The exchange of words I was an unwitting witness to, was astounding. We were in a car, at a literature festival. She was a young and well heeled author, whose book on the traumas of the Partition had garnered appreciation and applause. Facts and craft backed by research had made it a fair and poignant record of the collective anguish of those who had crossed an imaginary line that divested them of home and a life they had thought was their own.

He was much older, an imposing figure, ram-rod straight despite the burden of years, and though it was not clear whether he too was a writer, it was obvious he was well read and well informed.

It started as a polite conversation. He was ex-Army and as we passed through some historic site, he told us an anecdote about the place, adding dates and figures that flowed easily from the storehouse of his memory. Then he turned to my lady companion and asked what she did. In a few words, she explained to him the title and import of her book.

The keen eyes that were regarding her turned suddenly opaque as he said, “Young Lady, you were not even born at that time, what would you know of the time?” The volley did not faze her though. She explained that she had grown up surrounded by stories her elders, who had fled to India from across the border, had, time and again, narrated to her. There were objects they possessed that held stories of their own. And her curiosity and empathy had led her to open more stories in lives beyond those known to her. Till, she discovered she had gathered so much material that the book seemed to take a shape of its own.

Almost defiantly, seeing the expression on his face, she added, that the book had done extremely well; and had been acknowledged as true by many, including people she had not met, but who had witnessed or experienced the trauma of the Partition.

But he made it clear that he was not impressed. He looked her up and down, and the look emphasised her youth, her privileged station in life, and implied that here was a woman with time on her hands indulging in a hobby that got her to festivals, courtesy her looks and her connections.

The air between them could have been cut with a knife, as my companion stood her ground even as the gentleman recounted tales of ‘real valour and experience’ from his life.

The incident rankled for a long time. Especially when she told me that she had encountered this attitude and the dismissal of her work countless times since the book had been published.

It is common enough for women of all stations to have a superior attitude thrust at them, crossing out the possibility of their capabilities in one damaging statement.

Being young, pretty, well off… anything can be held as a sign of superficial success, as if these qualities make a woman incapable to hard work and genuine knowledge.

Male psyche

It’s a common enough experience as many women, regardless of age, social strata or social standing will admit. Generations of one-upmanship have instilled into the psyche that the male is more knowledgable and better equipped than the female to excel in any field.

Even drivers of cabs or other public transport tend to ignore a woman passenger should she suggest a different route to the one they prefer.

After decades of finding their place as equals in fields as diverse as banking, science and aviation, women might have elbowed their way to getting the respect of colleagues, but still face something close to derision or dismissal from men who see them only as women, and thus the lesser of the species.

The only change that happens is in the minds of those men, who, again regardless of social strata or financial bracket, have been brought up by their mothers to respect women and acknowledge the fact that every human being has to be judged by their capabilities and work, and not by their gender.

The writer is a Consulting Editor with Penguin India