The crying door
The ladies compartment of the Delhi Metro is a breeding ground for many stories, but this one is particularly heartfelt.
Women have a tendency to hide their feelings, their emotions, especially from their loved ones. If they are hurt by the ones they love the most, they often take the blame on their head, thinking something must be wrong with them, after all their beloved people can never go wrong. They hide their tears from their husbands, kids, families and friends.
They suffer in silence. But, sometimes the pain gets too much to endure and they let that pain flow through their tears. Many however, are not privileged enough to get a secluded place for themselves to cry, where they would not be interrupted, not judged. And for these women, the door at the beginning of the ladies compartment, that faces the track, becomes their haven.
While looking desolately at the track, the platform at the other end, the muted hustle-bustle, you may see a woman silently sobbing her heart out, occasionally wiping the tears with the corner of her handkerchief.
She would never be disturbed by others. Even among strangers, she would strangely feel free. No one judges her, no one stares at her, no one even comes to console her. That corner is sacred, no one violates that. They all know, today it is her need, tomorrow they might see themselves standing in the same corner.
Women have a tendency to hide their feelings, their emotions, especially from their loved ones. If they are hurt by the ones they love the most, they often take the blame on their head, thinking something must be wrong with them, after all their beloved people can never go wrong. They hide their tears from their husbands, kids, families and friends.
They suffer in silence. But, sometimes the pain gets too much to endure and they let that pain flow through their tears. Many however, are not privileged enough to get a secluded place for themselves to cry, where they would not be interrupted, not judged. And for these women, the door at the beginning of the ladies compartment, that faces the track, becomes their haven.
While looking desolately at the track, the platform at the other end, the muted hustle-bustle, you may see a woman silently sobbing her heart out, occasionally wiping the tears with the corner of her handkerchief.
She would never be disturbed by others. Even among strangers, she would strangely feel free. No one judges her, no one stares at her, no one even comes to console her. That corner is sacred, no one violates that. They all know, today it is her need, tomorrow they might see themselves standing in the same corner.
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