Hidden woman in Rajasthan

 The Hidden Women of Rajasthan: Stories from a Night Train

“One night. One stranger. One story that changed how I see womanhood in rural India.”
(A true encounter from a train ride between Jaipur and Mumbai.)
By Crux Traveller

I met Mannu on a night train from Jaipur to Mumbai. She was on her way to see her husband, who had fallen into a coma after an accident at his worksite. The whole compartment was nearly empty, except for just two women—her and me.
I was casually chatting with a few others on the train. They assumed I was Indian, maybe because of the way I speak Hindi. After a while, I gently mentioned that I’m from Sri Lanka. As a solo woman traveling through India, I often said this only after I felt safe enough. It was a habit born out of instinct and experience in a country that isn’t always safe for women.
Later, after everyone had fallen asleep, Mannu started talking to me. At first, she looked at me like I was some sort of hero—a girl traveling alone in a foreign country, especially on a night train. Maybe that was what built our bond so quickly. We spoke for hours through the long 20-hour journey.
She told me she was from a village in Jhunjhunu, far from Jaipur in Rajasthan. The eldest of three daughters. When she was just 17, her father told her he couldn’t afford to educate all his daughters—so she had to get married early so the younger two could study.
Now, one of her younger sisters is a software engineer, working in a city somewhere along the train route. She was planning to meet Mannu at one of the stations, but I accidentally fell asleep when the train stopped, and I missed the moment. Still, Mannu showed her my face—“The brave girl from Sri Lanka,” she said with a smile.
Mannu wore a bright saree, heavy jewelry, and marthodi art on her palms, with sindoor on her forehead. I was dressed in simple, comfortable travel clothes. Jokingly, I asked, “Are you wearing this even at night?” But to my surprise, it wasn’t a joke. She said yes—women in her husband’s home must always wear sarees, even at night. Only when she visits her parents once or twice a year, she gets to wear something comfortable.
Her husband’s family is very traditional. She spoke of rituals that silenced women—like not being allowed in the kitchen or to cook during menstruation. Her tone was gentle, but her eyes told stories of silent suffering. Her voice was fast, like a chattering machine—maybe because no one had asked her these things before.
Despite everything, she smiled with grace. Her two children go to an English-medium school, but she can’t speak a word of English herself. When she said, “I want to speak English with my kids,” my heart cracked.
She was not traveling alone. A male relative was accompanying her. “No woman travels alone at night,” she said. Her life was a world apart from mine—yet somehow, we found a shared space, two women on a moving train, trying to understand each other’s worlds.
She didn’t like taking photos. But I have one—her palms, painted beautifully with traditional marthodi art. That single photo holds a story of resilience, beauty, sacrifice, and dreams.
When we parted, she made a small request:
“Will you teach me English? Through WhatsApp?”
I smiled. “Of course.”
She wants to speak with her children in English. And maybe, through words, she’ll find her own voice too.
Chandima Perera

For Travel Crux

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