Lately, women’s safety has been thrust into the spotlight—though it’s tragic that it took the loss of a life to bring this issue to the forefront. The airwaves are buzzing with talk shows, podcasts, and debates, and the concerns of women across the country have finally claimed prime-time slots on news channels.
While it’s encouraging to see society’s evolving perspective on women’s safety, the truth is that this attention will likely fade as the media shifts its focus to the next sensational topic. Public interest wanes, but the day-to-day reality for women remains unchanged.
I’m not here to vent on the flaws of a patriarchal society. Like many of my peers, I acknowledge the freedom and safety we enjoy within our social circles. Yet, stepping outside this circle often feels like crossing the proverbial Lakshman Rekha. As someone who occasionally travels solo, I’ve had to step beyond this line, venturing into the world on my own. Travel is often hailed as the best teacher, offering the world as its classroom for a curious pupil. But as a solo female traveller, I often find myself more cautious than curious. Such was the case during my recent trip to the City of Joy—Kolkata.
Having grown up listening to Rabindra Sangeet and my father’s broken rendition of it, along with his nostalgic tales of the city (where he spent some of his bachelor years), I was thrilled to experience Kolkata firsthand. The city didn’t just meet my expectations; it exceeded them with its myriad charms. As a history buff, I was mesmerized by the wealth of history on display—from the towering colonial structures to the intricately designed baris (ancestral homes).
As I wandered through the famous Dalhousie Square, snapping pictures at every corner, I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only woman tourist around, which drew some curious stares. Perhaps they were simply reacting to the anomaly of a woman exploring alone. Still, for someone raised by cautious parents and even more anxious relatives, those stares were hard to dismiss.
Ever the optimist, I shrugged off the ill-boding feeling and continued my walks through the alleys and was rewarded with experiences that I would treasure.
I spent most of my day this way, and by evening, I reached the gates of the postal department, housed in a magnificent Victorian brick building. As I stood contemplating whether I could enter, a middle-aged man approached me from a nearby tea stall. Dressed in a checkered shirt and khaki pants, with wide-rimmed glasses and a black office bag slung over his shoulder, he embodied the quintessential office-goer of our parents’ generation. He smiled and asked if I was from another state. When I answered in the affirmative, he chuckled, saying it was obvious—he’d never seen the city’s youth so keenly admiring its architecture. Clearly pleased that someone from the “new generation” was interested in the city's history, he offered to show me around the block. When I hesitated, he produced his ID card, revealing that he worked for the postal department.
As much as I wanted to trust this person and discover the hidden gems of the city, my instinct was to politely decline.
But persistence seemed to be his second name. He convinced me to let him show me around the Postal Museum next door and I did not see any harm in it ( the armed policemen at the door adding to the assurance). Once inside, he proudly mentioned that while photography is usually prohibited, I could take as many pictures as I liked since I was with an employee. He guided me through exhibits showcasing rare pre-independence artifacts and even gave me his contact information, insisting I reach out if I needed help in the city.
As we walked through the coin section, his enthusiasm grew as he told me about his passion for coin collection. From his bag, he produced a handful of Victorian-era coins and offered me a “one quarter anna” coin minted in 1942. I was reluctant to accept but eventually did after he urged me, saying I should take it as a gift from a father figure. I couldn't imagine how he could poison me with a coin, so I gave up and accepted it. He wore the triumphant smile of an aunt who has successfully coaxed you into taking a second helping of food. He left me to explore the museum but mentioned he’d wait for me outside for a cup of tea.
As I slipped out of the museum, the coin warm in my palm, a mix of gratitude and unease lingered. Despite his kindness, I couldn’t shake the instinct to protect myself. In a world where every interaction as a solo female traveler is colored by caution, it’s hard to balance the desire to trust in people’s goodwill with the need for self-preservation. I never went for that cup of tea, but the coin he gave me remains—a small token of a kind stranger.
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