Orissa Backlands, 1991

I was on a bus in the Orissa backlands, so far away from the one small town mentioned in my map that I had no exact notion of my geographical position. On my lap was Afrika, the small intrepid dog who followed me around the world protecting our bags. Her paws were on the windowsill, and she was looking at the scenery with some interest, her head darting to and fro to follow this or that detail.
As far as I knew, the road went through and in between the various parts of a large Wildlife Sanctuary, though it was impossible to know when we were inside it because I never saw a gate or sign.  Sometimes we were surrounded by a sparse broadleaf forest which might become impenetrable during the monsoon rains, and at others we moved within vast swathes of dry grassland interspersed with already harvested rice fields. Thickly forested hills beckoned in the distance, dirt roads sneaked towards nowhere, temple spires rose above a few ancient villages, and apart from the odd truck everyone moved on bicycles, bullock charts, or foot.  Many women didn’t wear a corset, most men wore a dhoti, and a lot of children were practically naked. 

The bus was basic and quite uncomfortable: barely padded wooden benches with no overhead trays where people squashed holding all their belongings. Next to me was an old woman hugging a large cloth bundle, her face semi-covered with a piece of her sari, and a mother holding a crying child whose eyes were heavily lined with kohl. Behind was another baby who liked to pull my hair, and in front an old man who kept on spitting out of the window, though he gave the phlegm enough force for it to avoid being carried by the bus stream, and hit me.
We had a flat tire, and parked by the side of the tree-lined road. Further ahead was a dhaba, a small roadside restaurant with a verandah up front.  Everyone headed in that direction, and I followed.

The dhaba was run by a Sikh man with a fabulously neat turban and an untidy, black and white beard, who spoke good English and was happy to meet a foreign woman with a small endearing dog. We chatted while I drank my chai, the two of us half-lying on charpoy rope beds separated by a wooden table.
He was particularly interested in Afrika and eventually asked if he could buy her, explaining that his children would look after her very well. I declined. He left the table, and reappeared holding a fan of notes. I laughed, declined once more, and tried to explain that we had already been together nine years during which we visited twenty-four countries—and there was no way I would leave her behind in the Indian back of beyond. He understood, and muttered an apology with a purring, sympathetic voice.
I asked about his children, four, and then about his business, did it pay for their school? He wobbled his head in that strange mixture of yes and no, and told me about a room he rented to tired long-distance truck drivers. The idea of spending a few relaxing days watching rural people go by piqued my fancy, and I asked to see it.

We walked to the back of the restaurant towards a pretty little house with some flowers growing around it, and entered a large light-blue verandah containing another charpoy bed. Behind it was a whitewashed room filled with basic wooden furniture, and a toilet extension with a raised latrine and enough space for a bucket shower.
The verandah opened onto a patch of land overgrown with bushes, at the end of which was a white wall covered in some kind of graffiti. When I eventually walked up to it, I realized that it depicted a large penis drawn in minimal details, and the contours of a woman’s hips at the center of which was a garbled mess. Obviously, the artist knew nothing about the anatomy behind pubic hair.
The Sikh gentleman told me about a monthly market happening two days later, and I decided to stay. He ordered a boy to change the bed sheets and give the room a good sweep, then sent another one to retrieve my bag. When he came back with it Afrika roared like an upset lion, and darted towards his heels. The boy was so scared he fell backwards, and we all had a good laugh.

And that’s how it all began, ten days of sitting on the dhaba’s verandah doing very little except for short trips to a nearby village, walks within the boundaries of the national park, visits to the homes of local artists who were happy to show me their ancient craft, and an exhilarating day at the market where I ate red ants. At night I used candles to update my diary, write letters, and read two of my thirteen books.

Never an early sleeper,
I used to wake up quite late,
though I was often disturbed
by some strange noises on the roof
which I thought were monkeys.

Once awake I would take a pee, prepare my own Nescafé and fruit salad, lounge in bed to read and smoke, and then poo. Afterwards I’d take a bucket shower, and walk to the dhaba for a glass of chai.
On my eight day, while crouching on the raised latrine, I heard a noise and looked up at the roof. Two of the tiles had been moved, and in their stead were many eyes now wide-open in shock. The roof rattled with the noise of running feet, and through the hole I now saw the sky.

Obviously, men had been climbing on it early in the morning hoping to discover the mystery behind pubic hair, then waited for me to wake up. Since I often woke around 10, and heard the noises at daybreak, some of them had waited many hours for that one peak from above.
It was somewhat funny, but also terribly sad, especially considering the wealth of sexual information that had existed in India in the past.

It made me think of how the splendors of the Roman Empire were followed by the Dark Ages, and felt a chill up my spine. Clearly, civilization was not an upward curve but a series of zigzags made of constructive and destructive cycles, as every victory could turn into a defeat the next day. What is known today could be unknown tomorrow, and nothing in our so-called age of science and reason could be taken for granted. All our achievements in personal freedom, equality, democracy, and science could vanish without a trace if a bunch of bigots or prudes ended up in power, and enough people supported them.
I felt blessed to be living in the present era, the first in which a simple woman like me could travel the world on her own. Yes, I got hassled and had to be far more careful than men, but there I was, doing exactly what I wanted to do. Deciding by myself what my destiny should be. How many in my female lineage had the same feeling of utter, unlimited freedom?

I spared the gentle Sikh owner the embarrassment of a complain, and left the next day.