Last week, I was very upset with Kirron
Kher for shifting blame onto a gangrape victim, suggesting that she
shouldn't have gotten into a share auto-rickshaw when three men were
already seated inside.
The day after she made the statement, I
found myself getting into an auto-rickshaw with three male passengers
and one male driver. This is actually fairly common across small and
big cities in India. The suburb I live in currently is quite far from
the centre of town and there was a time when sharing a rickshaw was
the only mode of transport available. Cabs were unheard of. Sexual
assault was also unheard of.
Many nights I'd be dead tired, having
travelled nearly an hour in the over-stuffed ladies compartment of
the local train, loathe to enter another crowded space. Auto drivers
simply refused to use the meter in those days, so I'd often pay three
passengers' fare just so I could travel alone. Even so, I'd have to
argue with the drivers before they would let me hire the auto as a
solo passenger. Things have changed now and the autos have fallen in
line with meters. Even so, if I try to hire an auto solo, it takes
twice as long to get home.
Many drivers are reluctant to take a
solo passenger and not just because of the few extra rupees. They
like the ease of working set routes without having to go off the main
roads. Besides, there are too many passengers waiting. In the
monsoons and in the sweltering summer, mosquitoes hovering overhead
and around everyone's feet, the wait is particularly galling. People
get annoyed if they see drivers taking solo passenger.
Still, male passengers seem to
understand if a woman doesn't want to share. They may feel insulted
by the insinuation that a potential co-passenger doesn't feel safe
with them. They may feel she is over reacting, or ultra orthodox, if
she doesn't want to sit next to men. But they don't usually say
anything.
Female passengers also seem to prefer
travelling with other women. They don't say anything, but there is
quiet relief in their eyes, a relaxation of their posture, small
smiles exchanged as three women tie up to share a ride. I suppose
there is similar relief in my eyes too.
Every so often, I think of Kathmandu.
The memory of shared tempo ride, in particular, is vivid in my mind.
Me and my friends got into a tempo. Most of our co-passengers were
male. The driver was missing. A moment later, the door opened on the
driver's side and a woman got behind the wheel. A woman wearing a
traditional blouse and saree and bright red lipstick. I was the only
one gawking.
My friends informed me that this was
not an uncommon sight. Women were starting to drive shared tempos in
Kathmandu. Fourteen years later, the startling delight of that moment
hasn't faded. The presence of the women tempo drivers had brought me
a great sense of safety in that city, despite the curfews and
sporadic reports of violence. It even brought me joy, though I could
not manage to ride in autos or tempos driven by women most days.
Still. It was enough to know that they were out there, lipstick on
their mouths hopefully, and a fun song playing on the radio.
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