Unpacking the Shadows of a Metropolis
A much younger acquaintance who has recently relocated from Bengaluru to Delhi inquired if travelling at night would be safe. I couldn’t be certain while responding.
I ran with the swiftness of a gusting wind. This was a form of running entirely foreign to me, a sensation I’ve never recreated since that fateful night. I was in a desperate dash, not in a race against a stray animal gone wild, but against a group of men. It included the driver and conductors of the Blue Line bus I had boarded on my way home from the office. The daily journey back home was taxing, stretching from Green Park in South Delhi to Mayur Vihar Phase-3 (the last bus stop) in East Delhi, consuming a gruelling hour and a half. To ease my daily ordeal, a kind-hearted colleague, now a dear friend, often dropped me off at the South Extension bus stop, where I’d board the bus.
Most days, I managed to secure a ride on a Delhi Transport Corporation (DTC) bus, but on unfortunate occasions, I had to settle for the perilous Blue Line buses. Run by private operators, these buses had garnered a sinister reputation by the late 2000s, notorious for endangering lives and causing numerous accidents. It was in December 2012 that a horrifying and deeply disturbing rape and murder case unfolded on one of these buses on the South Delhi route, forever darkening their reputation and ultimately their phasing out.
However, my experience unfolded a year or two before the 2012 incident, likely around 2010. I was 23-24 years old at the time, a rookie features writer. It had already been a couple of years since I had resided in Delhi. Most of the time, I remained somewhat unfazed by the city’s disreputed streets – streets that often filled most young women with fear – regardless of whether they were desolate, I was travelling late into the night, or negotiating through overcrowded and congested lanes. Over the years, I had honed the ability to navigate these situations, at times battling fear and, at other times, exuding confidence.
I remember one incident in particular that prepared me for what was to come. During one of my early bus commutes to Delhi University’s North Campus in 2003, aboard a packed DTC bus, there was a young and decent-looking man who frequently cast his gaze in my direction. We ended up being on the same bus almost every day. On a specific day when no seats were available, and I had to navigate the crowded commute while standing amidst a sea of people, he deliberately positioned himself directly behind me. As far as my recollection goes, in my youthful yearning for attention from the opposite sex, I felt a rush of serotonin. That sense of flattery was short-lived, though. He crossed a line soon, making advances I was wholly unprepared for, pressing himself against me inappropriately.
Unlike the norm in the 80s and 90s, I wasn’t raised to be passive and quiet. My parents had instilled in me the importance of speaking out against anything I deemed wrong. I knew what was happening at the time was wrong, but I was in a new city, living with extended family members. Uncertain of whether they shared my parents’ approach if matters took a turn for the worse, I found myself at a crossroads. I grappled with my options. Should I scream and risk the judgment of fellow passengers (many of whom were known to my uncle)? Should I alight from the bus, sacrificing my class attendance? Or should I maintain a facade of indifference, pretending nothing was amiss? While the last one was an attractive thought, I had never been one to endure harassment in silence. Fortunately, the small-town girl within me had yet to embrace the fashion trends of the metropolis; I still sported dainty kitten heels, far from the comfort of sneakers or flats.
After thoughtful consideration and seizing a moment when the bus jolted, I stomped on the man’s feet. Once. Then, again. And for a third time. I cannot recall precisely how many times I did it, nor did I feel any need to apologise. He unmistakably received the message and shifted away. It was a moment of relief, leaving me a bit more self-assured when confronting such situations in the future.
However, the bus incident caught me completely off guard. The Blue Line buses had been garnering a growing reputation for notoriety during that period. While the Delhi government had initiated a phase-out campaign in 2007, it appeared to have done little to deter the operators. If anything, their actions took a more vindictive turn, and I found myself a witness to this on that particular night.
The hour was late, approximately 10:30 pm – a time that many would consider late for a young woman travelling in Delhi, where incidents of eve-teasing and assaults had unfortunately become the norm. Few passengers remained, and I was the sole female aboard. A few kilometres before we approached the terminus of the bus route (which happened to be my destination), the driver abruptly announced that they would be deviating from the usual route to refuel by turning onto a more desolate road. A growing sense of unease crept over me, prompting me to confront the driver and the two conductors on the bus. Their response was confrontational.
In the grip of fear, I resorted to self-defence, slapping one of the conductors as he moved menacingly towards me. In the heat of the moment, I disembarked from the bus. With the nagging fear that one of the men might follow, I kept running without a backward glance, covering a continuous distance of nearly three kilometres until I finally reached the lane that led to my house.
Fast forward to 2023, I chose to participate in a six-week residential workshop with a group of entirely unfamiliar faces. After a few weeks had passed and bonds had solidified with a few of my fellow participants (all women), the topic of safety concerns in the national capital region arose. I decided to share the incident with them. To my surprise, their response was laughter. “You ran?” one of them chuckled, and another chimed in, “You slapped a bus conductor?” I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was my overweight physique or my significantly slower walking pace due to weight and health issues that provoked their reaction.
Puzzled by their reaction, I could only manage a wry smile. However, many evenings after that, some of them would revisit the story, finding humour in the mental image of me sprinting away from that uncomfortable situation.
Ever since that evening, I’ve often found myself reflecting on the incident. The collective laughter from my workshop companions left me with lingering questions. Why did they perceive my experience through a comedic lens? Was it the product of their privilege, which allowed them to see the situation from a place of detachment and amusement? Or perhaps it was merely a reflection of a broader lack of awareness regarding the gravity of such situations in the real world. These questions have resided in my thoughts and prompted me to consider the layers of perception and empathy that influence our responses to stories of adversity and resilience.
A much younger acquaintance who has recently relocated from Bengaluru to Delhi posed a question to me. She inquired if travelling at night after a movie screening would be safe, mentioning her options of either taking the metro or catching an auto ride. I was on the verge of saying, “It shouldn’t be a problem,” but then I halted mid-sentence. Could I genuinely assure her that she would be safe? I couldn’t be certain. She recognised my hesitation and responded, “I think I’ll ask someone to accompany me. Having company would make it a little better.”
The phase-out of the Blue Line buses may have occurred, but it seems that some things remain unchanged. The most recent data from the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) paints an alarming picture. Within the category of Union Territories, Delhi reported the highest rate of crimes against women in 2021, standing at a startling 147.6%. The city topped the nation’s total number of registered cases, showing a consistent upward trajectory over the past three years. The figures escalated from 13,395 cases in 2019 to 14,277 in 2021, underscoring the pressing need for safety and vigilance.
As we tackle these troubling statistics and work through the complex tangle of safety concerns, it becomes clear that more than just an overhaul of the city’s infrastructure and policies is required. Perhaps, a transformation in our collective mindset that actively cultivates empathy and understanding – of responding without an air of privilege and entitlement. Perhaps, strive to build a community where everyone, regardless of gender or background, can confidently navigate the city’s streets, unburdened by fear or hesitation.
Saumya, thank you for always being there. And I completely get it how it feels unsafe to travel alone at night. I think, as women, that’s one thing we shouldn’t feel -- unsafe in the city we live in. Not sure how long it would take for that to happen. Hoping, soon.
Priyanka, your essay brought back many memories of anxiety - ridden evenings of trying to reach my PG without anything "untoward" and feeling lucky once back. No one deserves to live like this. This is not normal. And essays like yours are helping these truths find the voice they need. Thank you for writing this.