Prerana was grateful for the biting cold air that numbed her entire face. It felt like a tight slap. Surely she deserved that? Surely she wasn't meant to cry away the entire night, only to drag herself to work every morning – so early that the sun hadn't woken up yet? No, she decided. This was a ridiculous way to live. Someone – or something – had to slap some sense into her.
She stood on her usual spot, waiting for her usual train. Despite the early morning, there was the usual crowd of women waiting for the same train; in this city that never slept, people started working when it was dark as night and only stopped when it was time for the last train to leave. She hoped that her Ponds cream was sufficiently covering up her swollen eyes. If not, she had a Ray Bon for later – when the sun rose and she had that excuse.
Prerana glanced over at the much thinner crowd of women standing a few feet away. The contrast between the two crowds could not be starker. Even at 6 am, those women had it all together. Their hair was smooth and styled, their nails sharp and coloured with pastel and muted shades. No chipped off neon colours for them. Their bags were tiny and trendy. Prerana wondered idly where they kept their tiffins – her own jute jhola was always full to the brim with her various dabbas. They wore their Ray Bans even in the darkness, with no compunction.
Sharp at the scheduled time, the train glided over and stopped right at her feet, like her own personal limo. This early in the morning, India could very well beat Germany at punctuality. She got on with practised ease and rushed for her favourite window seat on the left of the compartment. She wondered why she felt the need to rush when she was the first one in the compartment – but that was just the way you became when travelling in this city. The seat was cold and hard; not for them, the soft blue cushions that the 'other women' enjoyed. Well, it figures, she thought. Hard seats for hard women.