As a young girl of 12, Binodini Dasi (Nati Binodini) joined the Great National Theatre on Rs 12 a month; in no time at all, she went on tour with the company to Lucknow and Lahore, appropriately chaperoned by her mother. Though her Atma Katha does not recount how the great distance was covered, it is possible that part of it was traversed by the newly-started railway system and the rest by boat and bullock cart. On the other hand, the kulin widow, Nistarini, remembered that when, in 1842, as a young girl of 14, she was sent back to Calcutta from Gorakhpur with her mother and other relatives, the journey took a month as it involved a river trip, some time in a bullock cart and finally a palki ride.

After the middle of the 19th century, when upper- and middle-class women started leaving their homes for social events or even for a visit to the photographic studio, the occasions required considerable organization and arrangement: in many parts of the country, the requirements of purdah meant that initially the closed palanquin (palki/doli) and later the more exclusive broughams and landaus with curtains were used. For the less affluent, bullock carts with elaborate domed structures above the cart were devised to keep women out of public view. In the early part of the 20th century, Sister Subbalakshmi, who was to become the first widow graduate of Madras, went to study in Presidency College in a rickshaw with its hood pulled right down. In addition, she would open her large, black umbrella and hold it in front of her like a protective shield. All that could be seen of her from the outside was the brightly-coloured border of her sari. While she did not observe purdah, decorum required that Subbalakshmi should remain ‘invisible’ to curious eyes.

Early women’s memoirs speak of riverine sojourns, palki and bullock-cart rides, and a few mention train journeys. Travel was often necessitated by certain middle-class life-styles of fathers and, later, of husbands. Among the more unusual were shikar trips and camp life — the former a part of acquired upper-middle-class leisure time activity, while going to camp was de rigueur for members of the civil service, the growing tribe of archaeologists, ethnographers, scientists, geologists and so on. In this badly damaged but fascinating photograph of Swarnalata on a shikar with her husband, the Westernized barrister, Monomohan Ghosh, and others, she wears a stylish gown — maybe a riding habit with a high neck and jabot — as well as a sola topee (sun hat made of pith), while Monomohan is in a three-piece suit, complete with watch-chain. We know from family and textual sources that Swarnalata was encouraged by her husband to actively participate in social events for which she wore Western attire. On the other hand, the Europeans appear to be more casually dressed. In all likelihood, a photographer from a nearby mofussil studio was hired to take the photograph. Again, as the photograph is from the 1880s, it is possible that the group had made the trip by train, and then maybe bullock-carts and even horseback.

In all likelihood, the shikar party would have pitched tents and set up camp in a spot regarded as safe by the shikaris. The excursion may have been for a couple of days — or maybe a week at most — and though the bandobast would have been considerable with subsidiary tents for cooks, khalasis (tent crew), khitmadgars (table servants), jamadars (sweepers) and others, it would have been nothing compared to what Kamala, wife of the pioneering geologist, Pramatha Nath Bose, had to deal with. Within a few months of her marriage in 1882, 16-year-old Kamala was introduced to the touring life: she wrote in her memoir that the only way to access the “deep forest” where the tents were to be pitched was on horseback. For the young woman who had never climbed on to a horse, riding side-saddle was the only option. Entire households moved during camp — the entourage being carted on ‘the baggage train’ of several pack animals. In this instance, the government provided camels to transport luggage and household items as well as the retinue of servants. Furniture and personal effects, ‘thunder boxes’ (portable commodes), iron bathtubs and buckets as well as a substantial stock of food supplies were essential and Kamala added that tinned food stuffs were indispensable. During the first year, the couple traversed the region by the banks of the river Narmada; after dark, Pramatha would adopt the role of amateur ethnographer and discuss with the local Koli and Bhil tribals their customs and way of life.

On the next trip, her infant son was put in a makeshift bassinet and carried on the back of porters; with sundown, Kamala would clutch Ashok close to her as the roars of a tiger reverberated through the forest. The flimsy tent seemed hardly secure enough on those long nights. As at a distance from the camp was a deep water body, the group had been provided with an elephant to cross it. With the elephant came a mahout and two helpers to cook chapattis, cut and collect fodder and so on.

One day, as the atta ran short, there were no chapattis for the behemoth. The enraged animal shook his body so vigorously that the helper fell into a particularly deep part of the murky water. An agitated mahout tried to rescue the hapless man who by now was entangled in weeds and slime. The only option was to take the elephant to the rescue — but, come what may, he refused to budge. Nor were the available ropes long enough to reach the drowning man. Kamala writes, “In this manner, the unfortunate man drowned in front of our eyes and we watched helplessly. That evening, when rotis were prepared for the elephant and he was to be fed in front of my husband and myself, he refused to eat them. Large tears rolled out of his eyes. We were amazed at the sight!” And when it was time to go and look for the body of the helper in the water, this time the repentant elephant did not demur.

Though Kamala did not have any more such painful experiences during her touring years, she certainly had to face the challenge of taking small children with her. Yet, as she reported, “It is indeed surprising that though over all these years, six months were spent wandering in the deep jungles”, nobody got really ill. On one occasion, however, when her son, Alok, had convulsions and had to be ‘rushed’ to the nearest hospital 30 miles away, Kamala sat with him in a makeshift doli carried by coolies while Ashok and Pramatha rode alongside. Would Pramatha have written about an elephant’s remorse, the tantrums of a maverick khalasi or having to deal with the situation when the last available ounce of the baby’s milk has curdled? Or would his accounts contain copious details of geological strata and different terrains, a faithful account of what he had set out to do? The answer is the latter probably and it was left to Kamala’s ingenuousness to bring such journeys and adventures alive. Nor was she alone in this as is clear from many women’s memoirs that deal with what we would today call coping and damage control.

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