Ladies Only - A peek into the DMRC's women-only coach

A 20-minute trip in Delhi Metro’s Ladies Coach yesterday proved to be quite an enjoyable ride indeed. The occasion being Karwa Chauth, I even saw a couple of women blowing at their hands to dry the intricate henna some pavement artisan had no doubt painstakingly applied. The women looked happy - sharing anecdotes, sitting comfortably with one another, their oversized bags lying languidly on the coach floor.

All this looked a far cry from the scene twenty odd days ago – when they had to rub shoulders with the city’s mensfolk – and in the process, contend with constant staring, obnoxious lip-smacking sounds, eve-teasing, lascivious things murmured into ears, pinching of rears, and the occasional but very deliberate groping or ‘accidental’ brushing of an arm against their sensitive parts.

While the women enjoyed the controlled cooling in their allotted coach, the men from the adjoining coach cast looks at them – some woebegone, other envious, while some others cast looks of pure venom and red-faced fury. All the while jostling for space, the feeling akin to being a trussed-up sardine in a can with many others of its ilk.

An unsuspecting man strolled into the coach, only to be shooed away by the many women – who went up in collective peals of laughter when the alarmed man beat a hasty retreat, disappearing in a huff.

An elderly gentleman was however, immediately made to sit, bringing a smile to his weary eyes. As was a wide-eyed 8 year-old boy, who shyly stood behind his mother, his right hand trustingly in hers.

A couple of boisterous college-goers boarded the Metro, stepping in smartly into the all-ladies coach. Despite repeated protests from the womenfolk, they flippantly replied that they would be alighting at the next station. The next station didn’t prove to be that lucky for them though – as a pot-bellied, stern policeman marched them off to the side to perhaps collect the Rupees 200 penalty for riding in the women’s coach. I’m guessing they wouldn’t be repeating the same in a hurry.

Women of various ages, dressed in sarees, dapper business suits, comfortable kurtas and salwars, some in their tighter cousins – churidars, while yet some in jeans and skirts – made eye-contact with their fellow companions. Smiles were exchanged when one caught sight of an exquisite neck piece there, or a particularly pretty bangle.

Not a word was exchanged – and yet it was all too palpable – the collective feeling of contentment at their own private space.

With perhaps the additional joy of being among other lavender-talc-ed folks...

Delhi - post the Commonwealth Games

After the 12-day extravaganza that was the Commonwealth Games will come to an end today, do you think Delhi will relapse to its pre-Commonwealth days?

The changes in these last few months have been tremendous - from refurbished roads, lined with shrubs that miraculously appeared out of nowhere at all, to new flyovers, the Metro dotting more stations on its routes, the swanky T3 Terminal, facelifts to erstwhile monuments and areas of social interaction, besides the spruced-up stadiums and markets. Delhi now also boasts of a Delhi Eye, built on the lines of the London Eye and the Singapore Flyer – a state-of-the-art giant wheel that promises a panoramic view of Delhi’s monuments. There is also a palpable change in lathi-wielding policemen, cab and auto rickshaw drivers. I suppose the etiquette and conversation lessons paid off after all.

The opening ceremony – the last word in stunning grandeur, made the world sit up and notice India – only the third developing country to host the Commonwealth Games, after Malaysia and Jamaica. Hell, even the usually stiff-upper-lipped Prince Charles was seen smiling – which speaks a lot of the well-organized show.

However, after that splendid showcase of traditional diversity in a crisp, modern flavour, what remains to be seen now if Delhi will continue to be what it has been in the last few days – polished, cheery, clean, and not aversive to flouting rules.

Or do you think the days of traffic snarls, uncouth paan-stained-teethed traffic cops with bulging bellies, hurling abuses and blows with equal ease, (in)sane driving, surly auto drivers who charge astronomical sums, and littered roads, will be back with a vengeance?

Shera sure wouldn't be grinning at that, I'm guessing...

Another Reality Show. Yawn!

Another Indian reality show kicked off last Sunday. Well into its fourth season, this time the show boasts of a bratty Bollywood actor host, known equally for his antics off screen as on it.

14 inmates, ranging from an erstwhile woman dacoit, a former mastermind thief credited with numerous daring robberies, a cross-dressing TV chat who is a neighoring country’s answer to Oprah Winfrey, the tainted son of a leading movie director, a leading defense lawyer who found himself in the eye of the storm after he was appointed by the State to represent an ignominious agent of terror, an ex-squeeze of a neighboring cricketer involved in a matchfixing scandal, and a liberal sprinkling of star(let)s from the glamour world will all battle it out for 3 months in a house. They’ve come from various parts of the country, and beyond –while some seek to soak in their 15-minutes of fame, some could benefit from a boost to their sagging……careers, others are anxious to clear their names that are embroiled in controversy – there is also the added charm and chance of winning a sizeable amount of money, and the flood of opportunities that await the winner subsequently. The viewership would undoubtedly be tremendous – after all, tacky voyeurism tops the chart for entertainment mediums these days. And nope, lest you think this is one of my homilies, I’m guilty as charged too.

While reality shows are a dime a dozen these days, the earliest recollection I have of reality television was way back in the late ‘80’s (and I could be wrong about the year, which is why I’ve refrained from giving specifics). Candid cameras captured equally candid moments and reactions of people to pranks and ploys. Humorous situations, people’s startled expressions and sheer jumping out of their skins made for some very amusing videos.

Of course, reality shows have come a long way from the ‘80’s. And while I do like the occasional glamour, I’d still be reluctant to sign-up for participation in one of them reality shows. The reasons are multifarious:

1. Gravity-defying stunts are just not my game. While some people can get adrenaline-pumps, I can probably get those and a lot more with frequent retail-therapy sessions. In the same breath and line of thought - swimming in the ocean, picking honey-dipped insects with my mouth, getting a pack of angry hounds chasing me across a farm, slithering snakes giving me company in a cage, and regular explosions of cars and trucks – thanks but no thanks. And with this I end any chance of entering India’s answer to Fear Factor – Khatron Key Khiladey.

2. Now, I’m by no means a Celine Dion. The taps in the restroom will vouch for that. While my singing will not exactly crack the mirror, it will also not be considered for a Grammy. Gargling with lukewarm water won’t help, neither will frequent throat lozenges. My ‘crooning’ will probably be termed a haunting melody, and not in a good sense of way, may I add. Let’s just say that the stage is not ready for the new singing sensation – Me. I’ve made my peace with the fact that mics, late night record sessions, screaming fans, and super-dark Raybans are just not cut out for me. By Bye Indian Idol. Farewell Sa Re Ga Ma. I’m not the next singing sensation out to swoop on the world. Peace!

3. While my General Knowledge is better than average, I would definitely be clueless if I were to be asked which city is located in a country that does not border a country with a coast line on the Mediterranean Sea. Even the so-called Multiple choice answer options of Berlin, Warsaw, Lisbon and Vienna wouldn’t make my task any easier. I did pass my Class V, but maybe it’s just not my luck to sit atop a revolving bar stool opposite that imposing Bollywood icon with the booming baritone.

4. Let’s not even venture into my (lack of) dancing skills. Cursed with two left feet, dance instructors should be out there hopping over each other to get to me – to do a before and after piece. I’m perhaps best known for my robot impersonation dance – and that too will, on a good day, fetch an 8 out of 10. Max. So you really can’t expect me to get bothered or sweaty over popular dance reality shows, where participants would look condescendingly towards the likes of lesser mortals like me, who walk, instead of glide like them. And who pirouette when they win the glass dancing shoe trophy. Bah!

5. While I definitely have the height, my ‘evenly proportionate’ (Ahem Ahem) body would stand out like an eyesore among all the curvaceous, bootylicious ones. Sashaying down the ramp in stilettos is easy enough, but let’s just say that there are a bulge too many on what should have been a slinky washboard. Enuf said! So long Indian Supermodel Hunt!

6. Bikes are droolworthy. But are fun only if I’m drooling over them in large, glossy print ads (preferably with chiselled Adonis-look alikes driving them). Or seeing them Vroom on a superhighway. In other words – from a safe distance. God knows that if hubby were to someday buy a mean super machines on two wheels, I’d clap, cheer, whistle admiringly. But perhaps never drive. And for this, I’m sure he just pulled some air strings in glee. As for me, Roadies – thanks but no thanks...

7. Sure, I can make people roll their eyes in amusement sometimes. But to keep them from falling off their seats in utter merriment, for 10 minutes at a stretch – now that’s stretching my amusement quotient a tad too much. While there are those days when I have been known to make people clutch their tummies ‘cos of hysterical laughter, I’ve never been declared resident clown or laugh-riot expert. Add to that – I don’t respond too well to 1,2,3s of getting on stage and instructions to have the audience in splits. Which is the reason for my hasty exit from Laughter Challenges.

8. Familiar question pointed at brazen me – ‘Do you cook?’ My usual brash answer – ‘Stories? Yeah.’ The entire world and its neighbour knows that I can’t cook – not a simple serving of lentils and rice, leave alone much grander cuisine. Instant noodles, the odd tea and coffee, and warming bread for the dog don’t count. So any chances of donning a chef’s cap and doling out fingerlicking pies and curries to an appreciative star judge crew just went up in smoke. Pun intended!


Which leaves me introspecting – I can’t sing to save my life, my dance would be termed amusing monkey antics, even if I would have been single – I’d be rather dead than sign up as a prospective empty-top-floored bride in a glorified matchmaking endeavour. There must be something I must be good at. Hmmmm...*Scratching head vigorously*

Ahh yes, if there were to someday be a reality show where they would be crowning the Queen of satire and sarcasm, guess who’ll be walking away with top honors?

Look who’s laffing now...(Wink Wink)