you will see live renditions of a human sandwich. The first compartment — of course — being the Metro’s designated ladies-only car. It is a bit difficult in those few minutes of being part of an organised human stampede to not feel jealous of the women being given preferential treatment simply by virtue of them being women.
But then, as the Metro goes through the motions, speeding and stopping through a multitude of stations spread throughout Delhi, you begin to think. Through the fingerprint-stained glass windows you see glimpses of the world beyond. A world you were part of before you walked through the automatic doors; and a world you shall dissolve into again once more. A world that has not been the same ever since one fateful afternoon a long while ago. It was perhaps the only time in my life I cried for something that had no direct bearing on me. It was a day that shook my pillars: and my nation’s as well.
Life has very clearly not been the same ever since. Not anywhere else in India, and even lesser so in Delhi. It has changed — and dare I say it — for the better. For as tragic as Nirbhaya’s fate was, it was a life not lost in vain. It does speak volumes about our situation before her that it took an unbelievably horrifying incident of this magnitude to spark the change. Perhaps the only bit of solace we can take from this is: at least there was change. We began talking about it. “Rape” was no longer acceptable in action and taboo in word. Her suffering — heart-wrenching as it was — was worth something in the end. Everywhere people stood up for a daughter. Enough was enough. Tear gas was redundant — India was already crying. A jet stream from a water hose was nothing against a rising tide. A Prime Minister and his vow of silence would shatter against the chorus of a billion voices.
This is the strength of the Indian woman. She did in death what we couldn’t in life. She got us moving. It’s only a damn shame it took a sacrifice this great to open our eyes.
So perhaps every morning and every evening, when I wait for the arrival of the Metro, as one of thousands at Rajiv Chowk, I will think back to this. As the singular beam of light from the Metro pierces through the dark of the tunnel, leading it will be — every single time — that unperturbed compartment reserved for women; with India’s mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, friends and girlfriends at its helm.
