Tiger Tales: Escaping Valentine’s Day — A Solo Journey into India, Fear, and Self-Belief (Part One)

External Validation

Ah, Valentine’s Day. The time of year when love is in the air and sales of chocolates and roses skyrocket. For the 1998 version of me though, the 14th of February was not a day for heart-fluttering optimism or romance. Experience had taught me that it was more likely to be a gut-wrenching emotional rollercoaster.

Back then, my self-view was heavily — and unhealthily — reliant on the approval of others. Not receiving some crappy “I love you” stuffed toy from the office sleazeball, or a wilting bunch of carnations from my regular Friday-night post-pub snog, clearly meant (at least in my head) that I was fundamentally unlovable, vaguely monstrous, and best kept out of sight.

After years of feigning Valentine happiness at the sight of workplace flower deliveries (always destined for the prettier girls), I finally decided that enough was enough. I couldn’t face the utter disappointment of being left on the shelf like a packet of suspiciously green minced beef. No! This year, I was taking back control of February 14th. I was sticking two fingers up at stupid Cupid and his nauseating band of cherubic friends.

It seemed I had two choices: retreat to my bedroom in my parents’ house and eat my own bodyweight in heart-shaped biscuits… or run away.

Never one to do things by halves, I chose the only logical option.

Run away to India...on my own.

How I Coped (Badly)

There was an unusually clear blue sky that February 14th in 1998. Mum and Dad tried to be brave as they waved me off through passport control, commenting that I’d get a lovely view from the aeroplane window. I was too terrified to think about beautiful vistas. Shaking with fear and lacking anything resembling healthy coping mechanisms, I decided the best thing to do would be to head straight to WHSmith and buy a packet of ten Silk Cut cigarettes and a lighter to calm my nerves. Probably not the wisest decision for a non-smoker, but like I said — I had no idea how to deal with my feelings.

Like many Generation Xers living with a diagnosis of depression and anxiety in the 90s, I simply didn’t talk about it. Instead, I sought solace in cigarettes, alcohol, and food. My only coping strategy back then was an artificial brave face and an unshakeable determination to prove to the world that I was a strong, independent woman — even when I didn’t feel like one.

Shock to the System

Arriving in southern India (my first port of call), I was hit with an immediate assault on the senses: steamy heat, dense tropical vegetation, and a constant cacophony of car horns and mopeds.

When the bus finally dropped me off at my B&B, there was only one thing on my mind. I had to call my parents to let them know I’d arrived safely. Only one problem — there was no public phone.

This was back when mobile phones were reserved for CEOs and the super-rich, so sending my mum a reassuring WhatsApp photo while pretending to look carefree was not an option. Instead, my over-friendly host informed me I’d need to walk into the nearby town — about half a mile along a narrow country lane, thick jungle on either side — and to take care, as lone female travellers were something of a novelty around these parts.

The only thing that made any sense to me was to wedge my room key between my fingers (a self-defence trick every Gen X woman will recognise), plaster on my steeliest brave face, and tell myself it was sink or swim. And I was not about to let myself sink.

No One to Save the Day

The walk to what could only be described as an old-fashioned telephone exchange was more anxiety-inducing than I could have imagined. I was hyper-aware of my femininity and vulnerability as I ran the gauntlet of leering men on mopeds, wolf-whistling enthusiastically and blaring their horns. There was no one around to look to for help.No one to do it for me. For the first time in my adult life, I was truly on my own. If I’d had the option to turn around and run back to my B&B, I would have taken it in a heartbeat. But the thought of my mum going out of her mind with worry pushed me forward.

The telephone exchange itself was dark, stiflingly hot, and located on a dusty, busy street. I took a deep breath, put my big girl pants on, and stepped inside. As my eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness, I became aware of several male heads turning in my direction. They didn’t look away. More men appeared from back rooms, expressionless and faintly intimidating. Not one offered a reassuring glance or a hint of assistance.

It was in that moment — surrounded by darkness, incense smoke, and strangers — that I realised just how inexperienced I was at standing on my own two grown-up feet.

There had always been someone there before. A friendly face. A kind relative. Someone to step in when things felt too much. But this time, that wasn’t happening.

As anxiety rose in tidal waves and sweat trickled down my forehead, I understood something with startling clarity: the lifebelt wasn’t coming. There was only one person who could save me now.

And that was me.

Well… This Is Pants

Eventually, what appeared to be a staff member snapped out of his trance and ushered me towards a bank of landline telephones. I could make my call and pay afterwards at the heavily manned desk in the corner. People stood either side of me, chatting loudly in their native tongues. I dialled my parents’ number with a trembling index finger, momentarily convinced I’d pressed the wrong keys. Then — immense relief.

My mum answered with a panicked, “Hello??”

“It’s meeeee!” I squealed, immediately lying through my teeth that everything was wonderful and I was loving every second.

I could practically feel her shoulders drop with relief down the phone line. She was proud. Reassured. Comforted by the idea that I was adulting successfully in a foreign country. I told her I’d sleep well at the B&B and prepare for the tour I’d booked — Jaipur, the Taj Mahal, and Corbett National Park… home of the Bengal tiger. I also lied and said the walk to the phone had been a breeze.

The road to the Telephone Exchange, Calangute, 1998

Leaving Mum reassured, I paid my dues and stepped back out into the heat with a quiet sense of achievement. I’d done something I’d never done before — and I’d survived it.

This was the first of many moments outside my comfort zone that would later teach me something important about resilience. Healthy coping mechanisms don’t come from hiding or running away. They come from problem-solving, facing fear head-on, and discovering strengths you didn’t know you had.

With a tentative sense of empowerment, I placed my key back between my fingers and began the walk home. The whistling and beeping started again, but this time I focused on a sacred cow ahead of me, ambling along the hot tarmac and pausing occasionally to chew roadside grass. My bovine companion proved a welcome distraction.

As I neared my room, I noticed something unfamiliar placed neatly on the doorstep. As I got closer, I realised just how much of a novelty my solo presence must have been. There, in a tidy little pile, lay a pair of men’s Y-fronts. A belated Valentine’s tribute, perhaps

Charming.

Red with embarrassment and rage, I booted the offending underwear into the bushes, barricaded my door with a chair and my luggage, and sat on the bed wondering what on earth I’d got myself into.

I didn’t know it then, but that first day in India wasn’t really about travel at all. It was about learning — very abruptly — that confidence isn’t something you’re given.

It’s something you build. Moment by uncomfortable moment.

To be continued…