THE STRENGTH TO SAY NO
REKHA KALINDI was born into a poor family in a village in West Bengal in 1997. From a young age she was obliged to give up her education to work and help bring in money to feed her family. Going back to school with the assistance of the Indian National Child Labour Project, she became a model pupil. However, at the age of eleven her parents said they had found her a husband. She staunchly opposed this, flying in the face of age-old custom and bringing her into conflict with her family. Only through the intervention of her teachers and the Minister of Labour of West Bengal was she able to continue her schooling. Since her story became known she has become a voice for millions of young people in India denied the opportunity to receive an education and have a proper childhood. She now travels all over India to speak, and her international profile continues to grow. Her story was one of only twenty (that of Anne Frank and Malala Yousafzai were two others) included in a book called, in English, Children Who Changed the World published to mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the United Nations Declaration of the Rights of the Child, and she is the recipient of India’s National Bravery Award.
MOUHSSINE ENNAIMI is a distinguished correspondent for Radio France, widely acknowledged as a specialist on India. His posting to South Asia led to a meeting with Rekha Kalindi and their collaboration on this book.
PREFACE
Arranged marriages are extremely widespread in Indian society, and these arranged unions frequently merge into forced marriages. This ancient cultural tradition then produces forced marriages that deprive the young couple of their individual liberty in flagrant violation of the rights of man and of the child according to the United Nations and Unicef. More than 40 per cent of the forced marriages in the world take place in India. This is a national curse that the authorities are trying to root out.
In spite of a clear and precise legislative arsenal (the Child Marriage Restraint Act of 1929 – popularly known as the Sarda Act) traditions are tenacious: girls and boys are always subject to their parents’ decisions from the moment that their marriage comes up for discussion. The main motivations that drive parents to choose the future wife or husband of their children are respect for caste and social class, the patronymic and dynastic line and economic considerations. These arrangements are sometimes made without the children ever having met one another, or when they have met only briefly. The minimum legal age for marriage is eighteen for women and twenty-one for men, but this is ignored, neglected and sometimes not known, even by the privileged classes.
Children who are sometimes married off for reasons of economic survival (one less mouth to feed) are deprived of their liberty, separated from their friends, isolated from the rest of their family and forced to abandon their schooling. As for health, such children are more likely to be exposed to sexually transmitted diseases. A pregnancy during teenage years or earlier incurs the risk of causing serious after-effects on the female reproductive organs and the death of the infant and its mother during childbirth. The risk of death for the baby is 60 per cent greater when the mother is under the age of eighteen (source: United Nations). In India two out of five women are married before the legal age, and one in five before the age of fifteen. Furthermore the figures apply to all the childbirths in the population regardless of caste or education (source: ‘The Situation of Children in India in June 2011’, Unicef).
Of course, Rekha Kalindi did not know these statistical data any more than she knew that the rate of infant mortality in India is one of the highest in the world (higher than that in sub-Saharan Africa). However, her personal experience convinced her that an early marriage inevitably means damage to a girl’s health as well as exclusion from the school system.
Mouhssine Ennaimi
CONTENTS
Preface
List of Illustrations
1 Meeting the President
2 School
3 The Evil Eye
4 ‘Little God’
5 Marriage Offers
6 Speech
7 Pressure
8 Training
9 Plea
10 Heroes Day
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
All photographs by Mouhssine Ennaimi
Rekha Kalindi was just eleven years old when she met former Indian president Pratibha Singh Patil
Rekha helps her father rolling traditional Indian cigarettes (bidis); his low wage is barely enough to feed the family.
A Bengali girl carrying wood
Rekha’s mother was not supportive of Rekha at first and beat and starved her daughter when she refused to marry.
Rekha cycling through her home village of Bararola
Rekha’s father with his drums – he occasionally plays in religious festivals and political marches to earn a little more money to support his family.
Rekha and all her family in Bararola village
Rekha’s teacher, Atul, a key character in her life, who supported her when she refused to marry and encouraged her to continue to attend school
Josna, Rekha’s older sister, who suffered greatly when she became a mother at just twelve years old so influencing Rekha’s determination to defy her parents’ wishes for her to be married off at eleven
Rekha and her mother
Rekha at the door of her sister Josna’s home
Rekha visiting a school to speak her of experiences and how children facing the same situation should question tradition and expectations
A teacher congratulates Rekha following a talk at a school
1
MEETING THE PRESIDENT
We were warned from the moment we went in. Don’t look her in the eye, don’t try to approach her and, most of all, be polite. This person, who I didn’t even know existed until a few days ago, is the most important and the most respected person in the country. I could hardly believe that it could be a woman and furthermore that she wanted to meet me.
We go through the gardens before getting to the marble porch. We arrive in a luxurious room in which the carved walls are inlaid with symmetrical patterns. My new sandals slip on the white marble floor. I hitch up my long scarf-like dupatta so that I won’t trip over it. The route we take is lined with pillars as big around as elephants’ legs. The golden patterns of the mosaics sparkle from the combined reflection of sunlight and lit lamps. I fix my eyes on the doorway opposite to avoid being dazzled by all this light. I have never seen such a beautiful residence. Two armed guards stand motionless in front of our passage without, however, taking their eyes off us.
We cross a patio where we are received by several members of the security guard wearing uniforms of dark-grey shirts and trousers. One of the bodyguards speaks in Hindi into a walkie-talkie. I understand only part of the exchange. The women are called into an adjacent room. The women security guards in dark grey search us one by one. They ask us if we have electronic objects, pens or any other accessories in our possession. I reply politely in the negative. The frisking is embarrassing, and I glance at my friends and smile to make light of this ordeal. We get through a gate and find ourselves again on the patio. The men are put through the same treatment. Cameras and mobile phones are confiscated. My father is given a more rigorous search than the others. I go towards him, but the guards ask me to stay to one side. They have found some bidis – little cigarettes hand-rolled in a eucalyptus leaf – in my father’s pockets. Although he maintains that he has no matches the guards search for anything that could produce fire, but in vain. The man takes up his walkie-talkie again to talk to his colleague. I gather that we can go on.
The floor is covered with a thick carpet with a floral pattern. There is no longer any risk that I’ll slip. On the contrary, my sandals catch on it and now I
have to be careful not to lose them. I look at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and I think to myself that they must weigh as much as a cow. The table in the middle is spread with a brilliant white tablecloth that almost touches the floor. Light-blue ribbons encircle the backs of the chairs. A man is standing behind each of the covered dishes. We are told that after we’ve met the president we can eat as much as we like. As I cross the room I notice that the vegetarian dishes are separated from the dishes with meat: the two buffet tables are several metres apart. We walk through umpteen rooms, one after the other. I wonder how many people live in this house.
Other guards are posted in front of a door made of dark, shiny wood. These men are wearing a different outfit, red and white, and they are not armed, unlike the ones who have been accompanying us since the beginning and who searched us meticulously. There are several double doors – to the right, the left and straight ahead. Each one of them is guarded by men wearing yet another uniform. There is a large chair, a microphone and several rows of smaller chairs. The guards talk to my parents, as well as to the people from the National Child Labour Project (NCLP) who supervise us in Purulia.
‘There is a protocol, and you must respect it to the letter,’ our tutor informs us. ‘You mustn’t speak to her before she addresses you, nor go too close to her, nor look her in the eye. You must not touch her feet as you’re used to doing with your parents or your teachers. Confine yourself to a simple and respectful hello in Hindi – namaste. Also don’t forget that you must wait until she is seated and tells you to sit. Pay attention and never interrupt her, and don’t forget to say “ma’am” after anything you say to her.’
I look at my friends Afsana and Sunita. They look tense. My father is squeezed into his jacket and doesn’t seem very relaxed either. There are a lot of people in the room – other people that I don’t know – and most of them are wearing suits and ties. There are journalists and some of them have made the trip with us from Purulia. Prosenjit, our tutor, comes up and reminds us that we have to have perfect manners in front of the president. He seems to be nervous and overexcited at the same time.
The door opens, and I finally see the person I’ve been hearing about non-stop for several days. She is Pratibha Patil, the first woman president of India (from 2007 to 2012) and before that the first woman governor of Rajasthan. She has a nice face, little glasses and undoubtedly one of the most beautiful saris that I have ever seen. She is followed very closely by four armed men responsible for her protection. She comes up to me, and I put my hands together and bow my head. The president puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rekha. Rekha Kalindi, ma’am.’
‘I am very proud of you and very proud to meet you,’ she says, taking my hand in both of hers.
‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ I say, moved and nervous at the same time. I don’t even think to tell her that I am honoured and proud to meet her in this palace.
‘You are an example to a whole generation and for millions of girls …’ The president speaks to me without this famous protocol that has been drummed into me from the beginning. She strokes my hands, while all the time looking me in the eye. I thank her for welcoming us in this house, and she smiles.
When she gets to Sunita and Afsana she just joins her hands to greet them. They have a brief conversation, and she thanks them for coming so many miles to be in New Delhi today. The president also greets my father, the mothers of my friends and the rest of the NCLP personnel. When she is seated we sit down, too.
The president tells us that she read our story in the local papers. She couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Some girls have succeeded where government policy has been failing for thirty years.’ She asked local staff to find out more about us. Ever since she received the findings and the confirmation of our experiences she was eager to meet us. I believe that she really meant it when she described us as heroines.
‘We can make all the laws and all the modifications in our society that we like, but these initiatives in which we believe deeply are of no use if there aren’t people like you. Our proposals are directed at people with characters like yours, and it is you, my girls, who are doing the most difficult work. Your courage has guided you to good decisions, and I am proud to see that the future generations of Indians are daring and ambitious. What you have done is exceptional. I am hopeful and sure that you will be an inspiration to other young girls. So that our country can eliminate this notion of marriage between two children at the cost of their education, their future and ultimately their happiness. I asked to see just one girl, but receiving three makes me still happier and prouder to represent our great country.’
The president hands over to our tutor, Prosenjit, and he asks us to rise. Afsana, Sunita and I thank the president for giving us such a great honour. Prosenjit briefly describes my situation, then that of Afsana and of Sunita. Other speeches follow from the men in suits and ties. Each one explains at what point his role was crucial in our lives and our choices, including some that I absolutely don’t know. I look at the president, and she smiles at me. I had never thought that a woman could achieve this degree of responsibility nor receive so much deference from men. In my village in Bengal a girl remains inferior to a boy. A woman submits to the commands of her husband. The president says that I inspire her, but she is mistaken. She is the one who inspires us.
I blush when I think of my reaction a few days ago when I learned that she wanted to meet me. Prosenjit called the headmaster of my school, Arjun, who himself telephoned Arvind, the grocer in Bararola, the ‘telecommunications centre’ of my village. I remember that he was talking fast, short of breath as if he had forgotten that he had to breathe.
‘Rekha, I have an amazing piece of news. The president wants to meet you!’
‘Who?’
‘The president in person. She wants to see you and no doubt congratulate you. You’re going to go to New Delhi!’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about … Anyway, I’m not interested.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Rekha! Even if you don’t know who she is, you owe her respect. She is one of the most important people in India.’
‘Well, let me think about it. It’s not like I have to decide instantly. Give me some time to think it over.’
‘I’m going to Purulia to get the letter, and I’ll show it to you tomorrow at school. It’s incredible, a chance like this. You can tell your parents. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.’
‘All right. See you tomorrow.’
And I hung up the phone.
How could I have been such an idiot? People don’t say no to the president of their country. Now that I’m standing in front of her I’m sorry I lacked respect for her.
Arjun showed me the letter. The design on it was the same as the one that you see at the post office and in front of the offices of the NCLP. Later I found out that it is the coat of arms of all India.
The next day journalists phoned constantly. Some local elected officials hoped to meet me before I left for New Delhi. Some even came to the house to greet me personally. The members of the NCLP talked of nothing but this visit to the president. I understood that it was a matter of incredible importance, and that in spite of the obstacles the reprimands and the insults of the past, I had made the right decision.
The president rose and left the room, always surrounded by the four armed men. The government officials congratulated me one by one. The journalists asked me the same questions as usual. Then it was time to go to lunch.
2
SCHOOL
‘When a girl is born it’s always bad news!’ How many times have I heard this statement without really realizing that it concerns me? My father, my mother, everyone around me is convinced of it. I know that because I have often heard their conversations with the neighbours and other members of the family about female babies. It must be said that in my case my coming into the world really was bad news for my parents.
Even when I was a small child the list of faults attributed to me was already long: unruly and stubborn, persistent and difficult. Like other little girls I will lose my family name once I am married, and my parents will have to go into debt to be able to pay a dowry to the family of my future husband. I will not be able to cremate my father when he dies because only sons are involved in the cremation that is performed so that the father can attain the final liberation. All the fruits of my labour will go to my in-laws. It is not impossible that this will change in the future, but for now that’s how things stand in India and in particular in the villages like the one in which I was born and where I live, where these traditions are solidly rooted in custom. As a little child I upset my father’s tobacco pots and spoiled his work when I had the chance. In addition, they told me over and over, I had weakened my mother considerably. Breastfeeding wore her out to such an extent that she could no longer take care of the house as the other women in the village did.
From a very early age I realize that life will be difficult. My father, my Baba, rolls cigarettes all day long. It’s his livelihood, as it is for most of the inhabitants of the village. Here everyone is linked in one way or another to the cigarette industry – men, women, grandparents and teenagers. Every week Baba carefully notes in a little notebook the amount of tobacco and the number of eucalyptus leaves delivered by the producer. From the first glimmers of sunlight my father sets up shop on the doorstep with his basket and arranges his work kit. Indoors everyone is still asleep, crowded together on straw pallets or even on the dried-mud floor near the few battered cooking utensils. At the end of the day Baba will have rolled nearly eight hundred bidis. I like to get up early and watch him do it. He began very young. I want him to teach me.
‘You have to cut up the leaves – they ought to be the same size as this little iron plate,’ whispers my father as he cuts the leaf with long black scissors.
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