The motto of scouts and girl guides — Be Prepared — seemed something to aspire to when we were young. It could have been the influence of the stories we read or it could have been the fact that Mother seemed to have something on hand to come to the rescue in every difficult situation.
In my teens and early 20s, my slim and trusty Swiss army knife — just a penknife and a bottle opener for the Pepsis and Limcas that came in glass bottles with sealed metal caps — served the purpose, and I went journeying, picnicking, and camping without feeling the need for anything more elaborate to help me out.
Then came the years of travelling with a child and a pet and suddenly, carrying almost half the household along whenever we left the house, even if it was just to take a short ride to a nearby sand dune for an afternoon of play, did not seem adequate to cater to every possible emergency. Thus, there had to be cardboard cartons to convert into “sand sleds” to slide down the dunes, bottles of drinking water, additional water to wash off the sand once the romping was done, antiseptic lotion and a few band-aids in case of injury, and so on.
As our homestead emptied, however, so did the need for all the paraphernalia when I left the house, and I got back to making do with a reasonable-sized handbag and a few tossed in odds and ends wherever I went.
Then, on a recent rail journey from Slovenia to Hungary, my ever-present 100ml bottle of water sprung a leak and before I realised it, my handbag was soaked through and so was I. Although I was sure my passport and my money were dry because they are always in layers of zip-lock bags, I had to get my bag dry again so I emptied it and spread everything on the arms and backs of the seats around me — and the inventory I discovered made me cringe.
Apparently, I had not got over that desire to “be prepared”, because here’s what emerged:
• a pair of socks in case I feel cold,
• a hand fan in case I feel hot,
• biscuits in case I feel peckish,
• candies and chocolates in case my taste buds need comfort,
• two coin purses (one is not enough when you move between places with different currencies),
• hand sanitiser,
• pen drives with my life’s work on them,
• spectacles and glare glasses,
• an inexpensive pearl necklace to “dress up” an ordinary outfit in an emergency,
• seven handkerchiefs (there is no explanation for that number),
• one notebook to jot down stray thoughts and one notebook to record everything on the trip,
• several pens, pencils, sharpeners and erasers,
• wet wipes, regular tissues (now soaking wet, of course),
• safety pins by the dozen,
• a nail cutter (again, inexplicable since I’m a nail-biter),
• and that trusty old penknife that accompanies me more for sentimental reasons than anything else.
As we chugged from one unpronounceable station to another and I waved my hand fan over what I apparently considered necessities, it was a relief that no one got into the compartment, I could have my own private “dhobi ghat” (laundry area) around me, and everything dry by journey’s end.
Had I been on an Indian train, not only would I not have had place to dry all these belongings, but I would have had to explain myself to a dozen people around me and those who passed to and fro, and also accept any number of suggestions on how to go about doing what I was doing.
As for lessons learnt on the trip, well, next time everything goes into zip-lock bags — the water bottle first of all!
Cheryl Rao is a freelance journalist based in India.
