Prayers & Pretend Phone Calls: Women's Safety Is A 'Fake It Till You Make It' Game

As the clock ticked mercilessly past midnight, I sat fuming in the airport lounge, my flight to Allahabad delayed to the point of absurdity. There I was, about to touch down in an unfamiliar city under the cloak of darkness, with torrential rain unleashing its fury like a monsoon tantrum. Anxiety gnawed at me: how safe could it possibly be for a woman traveller to hail a cab at that ungodly hour and navigate to a hotel, all while trying to mask that wide-eyed “new girl in town” aura?

My heart pounded like a war drum, and in a desperate bid for divine intervention, I silently recited the Hanuman Chalisa, Sankat Mochan coming to my rescue. To top off the anxiety, the cab driver cranked up the sappy love song “Labon ko labon pe sajao, kya ho tum mujhe abb batao” on the FM radio—oh, the horror!

I politely asked the cab driver to switch it off and, just to layer on that extra shield of perceived security, I casually dropped into a fake conversation on the phone, “Hanji, Chachi Ji? I have just reached the airport." The fake Chacha Ji is apparently the police commissioner of Lucknow. And you got it right—the reason I am speaking to him so late at night is that I don’t want the cab driver to mess with me, if at all he even thinks, he should know that the entire force will descend on him because his target is from an influential family.

Getting home safe: An everyday espionage

Women who concoct these elaborate tales, with our voices steady but hearts racing, all while praying the bluff holds, give me a high-five. Never have we travelled without sharing coordinates with my family, just in case the ride turns sinister. You know what's exhausting? This constant vigilance, like being your own undercover bodyguard in a world that shouldn’t require it.

We’ve all armed ourselves with the classics: pepper sprays tucked in purses like secret weapons, ready to unleash a spicy retaliation. And let’s not forget the theatrical phone calls, faking urgent conversations with imaginary relatives in high places. No one really spotlights these hushed battles, the fragile tightrope of women’s safety that we tiptoe across daily.

We take for granted, or rather, yearn for the simplest liberties: strolling down a bustling street without stares boring into our backs or weaving through a crowded market without some “accidental” shoulder brush that feels anything but innocent. We compromise, we adapt, we shrink ourselves just a tad to blend in, and somehow, that’s become our norm. The quiet resignation of living half-alert, half-afraid.

Alone, alert and anxious

With my petite frame, I’ve often joked that short girls like me must look like easier targets, pint-sized prey in a jungle of giants. But then there’s my towering friend, all legs and confidence, who got stalked in broad daylight en route to a job interview—tailgated by a persistent creep who turned her power walk into a panicked sprint. That tale still sends chills down her spine, a grim reminder that height, age, or outfit offers no shield. Or take my colleague who, during a solo bus journey to Jaipur, dealt with leering co-passengers by burying her face in a book, only to have no conversation with him.

Fast-forward to today: At 43, cruising down the eerily secluded Southern Peripheral Road in search of the Hemkunt Foundation’s collection centre, that familiar fear psychosis crept back. The lush greenery flanking the path, dotted with idle cabs where drivers lounged half-unbuttoned in the sweltering humidity, catching afternoon siestas.

I chuckled inwardly at my own pep talk: “Come on, woman, you’re practically vintage now, too seasoned for anyone to bother!” Yet, as I pulled up to the isolated spot, my pulse quickened, visions of “what ifs” flashing like horror movie trailers. I dashed in and bolted out in record time, unscathed but shaken. Nothing happened, of course, but the spectre of potential peril clings like humidity on a rainy day, refusing to dissipate.

These are the understated skirmishes we women navigate routinely. It’s relatable in its universality, funny in its absurdity, yet profoundly sensitive in its toll on our spirits. I dream of a day when true liberation arrives—not just in laws or apps, but in the air we breathe - where my daughter won’t inherit this “what if” shadow, won’t have to arm herself with chants or charades.

And let’s shift the lens on men too; they’re not all lurking vultures eyeing prey. Plenty are allies, fathers, brothers, fostering change. I pity the blanket suspicion we cast, born of necessity, but yearn for a world where trust isn’t a luxury. Here’s to crafting safer havens for our kids, ones brimming with the freedoms we glimpsed but never fully grasped. May they wander fearlessly.

Authored by Radhika Dhingra | Views expressed by the author are their own.