“Why aren’t we boys?” “You can go anywhere”: How young women in Hyderabad negotiate urban space and mobility

Exercise for young women in Hyderabad is best described as a form of professional sport, except that instead of medals or sponsorship, you get a strong sense of self-preservation and perhaps a few extra gray hairs for your problems.

Across the country, NGOs like Safetipin are publishing in collaboration with international agencies like the FIA ​​Foundation Manuals on how gender-disaggregated data, direct participation and infrastructure investment could transform young women’s experiences navigating Indian cities. Her research in cities in Rajasthan reads like an echo of my findings in Hyderabad: girls travel less, face higher perceived and actual risks, and pay the invisible tax of vigilance at every stage of the commute.

Safetipin’s recommendations – calling for women at the planning table, making safety audits routine, service design based on lived experience – are actionable, like civil society’s best efforts, but are persistently ignored by decision-makers. This is either because they do not consider these issues important enough or because for unknown reasons they are unable to implement them.

Everyday mobility in Hyderabad

Hyderabad sells itself as a city of innovation: shiny new subway lines, government posters proclaiming it is a “smart city,” and experiments with gender-segregated public transportation. But the city’s infrastructure tells a different story. This survey was conducted just a few months after the Congress government announced the Mahalakshmi free bus initiative. Women who had spent years calculating the cost of car fares and the dangers of walking around the city at night suddenly found themselves offered new forms of “empowerment.”

In focus groups, praise for the program was quickly offset by concerns about overcrowding, incomplete coverage of remote areas, and public grumbling (and vocal outrage) from male commuters.

The air was full of optimism, but quickly filled with gendered ridicule, such as “Women will take these free buses to go to temples all the time” or “If the buses are free, women will leave and return to their mothers’ houses.” In focus groups, praise for the program was quickly offset by concerns about overcrowding, incomplete coverage of remote areas, and public grumbling (and vocal outrage) from male commuters. Policies aimed at promoting women’s mobility and liberation quickly emerged as a microcosm of society, where space was offered to women but was difficult to access and constantly contested.

As we discussed everyday mobility with young women, every anecdote was laced with irony. Girls talked about “adventures,” which were mostly risk management exercises, such as the bravery of sneaking into the hostel after curfew, followed by the collective sigh when someone said they made it back safely. Exploring this topic was less a collection of neat data points and more a navigation through emotional landscapes. Over the course of the focus groups, which at times resembled therapy circles, certain themes emerged with measured persistence.

One of the main themes was the exhaustion of navigating the city as a young woman. Students described how a typical day begins with mentally preparing for their commute: which bus to take to avoid crowded stops, which route is “safest,” and what to wear to maximize comfort and minimize “male comments.”

These decisions are not just logistics; These are small steps in risk calculation that are carried out in the morning before leaving the house. I remembered the grueling fatigue of my own college years—the careful planning required to make each trip possible and the juggling of text messages from friends and family that were born of genuine concern but resulted in a digital leash stronger than that of any surveillance app designed to keep women safe.

I laughed with the young women when one participant asked, “Why aren’t we boys?” You can go anywhere!’ This refrain, half-serious but coming from a place of familiar desperation, resonated with the research participants and, if I’m being honest, with me too.

Women’s safety and the gap between policy and practice

What became clear in this research was the dissonance between policy and practice. Institutional curfews that serve to protect women often act as restrictions on women’s autonomy. Each focus group mentioned a range of strategies for extending curfews and creating plausible lies for shelter managers. Meanwhile, women-only areas like subway buses were perceived as modest improvements: somewhat reassuring, often overcrowded, and designed to address symptoms rather than causes.

Meanwhile, women-only areas like subway buses were perceived as modest improvements: somewhat reassuring, often overcrowded, and designed to address symptoms rather than causes.

Young women themselves were not passive subjects in shaping the city and their own mobilities. My fieldwork has taught me that no one knows the space-time map of the city better than those who have to compare geography with threat perception. The expertise to find the safest seat on a bus, plan the last trip, or turn off Google’s real-time tracking to preserve some privacy only belongs to those who rely on these methods to survive – the women themselves.

However, safety concerns were only raised when specifically asked. Whether on city buses rumbling through neighborhoods or on the new subway line, all students acknowledged or shared their experiences with unwanted sexual advances. These experiences were accepted as a part of life and were so persistent that they can only be avoided where women outnumber men.

The discussion led to stories of exhausted commuters arriving at college who, after an hour of tactical evasive maneuvers, had already used up most of their mental energy for the day.

The discussion led to stories of exhausted commuters arriving at college who, after an hour of tactical evasive maneuvers, had already used up most of their mental energy for the day. This is not just a Hyderabadi trait; national And international Reports suggest the same fatigue and anxiety characterize women’s travel in other cities.

One participant said with a faint smile and suspicious eyes, “Men on the street harass me all the time, so I just don’t go out unless I have to.” Hearing this, the group nodded in a way that made it clear that this was not the personal decision of any one woman, but a shared societal calculation.

The way forward

What would actually fix that? The handbooks and think tank reports from people like Safetipin, World Bank, Cities AllianceAnd Stop the harassment are full of what appears to be clear wisdom: Infrastructure responsive to women’s schedules and routes, improved first and last mile connectivity, more women in planning and execution, and a willingness to view women’s mobility not as a service that can be provided, but as a right.

Although the real driver of change, as simple as it may sound, may be treating women as co-creators rather than statistical anomalies to whom concessions are occasionally made. My research cohort, equipped with tactical knowledge of the city, demonstrates a far better and more comprehensive understanding of the city’s transportation infrastructure than most city policies and plans.

India’s goal of gender parity in the workforce is widely promoted Documents in national development and in the mainstream media, will never materialize if urban mobility continues to be an everyday hurdle for young women to get to schools, colleges and even offices.

Buses may be free and the subways may shine, but if classrooms and offices are accessible only at the price of constant fatigue and constant strategizing, the promise of nationhood remains at best partially attainable. However, digital solutions such as live tracking, hypervisibility through security apps and surveillance cameras, which are often touted as replacements for cultural change or real investment in public spaces and transportation, are not the solution.

What does it mean to belong to a city that invites your work and ideas, but still questions your presence in public spaces, especially after dark? How do you trust your surroundings, your fellow commuters, your institutions, when your safest trips are still inevitably those taken in groups or with a chorus of check-ins from concerned family and friends? These are not just rhetorical questions, but rather lived restrictions on urban citizenship and gender-specific rights to the city.

To conclude with certainty would be to ignore the truth of this study and the city. Like so many of India’s metropolises, Hyderabad oscillates between the ideal of universal access and the ongoing reality of negotiating, rethinking and strategizing at every step. As long as women are not the map makers and not just the hubs, the gap between city and citizen will remain large.

Author’s note: In this research project, my colleague and I conducted four focus group discussions (FGDs) at four universities. Each was chosen for its unique geography: the Old Town, full of legends and labyrinthine streets; newer neighborhoods brimming with economic ambition; and the ever-changing periphery where Hyderabad is attempting – with mixed results – to become and eclipse global cities.

Dr. Aila Bandagi Kandlakunta is a feminist transport geographer who studies women’s mobility in Indian cities. She has a doctorate in geography and a master’s degree in gender, race and identity, as well as another in development studies.