Standing Alone Read Online Free

a book on Tantra, an ancient Hindu philosophy in which feminine powers and sexuality are a critical part of worship. I had written a frontpage article for the Wall Street Journal about the big business of selling Tantric concepts of sacred sexuality at weekend workshops from Santa Cruz, California, to Ottawa, Canada. I had thought I would wander the caves of India studying with Tantric masters, but my itinerary soon became a journey into the corners of my own identity as I tried to traverse the dualities in my life. I thought I was searching for love, but I was in fact searching for the answer to the question of who I was as a woman.
    As I traveled in India I embodied the values of self-determination that I had learned in America. To be mobile, I dared what had been unthinkable to me even in America: I learned how to ride a motorcycle. It was a scooter by U.S. standards—a sleek, black, 100-cubic-centimeter machine—but it was my vehicle of empowerment. I rode that Hero Honda Splendor into the Himalayas, having cut my long hair and wearing pants and jackets to resemble a man. Women didn’t ride motorcycles there. But no matter how high I went into the Himalayas or how far away from home I traveled, the voices of traditional values echoed within me.

ISLAMIC RED TAPE
    LUCKNOW , INDIA —Following my encounter with the Dalai Lama, I drove to visit my elderly aunt, Rashida Khala (khala means “maternal aunt”), in the city of Lucknow. I figured I could do the hajj on my way back to the United States. As it turned out, the closest I could get to Mecca was walking into the Saudi Arabian Airlines office, near the bustling Lucknow neighborhood of Hazratganj.
    At first, a man named Nadeem told me there would be only an extra $75 stopover fee on a ticket to New York to do a trip to Mecca.
    Awesome , I thought. I am a visual learner: until I go someplace, I don’t know where it is on the map. I had no clue where Saudi Arabia was located, beyond knowing it was somewhere in the Middle East, and it was a relief to know it was somewhere along the flight path between the United States and India. Saudi Arabia is a short flight westward from New Delhi. Then the ticket agent added a caveat: “You must go with your mahram.”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour mahram. Your father, your husband, your son, or your brother.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked. Alone, I had jetted into the cities of the world—among them, Bangkok, Delhi, Tokyo, and Paris—but I couldn’t fly into the holy cities of my religion? He explained: sharia, or Islamic law, in Saudi Arabia rules that a Muslim woman must do hajj with a mahram, either a husband or an adult male escort who can’t legally marry her—her father, son, or brother. Uncles and cousins do not qualify.
    Historical anecdotes from the time of the prophet Muhammad are used to support this rule. It’s said that a man came to the prophet Muhammad and said, “My name has been included in jihad and my wife has left for the hajj pilgrimage.”
    The prophet replied: “Go and perform the hajj with your wife.”
    To me, that seemed interesting, but it certainly didn’t make it a rule. For all that is written in the Qur’an about the hajj, no mention is made of chaperones being required. I had only the Saudi Arabian Airlines ticket officer to ask my questions of “Can I go with a tour group?”
    â€œPerhaps, but you must come and go with them. The leader has responsibility for you.”
    Responsibility for me?
    I was thirty-five years old. I had been independent and self-sufficient since the Wall Street Journal started cutting me paychecks. I’d driven a motorcycle through the Himalayas. I’d interviewed President Bill Clintonin the Rose Garden of the White House. Surely, I could take care of myself. My thoughts were interrupted by my physical mirror image—a woman walked inside the office shrouded in a black burka, a