My orthodox Haryanvi grandmother would have killed herself, on hearing about Bhuri Kalbi’s daughter surviving a premature birth and slipping through the toilet bowl of a train. She wouldn’t have been pleased either with three-year-old Laxmi surviving a surgery that separated two of her extra limbs. “It’s only the chhoras (boys) whom death and disease visit and not chhoris (girls),” was her lament.

She’d have caught Alexander Jacob by the neck, the director of the Kerala Police Academy, for boasting, “Out of the 1600 women recruits, we have 400 post-graduates including 47 doctorate holders, and the remaining 1200 are graduates.” But she’d have consoled my PSO, Robin Ignatius, for his sob story: “The girls in our state don’t let us get ahead of them, neither in quality nor in number. They are 1080 for every 1000 of us.”

Once, on board a flight to Delhi, minutes before take-off, the air hostess manoeuvred hard to close the door, when it swung off the latches. The only thing required was some extra muscle and a hard push. After instructing her, the engineer went out to see if she could close the door by herself. She could not; but was undeterred in her resolve. Although we remained fastened to our seats, lending a helping hand might not have been appropriate: she had to learn to do the job. When she finally closed the door, the passengers applauded. But the perspiring girl seemed to resent it.

After about an hour’s flying, there was turbulence. The passenger at the window of my row became anxious. He asked, “Shouldn’t he have stabilised the plane by now?”

... contd.