At 11 p.m. at Churchgate station, there is still a bustle, mostly people rushing to catch trains. As you scurry down the subway, a dishevelled man with sunburnt skin and untamed beard stands in your way, staring hard, grinning. You clutch your handbag, shift your gaze to the floor, try to calm your nerves. You pass him, and the frisson of fear morphs to relief.
Outside the station, near the taxi stand, a group of young women are smoking. A middle-aged man, clearly inebriated, staggers up. “ Beta, kahan jaana hai ?” he slurs, in a tone of faux-paternalistic concern. The taxi drivers are curious, but don’t offer assistance. A police constable walks across, asks if the man has touched them. The women quickly enter the more ‘secure’ environment of the station.
“This is a women’s studies class in action,” says Pratikshya Priyadarshini, who teaches at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences. “We’re always told we are taking a risk being out on the streets at night. But it ought to be your responsibility, not ours, to ensure the risk doesn’t remain a risk.” Some of the group are her students; they, with a few others gathered via social media, are part of a Why Loiter? (see box) event. They are here to wander down Marine Drive, then take the last train home, to simply be in a public place and have fun, like men do.
This is Ms. Priyadarshini’s first ‘Loiter’ in Mumbai, but she has participated in similar events at the Cuttack riverside, where women are clearly not welcome at late hours. “I’ve done solo trips there. People would come and ask me point-blank, ‘What are you doing here?’” For people from other places, she says, Mumbai is indeed a more liberating space, “but it’s still not equally liberating [for men and women].”
Manka Kaur, an actor, is here after a day of dubbing and an audition. “I haven’t dressed to be conservative,” she says, pointing to her sleeveless top. “I should be able to do this on a regular day. We should be able to loiter without restrictions like ‘What do I wear, do I need to go with someone?’ We need to acknowledge that things are not the way they should be.”
The group, aged 20 to 40, believe they are creating a strong statement just by being here. Sauntering down the seaside promenade in twos and threes, they laugh, chatter, bond over cigarettes and masala chai and raw mango from street vendors. Cellphones come out and selfies are clicked. They discuss what it meant to be a woman in a time of social change, travel plans, professional challenges.
The group also has two males in it. Ishaan, 10, has come with his mother. One of the women asks him, half in jest, “Why are you here?” The reply is prompt: “Children need to loiter as well!” Script writer and editor Rajiv Upadhyay is older, but as sure about his reasons: “I’m carrying a whole new perspective with me tonight. And I will keep making the effort to come to these sessions, if only to understand what women go through.”
An hour later, after hopeful sallies to ATMs — with chants of “Demonetisation ahoy!” — the group strolls back to Churchgate for the last train, the 1 a.m. Borivali Slow. They walk past the Ladies and purposefully enter the general compartment. The conversations continue: how women are always conscious of what they wear, how the patriarchy — not other women — is the real enemy, how Mumbai is streets ahead of Delhi for women.
A man in his late 30s boards at Mumbai Central, and sits on the opposite seat, arms crossed, unabashedly staring. A glance in his direction means getting locked in his gaze. At Bandra, one of the group says her goodbyes and walks to the train door; male eyes follow her every step. At Santacruz, Ishaan and his mother Archana leave. “I needn’t worry,” she jokes, “ Mere saath mard hai na (there’s a man with me).”
Neha Singh, actor and writer, who leads the Why Loiter? campaigns in Mumbai, says women’s enemies on the road are often policemen. “They think we are sex workers, they ask for our identity cards, they stop autorickshaws and cabs and ask us to go home.” On past midnight walks — in Bandra-Kurla Complex, Jogeshwari, Malad, Chembur, Dadar and Sion — she says they have encountered men stopping cars and asking them to get in, staring, chasing, flashing, even masturbation. This hasn’t deterred them. “The thumb rule is to engage with them, even if the reaction is very strong. We try and have a conversation and get them to think about it.”
For her, the real victory is that they become stronger each time. “In two-and-a-half years, almost 200 women have participated. Each one goes back with the sense of ‘I’m going to stop blaming myself. I am not at fault at all.’” Anger, she says, cannot sustain a movement like this. “Only fun, friendships, conversations and constructing something together can.” She, and the others, know that one train ride won’t bring change. But why not loiter, and make a few good friends in the process?
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Why Loiter? Women and Risk on Mumbai Streets , a book by Shilpa Phadke, Sameera Khan and Shilpa Ranade, is based on over three years of research in the city, and examines how women negotiate rather than enjoy or claim public spaces. The book inspired a movement of sorts over the last two years, tying up with others such as Pinjara Tod, Feminism in India, and since last year, the Girls at Dhabas in Pakistan. Every year on December 16, to mark the 2012 rape and murder of a Delhi student, Why Loiter takes rides like this. Ms. Phadke says the aim is to establish that women across classes want access to public places for fun, not just the elite or the middle class. Ms. Phadke says that while real change in attitudes is already happening, changes in infrastructure are needed. For instance, extend train timings by an hour, or keep shops and restaurants open for longer: “The more life there is later at night, the safer it will feel for everyone.”
