Late from the airport, home after a dinner, across the city on business: what the house does so that a woman travelling alone does not have to think about the car at all.
The evening before, the name and photograph of your sarathi and the number of the car reach you in writing. The car that arrives is that car; the man at the door is that man. If either is different, do not step in — call the house.
A driver drives; the sarathi rides beside him and hosts. You are never alone in a car with one stranger, and the seat beside the driver is never yours to be asked into. The cabin behind is yours entirely.
Name a sister, a friend, a colleague: they receive the car, the sarathi and the live journey when it begins, and a word when you are inside your door. Nothing is sent to them before the car is on its way.
Say "a stop" and your sarathi chooses the best place on the route — a hotel, a mall, a well-kept fuel stop — and tells you which before he turns in. The house does not keep those places, so it carries what it can answer for: in the seat pocket, a sealed comfort pouch — a toilet-seat spray, disposable covers, a hygienic standing-use funnel, wipes, a hand sanitiser, pads, tampons and liners, a discreet bag — replaced once opened. He waits at the car, within sight of the door.
The house is training women sarathis now; see what is coming. Until they are on the road, ask on the reservation and the house tells you honestly, before you confirm, what it can arrange.
At night the car waits until you are inside and the light is on. The sarathi does not leave the kerb before.
Reserve your carSay "travelling alone" in the note; the house takes it from there.