What does Mr. Gupta do?

A primary principle of patriarchy is to keep women busy. Always somewhat puzzled and exhausted by this constant need for women to be doing something, I have tried to promote the need and use of solitude for women. Often to be violently opposed by the women themselves. If they did not find enough to keep themselves busy with there were always the social obligations. To me these mostly seemed to consist of incomprehensible  events in the lives of indeterminate relatives. Even in a family as unusual as mine, I reluctantly conceded that the men had a slight edge over women in escaping social obligations.

I found souls in solidarity, yes, but they were few and far between. A college professor swept aside our interest in jewellery saying if we were clever enough (she was) we should be able to see through the fact that jewellery and other such 'ladies business' are designed to keep women's minds busy with silly things so that they will not claim power. At that time I was willing to make that immense sacrifice of not going to Chamba Lama any more, but was not clear what power really meant, so I wisely decided to wait. Later in life I found that Chamba Lama did not interfere with my access to power. But I found my professor was right in a hundred other ways about the silly things and power. And I found that every time I or any other woman decided to move away from the silly things, we faced a battle of sorts.

Even within her home, any such deviation by the woman invites apprehension, anxiety, suspicion - depending upon what kind of family yours is.

"Ki rey, all alone on the roof? Why so sad?"

"A few minutes to rest by yourself? Sciatica, again?"

And then, what if these battles are fought outside the home? I found, as I went along that the experience of these battles was the experience of power. And that these battles were fought with the strangest of weapons.

One of the advantages of belonging to an eccentric family was that as one grew older, one became entitled to one's own peculiar eccentricities. When we were younger, eccentricities were limited to those already established by parents, uncles, aunts, older cousins, grandparents, etc. but I was older now and entitled to my own. And so, around the time I turned another decade and announced my intention of travelling  solo every 6 months, my family took this proposal with pragmatism and interest. Not so the rest of the world.

Besides, I was in India. Indians, as a people do not travel alone. In recent years, it has become acceptable for men to travel alone for work. In the very recent years a minuscule number of Indian working women have attempted this Unindian task. But these too are linked primarily to work related travel. And hence its acceptance is tinged with sympathy for the woman whose unforgiving job takes her away from the safe and happy confines of her home and family.

Used to fielding questions about travelling alone on work, I quickly found that acceptance for travelling alone for leisure invited sympathy, an unhealthy curiosity, puzzlement, or direct attack - depending upon who your co travellers were.

If I naively explained that I was travelling to Place X for a break from my everyday life and had always wanted to see Place X, co travellers would nod and smile,

Ah, I was on holiday! Travelling with Mummy and Daddy?

Not exactly, no, I was the Mummy now and -

Aha, travelling with the children then?

No.

Oho! Travelling with the Daddy! (Twinkle in eye)

Again, sorry, but no. No Daddy in the picture, you see -

At this point the expressions would become either embarrassed or stern and either way conversation would become stilted. And I was usually left to myself - which was the point of my solo travel anyway. There have been times on trains, buses, airplanes, where escaping my co travellers is physically difficult, the intense curiosity of my co passengers has cut through my usually formidable reluctance to engage.

I was once asked very early in such an interrogation after I had replied to a few questions in monosyllables, as to

"What does Mr. Gupta do?"

My interrogator in that train  compartment was a middle aged, balding shiny shoed man, his waist barely contained in his belt and his pompousness barely contained in his behaviour. Realising I was travelling alone, he turned cocky, insufferable and raised his voice slightly when speaking to me, as one would do to a naughty child. He had been staring at my every move and listened intently when the ticket checker looked at my ticket and checked past me, as they often do - "Malini Gupta?"

This had prompted the man to ask what Mr. Gupta did. He was leaning forward, eyes gleaming, avidly curious and bent on getting what he wanted. At this point I had a vivid vision of the hundreds of questions tumbling about in his head that he wanted to ask me - each question wanting to get ahead of the other and all tripping up on his tongue.

Unwilling to let this moment go, I leaned forward, grinned and said in a voice slightly louder then his, that Mr. Gupta had a fisheries business but I suspected he was actually a gun runner as he had been to jail twice. For the east of the journey a hush would fall over the coupe if I as much as changed my position in my berth. I carefully listed these weapons.

There were other times that there were no opportunities for either entertainment or weapons research. On one such occasion,  a long train journey across central India, I settled in to my side berth in a near empty compartment. After a few happy hours of solitude a large group boarded the train, filling up the compartment with shouted conversations. Of this naturally Bengali group, a set of garrulous, luggage bedecked, fully socked and shawled ladies marched into my little space. One of them proceeded to occupy my berth and made a subsequent attempt on my mind. I had to share my berth with her till night time, and retreated to one side, looking out of the window or reading my book. My reluctance to talk she promptly assumed to be sorrow at having to travel alone. I was aghast at her intrusion and assumption but she was on the warpath already. She told me in a voice quivering with righteousness that it was dangerous for a woman to be alone. My reply that a mob could be equally dangerous, she swept aside ruthlessly.

I was sad, she said, and that was why I was opposing her.

I was happy, I said, and that was why she was opposing me.

She was unmoved. The dangers a single woman faced were from her own mind, she said.

Not from the minds around her? I asked pointedly, but it went unnoticed.

I should have been able to take it in my stride but her fervour of conversion caught me off guard. She lectured me on 'improving' my mind- read books on the lives of good women, amulets, charms, astrology, ashrams. I was intrigued by the ashram and asked her how the ashram could help. Because it would help me fill my mind with correct thoughts.

At other times, I would have argued through this. But this time I was tired, I didn't want to explain myself. I wanted nothing but to be left in peace to read my book. The last thing I wanted was this fervent, aggressive person stamping around inside my head. And so I spent a rough night, desperately side stepping her advice, her horror of my solitude and her inability to listen. At dawn, exhausted, immeasurably irritated I crept out and opened the door of the bogie. I sat down on the steps  and lit a cigarette. The smell of the cigarette, the clickety clack of the train soothed me. I looked out, breathed in deeply of the fresh day, watched the hills and forests slip past and assured myself hat the world was larger than the lady's mind.

Click. The door opened and the indefatigable warrior peered out. Seeing me sitting on the steps she started to speak but caught sight of the cigarette in my hand. Her eyes went from the cigarette to my face and back to my cigarette. Her mouth snapped shut, eyes went blank and she retreated without a word. I sighed and stayed sitting for as long as I could. By the time I went back to my berth, she and her companions had left to join their larger group in the next compartment. The accoutrements of battle were diverse, I reminded myself.

What I found interesting was that though most people were curious about my travelling alone, sometimes irritatingly so, mostly people were puzzled. But as yet, I have never found this to hamper my experience, besides having to answer a few questions that people should not ask in the first place. And so, along with my own experience of travelling alone, grew my understanding of what I was expected to be as a woman my age, exactly how much of that I was not, and how I chose to deal with that gap. Over the years, it has truly been a journey of discovery of many kinds. One that I would recommend to all. Try it. You might find some good stories to tell, some innovative weapons of war. God knows guns could do with a rest.