No political party has addressed what could be the biggest invisible section of the population of the country, its single women. Their number was about 75 million at the last count and, since it seems to be growing steadily by the minute, one can assume that they constitute more than 5% of the population.
But do they appear in any election banner? The very idea seems a little weird; like the phrase, ‘single woman’, the person signified still seems a little foreign in our context. Perhaps that is why when the prime minister recently made a speech about “infiltrators” taking away our resources, he only referred to women wearing mangalsutras, which, presumably as a major national resource, are under threat of being snatched away as well. “The mangalsutra isn’t about the value of gold. It represents a person’s dreams,” he explained. The good news then is that the mangalsutra-less women should feel safer — they are not as snatchable; the bad news is that they are dreamless, valueless, dour creatures who remain invisible in our PM’s scheme of things.
They do not exist in language either. Bengali does not have one ‘single’ word for them, although they are variously described as unmarried, widowed, separated or divorced. Nor does Hindi. Not that they need new descriptions. Coining a new phrase for an identity does not guarantee recognition. (I feel afraid that if they are identified as a category, it may lead to more polysyllabic, challengingly compound-lettered semi-Sanskrit words, such as Bharatavandita or something, which will make them even more alien. I will neither have ‘Akeli Mahila’, which I just coined, because it has strong Insta vibes and cannot be wasted.) So let them be without a name. It does not matter because of what they do: everything. I will only give one example.
To me, Deepak Chatterjee, the singular, fearless private investigator created by Swapankumar, represents the height of human achievement. In one of his most remarkable feats, Chatterjee was seen carrying a revolver in one hand, an electric torch in another and starting a submarine with yet another to dive into the local waterbody in search of another great adventure. Or something very close to this. I worship the great man, but in all humility, I, a single woman, want to say that I could improve on him, packing in much more. Single-handedly, with three hands.
On the way to my adventure, I would drop my daughter to school. I would have prepared her breakfast earlier. After saving the world, I would turn my submarine back and head homewards in a hurry. On the way back, I would stop at the local market and pick up vegetables. Once home, I would hurriedly park my submarine, change quickly into my everyday clothes and cook dinner. Then help with my daughter’s homework. Then an anonymous note would be slipped in from below the door, inviting me to meet a most intriguing person, waiting for me at a Chinese restaurant in town. I would dash out again, revolver in one hand, electric torch in another and waving the anonymous note with yet another. At the restaurant, I would be greeted by only a pair of feet wearing Japanese grass sandals, visible from below a heavy curtain in a cabin. A wild chase would follow through the night, but I would be back home again right on time to make breakfast.
I do this every day. And I am sure the aforementioned millions do this every day. The young woman who looks after my household when I am away does this every day. My mother’s attendant does this every day. The army of women who come from Canning and elsewhere every day to work in the city do this every day.
I also feel that the number of single women is grossly under-reported, since there are so many women, who are in marriages, who have to do exactly this every day.
