The subtle intimacy of women's shared spaces

There is a particular kind of intimacy that can emerge between women who barely know one another. It happens in the most ordinary places: on public transport, in bathrooms, changing rooms, salons or shared rooms, where strangers may never cross paths again. Yet, for a brief moment, the usual distance between them can fall away as they lower their guard from an otherwise armoured stance. A hand reaches out, a shoulder offers shelter, or one woman finds herself looking after another without quite knowing when she took on the responsibility, or being burdened by it.

I have often wondered about this fleeting intimacy, and how it comes about. It is not necessarily friendship, nor does it require familiarity. Sometimes, it is simply an instinct to look after someone who happens to be beside you. Perhaps that is what they call "relying on the kindness of strangers".

The bus ride

It was a rushed Sunday evening ride home when I took the corner seat in the women's reserved section of a Dhaka Chaka bus. The road ahead was jam-packed, and my drooping eyelids told me it was the perfect time for a nap. Still, I clutched my bag, a natural response, as another passenger took the seat to my left.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed her. An elderly woman, almost too old to be taking the bus alone, I thought. She wore a worn-out green cotton saree and carried a plastic bag. Every now and then, she glanced at me.

I caught our reflection in the driver's rear-view mirror. Two women, side by side, from two very different worlds and generations. Her hands were wrinkled, cupped and feeble. Mine were manicured. Her faded cotton saree against my lace-trimmed kameez.

There was something strangely calming about that reflection. She reminded me of my grandmother, hunched-backed in her final years. She even smelled like her, like a room filled with the aroma of a kopi (lantern). I wondered if I should strike up a conversation. She seemed eager enough. Besides, the bus was going nowhere. We had barely moved two inches in the past half-hour, as far as I could tell.

I drifted into my thoughts, remembering the soft sarees my dadi used to wear, much like the one this woman had on.

Then came a blast.

I jolted. So did she. She reached for my hand, held it lightly, then let go almost immediately, as if embarrassed. I assumed someone had slammed the door. But the conductor and driver soon announced that a tyre had punctured and everyone would have to get off. Another bus might pick us up.

The passengers rushed out. The woman followed close behind me, almost clinging to my trail. Once I realised it, I slowed down and made room for her to get off safely.

We still hadn't exchanged a word. Just a quiet trail of trust.

At another stop in Banani, a long line of passengers waited for the next bus. When one finally arrived, several people rushed towards it. I could have run too, but stopped when I saw that the woman couldn't. So I waited for the next one, hoping I could at least help her get aboard.

I considered taking a rickshaw or a CNG myself, but the roads were too congested. I could even have walked through the traffic. She, however, was too frail to manage either.

So I stayed in line. She walked behind me before softly asking, “Do you think the next bus will come?”

I reassured her and pointed towards an approaching bus. As it pulled in, she took my hand again. Softly, without gripping too tightly. I helped her climb aboard.

There was only one seat left. I asked her to take it while I stood. The bus was wobbly, and standing was hardly comfortable. A little frightening, too. But I managed. She couldn't have.

When I got off, she was still behind me. I looked around for her, but had to keep moving. I could only hope she got off safely.

We never exchanged names. We barely spoke. Yet, somewhere between a punctured tyre, a crowded bus stop and a single vacant seat, a stranger had trusted me enough to hold my hand. And I had, without quite realising it, taken responsibility for hers.

I think what stayed with me was how instinctively that responsibility had developed. Perhaps it was her resemblance to my grandmother, perhaps her frailty, or perhaps simply the fact that she had reached for my hand. I had no obligation to wait for another bus or help her aboard. Yet, once I had noticed that she could not manage on her own, walking away no longer felt like an option.

Jhumpa Lahiri's “Boori Ma” comes to mind. The story follows an impoverished 64-year-old Partition refugee who works as an unofficial doorkeeper in a Calcutta apartment building. She clings to memories of her lost wealth through exaggerated stories. The residents treat her with condescending tolerance until they eventually scapegoat and abandon her.

There is something unsettling about how easily a woman who has become part of a community's everyday life can be discarded when she is no longer convenient. Boori Ma's story complicates the idea of women's solidarity. Shared spaces do not automatically produce kindness, and proximity does not necessarily mean care. Class, age and social standing can determine who is considered worthy of protection and who is left behind.

Perhaps that is why the bus encounter stayed with me. I had seen an elderly woman who reminded me of someone I loved, but she was also someone I knew nothing about. For a brief stretch of an otherwise ordinary journey, that was enough for me to look after her.

The ladies' room

Another memory, from two or three years ago, has stayed with me, though I cannot remember much about the day itself.  I had walked into the ladies' room at my office when I noticed a colleague sitting with her head cupped in her hands. She looked as though she was holding herself together by the barest thread. I hesitated, unsure whether to approach her. What do you say to someone who seems to have reached the end of what she can bear? Do you ask if she is alright, offer help, or simply leave her alone?

And then she broke down.

She cried as though something terrible had happened, as though she had reached a moment of reckoning and could no longer hold it in. I knew nothing about what had brought her there. I did not know what she was going through. But I knew I could not simply stand by.

So I stepped forward.

She was seated, and I stood beside her, gently holding her head in my arms. I said nothing. Asked nothing. I simply let her lean into me and pour out whatever she had been holding back. There was no attempt to make sense of her tears or offer hurried reassurances that everything would be alright. Sometimes, in a moment of emotional crisis, that is all I would want for myself, too. Someone to hold me without asking me to explain.

And so I held her. I stayed until her sobs began to settle. I could feel her grip on my arms gradually loosen, her weight lifting as she slowly found her way back to herself. Only then did she let go.

We still said nothing.

There was no exchange of words, no account of what had happened, no attempt to turn the moment into a conversation. Just a glance into each other's faces. A quiet acknowledgement: I am glad I could be here for you. I am glad you were here for me, too.

I often think about how strange these encounters are. How a room meant for something as ordinary as a bathroom break can briefly become a refuge. How someone we know only through the routines of everyday life can, for a few minutes, become the person we turn to when we have nowhere else to put our grief.

We went our separate ways. I don't know what had happened to her that day, or whether she ever thought about that brief encounter again. I only remember that, for a little while, she didn't have to sit with it alone.

Behind the scenes

I was reminded of these encounters while watching Angelina Jolie starrer "Couture", which explores a similar intimacy in a rather different setting. Here, the shared space is backstage at Paris Fashion Week, amid the relentless pace and polished appearances of the fashion industry. Two moments in particular stayed with me.

In one, Ada, a newly discovered 18-year-old model from South Sudan, finds herself overwhelmed by the unfamiliar, fast-paced environment of a hectic test photoshoot. While posing for the cameras, she unexpectedly gets her period, and a few drops of blood begin to trickle down her leg. Backstage makeup artist Angèle notices what has happened while touching up Ada's legs. Without drawing attention to it, she gently wipes the blood away, sparing the young model from embarrassment.

It is such a small gesture, but one that carries a particular tenderness. In an industry built around appearances, where every detail is scrutinised and perfection is expected, Angèle recognises a young woman's vulnerability and responds without making her feel exposed. There is no fuss, no awkward exchange, just an understanding that another woman needs a little help.

Another scene, also involving Angèle, unfolds amid the frantic backstage rush of the runway show. This time, it is Maxine, played by Jolie, who finds a moment of stillness with the makeup artist and allows her guarded composure to break.

Looking at Angèle, Maxine softly admits, "I'm sick." Angèle asks if she has seen a doctor and offers medicine from her kit. But when she senses that something heavier is troubling her, she gently asks if it is serious. Maxine's voice trembles as she speaks the truth aloud for the first time: "I have cancer. I have breast cancer."

Overwhelmed by the weight of hearing those words, she quickly apologises. Saying it aloud, she confesses, has suddenly made the diagnosis painfully real. She speaks of how terrifying it is to be blindsided after spending her whole life trying to prepare for the unexpected. As tears well up, she reveals that Angèle is the only person who knows. She cannot yet bear to tell her teenage daughter. Angèle wraps her in quiet reassurance, telling her that she will find the right moment when she is ready.

The film takes a more heightened look at the same idea, but the underlying gesture is familiar. In the middle of a demanding environment, two women find a moment in which they can step away from the roles they are expected to perform. One is spared embarrassment; the other is allowed to speak a fear she has been carrying alone. Neither moment requires a grand act of solidarity. It begins with one woman noticing another.

What connects these scenes to my own encounters is not simply that they happen in spaces shared by women. It is the way these spaces briefly allow for a different kind of attention. Outside, there are expectations to meet, appearances to maintain and journeys to complete. Inside, for a moment, someone notices that another person needs help, and responds without asking for much in return.

Perhaps that is the strange intimacy of women's shared spaces. They do not always produce friendships, and they are certainly not free of the inequalities and exclusions that shape the world outside them. But every so often, they offer something quieter: the chance to be vulnerable without having to explain oneself, or to care for someone without knowing their whole story.

The women on that bus, in the office bathroom and backstage at a fashion show may have little in common. Some are strangers, others colleagues, and some exist only in a film. Yet, in each encounter, one woman makes room for another.

Sometimes, it is a seat on a bus, a pair of waiting arms, simply knowing when not to ask a question. And perhaps, for that brief moment, it is enough.

__

Disclaimer: Literary references to Jhumpa Lahiri's short story “Boori Ma” and Angelina Jolie-starrer film “Couture” are interpretive and used to explore themes of women's vulnerability, care and solidarity. They are not intended as direct comparisons with the author's personal experiences.