Mr Kundu takes the floor to explain why we are there today. ‘For several years we have been running a programme to combat child labour. We have been studying the problems parents encounter in nourishing your offspring. We have noticed that if very young children work it is mainly to help their families. But we have also noticed that they work because they have quit school. Now, schooling is obligatory, and no one is exempt from it. The prime minister has again reminded us of that in her speech.’
The crowd listens, and some idle onlookers come along, prick up their ears and ask what it’s all about. The children – both boys and girls – are placed in front, just opposite the lectern. A piercing whistling accompanies the words coming out of the loud speakers, but I hear my name, and I can see Mr Kundu making a sign for me to come up.
‘This girl is like you! You could be her parents, and today she is here to tell you her story. Rekha, please come and introduce yourself.’
I am impressed by the crowd below the platform. All eyes are fixed on me. I have a lump in my throat, and I’m afraid of stammering. However, as soon as I go up to the microphone the nervousness disappears and my delivery is clear.
‘My name is Rekha Kalindi, and I come from the village of Bararola. Ever since I was very little I’ve worked to help my parents, who are very poor. There are six children in the family. On the days when we have nothing to eat we go to bed with empty stomachs and hope that the next day will be better. When my parents decided that I ought to be married I refused.’
I pause for a moment. The crowd is hanging on my every word. Some of them are surprised by my last sentence. They are doubtless astonished that someone can question parental views when she is still a child – all the more so to do it in a public place.
I continue, ‘But let me tell you what happened to my older sister. For five years she tried to have a baby. Every time she gave birth she nearly died. Her cries, her pains, were heart-rending. She escaped death several times but not the sorrow of losing four babies. My sister did not choose to marry, but my parents chose for her. They decided that she was mature enough to be married and young enough for the dowry to be minimal. I am not criticizing my parents. They do their best every day to put a bit of rice on our plates. On the other hand I do not agree with their forcing me to quit school and marry a stranger older than I am just to have one fewer mouth to feed. That was not easy. I would even say that it is extremely difficult to contradict one’s parents and the consequences are especially hard to take. But today I am here to tell you that it is possible to refuse a marriage if you don’t want it. It is possible to find another way that allows you to go to school so that you can really help your parents, have a life less hard than theirs and give your children better living conditions than the ones you had. It is an ambitious vision that is within the reach of each of you. Thank you for listening to me.’
I had hardly finished my last sentence when the crowd began to applaud, mainly the young people in the first row. Mr Kundu took the floor again and reminded everyone that the law forbids boys to marry before the age of twenty-one and girls before eighteen.
I went back down from the platform, happy to have expressed myself in front of all these people, proud of having shared my story, delighted at the idea that it could inspire other people in the same situation.
At the end of the meeting several pupils came up to confide their problems to me. Dipali was twelve, and although her parents wanted to keep sending her to school she was being forced to marry a man of about twenty because her grandfather absolutely had to see her married before he died. I advised her to ask her grandfather if he preferred to go first or to attend the funeral of his granddaughter because of a pregnancy that turned out to be fatal at her young age.
The case of Bina, aged thirteen, was very similar to mine. I could only encourage her to follow my example by wishing her great determination and fewer problems than those that I have had with my mother. I added that sooner or later the parents, who know they are in the wrong, realize they have no choice but to throw in the towel. With time and the support of her teachers Bina would finally succeed in convincing her parents that their decision was unworkable.
Some parents also came to greet me. Some mothers said they envied the courage they failed to have some years before; others were moved and promised to stand up to their husbands who were considering giving their daughter away although she was still too young to become a wife. I had the feeling of serving a just and praiseworthy cause by giving this speech.
Dipak landed on his feet in Bangalore and found work as a floral decorator. His work consisted of making long garlands by weaving flowers together with a string. During the wedding season he worked straight through without a break several hours a day, seven days a week, including nights. He was regularly called by hotels or rich homeowners who wished to decorate their houses during a religious ceremony or for the birthday of their child. He lived with a friend in a tiny place at the back of a little grocery where the rent was very reasonable for the centre of a big city. My brother, however, did not have access to either water or electricity. He earned enough money to feed himself but not enough to save up and come to visit us any time soon. I asked him to tell me what the people were like and how he managed not to get lost in the middle of this urban jungle. The line went dead. He had no doubt used up all the credit. I wouldn’t get my answer until the next call.
I told Baba that my big brother had called, and he was sorry to have missed him. Ma came back with several woven baskets and suggested going to sell them herself at the market rather than leaving them with the merchant. She was convinced that she could get more for them than the handful of rupees offered by the wholesaler.
The next meeting takes place in front of a hospital also situated several kilometres from the village. There are hardly any children. Once again I have butterflies in my stomach before getting up on the platform and facing dozens of adults. I adapt my speech by saying this time that since I refused the marriage proposed by my parents my dowry is very small. Less than fifteen hundred rupees, while some time ago my parents would have had to pay out more than five thousand rupees. I don’t spare any detail of my older sister’s miscarriages. Some women seem touched by these events, as if they themselves had experienced them and then suppressed the memory before they surfaced again with my speech. They are the ones that I particularly address, the mothers, for although they almost never have the power to make decisions they exert a great influence on their husbands. I encourage them to listen to their daughters rather than to punish them or to bully them. I mention my painful confrontation with Ma, who is now sorry and recognizes that she was wrong. I urge these mothers not to repeat the same error as the one committed by my mother.
I speak for a little over ten minutes. The message seems to get through to judge by the reactions of the crowd. The deputy minister straightens his unruly hair before concluding and thanking the audience. I have the impression that he, too, appreciated my speech.
The public meetings multiplied without my really realizing it. I had to do about fifteen of them in all. The deputy minister insisted on making an evaluation after each speech. He corrected me, especially when I talked for too long. He reminded me of the points that we dealt with during the training programme. He also noted the positive elements in my speech; he stressed the pertinence of my examples and the very positive reactions of the audience. He was happy that the local press turned out for each of my speeches. Each interview I gave made me more credible and emphasized the depth of my message.
A journalist from the Hindustan Times questioned me for several minutes. She was interested in the smallest details and had me repeat the answers so that she could be sure she understood everything. The pages of her notebook became blacker the longer we talked. Her long black hair kept falling over her face, and she swept it back in an almost mechanical way. She looked like those women that you see in Bollywood films with very delicate features and full lips. When she spoke in Be
ngali there was no Hindi accent, so she must have been originally from Bengal. She wanted to know if I was taken care of financially – if I had received rewards or even gifts from politicians or other people. I told her the whole truth and she seemed to believe me.
The photographer shot after shot. When I ask to see them he shows me ones where the journalist and I appear sitting on the steps of my house, then some others where I am alone or in close-up. He asks me to roll some bidis since that’s my usual work. I take the basket and the leaves, and in the space of a few minutes I show the camera twenty-five perfectly rolled cigarettes. The camera clicks away. The photographer glances at the screen, expertly turns the buttons then nods. The journalist asks him if he’s satisfied, and he replies that he has enough good photos to illustrate the article.
My parents are also interviewed, first separately and then together. Even the neighbours come in for a few questions. The reporter takes my mobile, enters her number and asks me to call her if I need anything at all. I thank her politely. I can’t begin to suspect that when it appears her article will be read by practically everybody in India, including the president.
The next meeting took place in Calcutta. I was told a few days beforehand, and I learned that other important people would speak. My teacher reassured me and said that I didn’t need to panic or get stressed, that it would be the same routine as before with the sole difference that there would be many more people in the audience. Mr Kundu, on the other hand, pointed out to me that I had to be word perfect and more effective than ever. I didn’t know which one to believe. My parents were informed, and my mother insisted that Baba came with us.
The car arrived at noon to drop us off at the railway station. The train trip seemed to go on for ever; we had time to eat lunch and dinner. Some people from the ministry accompanied us, and some of them stared at me for a long time because they’d never seen me before. When night came the train staff distributed sheets and a plastic-covered pillow to us. Somebody came to transform the seats into couchettes and in a few minutes the carriage had turned into a huge dormitory. I was just above my father. I had trouble getting to sleep with the noisy rumbling of the train.
The first rays of sunshine came through the filthy window. I got up and gazed at the landscape that was flashing past my eyes.
When we arrived several men welcomed us; they were wearing short-sleeved shirts and ties, and they drove us in a white vehicle with a revolving light on top. The interior of the car was comfortable. Mr Kundu took advantage of the drive to give me some last-minute advice: concentrate, be systematic and if there are any questions deal with them promptly.
There were several thousand people standing behind barriers, which were a few metres from the platform. Big posters were stuck on both sides of huge surrounding walls. I was invited to sit on one of the chairs on the stage. They gave me a little bottle of mineral water, and the guests arrived one after the other. The polite greetings and the hugs and kisses lasted for many minutes while the public poured in. I put my hands together and bowed my head each time someone came to greet me.
When the first speaker finally got up to speak I had already been sitting and trying to stay awake for almost two hours. On the lawn cameras were filming the scene. Sometimes a cameraman got up on the platform, went up to the politicians, recorded some images and climbed back down off the stage and rejoined his colleagues. The speeches were vehement. Some speakers shouted into the microphone enough to start up a loud whistling. Others used their hands and their fists to emphasize an idea, to get the message across. I never do that.
Some children went up on the platform, and I was called to sing with them. They put a microphone in my hands, and I started singing a Bengali song that we learned at school. The pupils followed the beat. Then I was invited to take my place at the rostrum and introduce myself. I lifted my dupatta so that it didn’t get caught on my sandals. The audience was quiet, everyone was looking at me and the cameramen aimed their cameras at me. I felt panic mounting. No sound came out of my mouth. The crowd extended as far as the eye could see. If I didn’t say something very soon the situation could get very embarrassing. I remembered that in these cases you need to start by saying something simple. So I introduced myself. The rest followed as one push of the pedal follows another. I went back over my sister’s marriage at the age of twelve and her multiple disastrous pregnancies. I mentioned the health problems linked to early marriage and the risks of childbirth out in the countryside, often without medical assistance. I mentioned the fact that fertility is not 100 per cent assured at our age. I then carried on with the marriage propositions my parents had received, my refusal to go along with them, the sanctions and the pressures that I was subjected to and the slow reconciliation with Ma, who now regretted her behaviour. I mentioned the examples of other girls I met during the training programme who had given in to their parents.
‘If I said no to marriage it is, as I have just told you, for reasons of health – but also to continue my schooling. I worked for a long time in the rice paddies. For a long time I helped my father produce bidis so that our family could earn a little more money. There were days without rice, days without rotis, when we had to beg for food from neighbours. They were supportive but also as destitute as we were. But there were also days at school when my schoolmates and I spent time just being children – learning rather than going to work, being instructed rather than breaking our backs or ruining our health.’
I paused. I had been speaking for nearly twenty minutes, and I needed to think about drawing to a close.
‘If I refused to submit to the decisions of my parents that doesn’t mean that I lack respect for them or that I have a secret boyfriend.’
The crowd laughed. I smiled and continued, ‘That does not call into question their authority or their responsibility for our education. If I refused it is because I know that their choice is not theirs but that of the community, which wishes to see each little girl go to her in-law family as soon as possible, often for economic reasons. Kids – you, too, have the power to refuse to be married while you are still young. Parents – don’t give in to the pressure of your family, your neighbours or friends. Allow your children to have a chance to help you concretely and significantly once their schooling is finished! Thank you for listening to me.’
I returned to my seat as the crowd applauded warmly. The politician who spoke just afterwards stressed my courage, my determination and my capacity for judgement in spite of my young age. He congratulated my parents for having given me life so that I might help other people change theirs.
According to the officials with me there were at least five thousand people in the audience. This was the first time that I had spoken in front of so many people. If at the beginning I had butterflies in my stomach and my shyness got the upper hand, I still managed to express myself clearly.
After the meeting a lot of young people wanted to meet me. One girl confided to me that she was desperate: her family had already struck a deal for her marriage, and the wedding was planned for the next month. I advised her to speak to her parents then to refuse to eat, not to take part in domestic life and, the most important thing, to stand firm. She was afraid of contradicting her parents and of being punished or thrown out of the house but promised to stand up to them. She confided to me that without my speech she would never have dared to consider taking the plunge.
10
HEROES DAY
This is the first time I’ve ever touched snow. The flakes brushing against my cheeks cause an electric sensation that runs up and down my spine. My face is damp, and I have never been so cold. They warned us that it would be chilly in the capital, but none of us could have imagined such low temperatures. I am dressed in so many layers of clothing that I can hardly manage to walk normally. I take several photos that I will be able to show on my return to the Bengal region. For several days I have been in New Delhi with around twenty other young people from all over the country who have come to at
tend Heroes Day. This event is organized by the leaders of the country to honour young people who have accomplished something significant and important for India.
The all-terrain vehicle grazed the houses. The villagers were obliged to go inside their shacks if they wanted to avoid getting run over. The narrow road was meant for carts, bikes and perhaps cars, but no one would ever have imagined that one day a four-by-four of this size would go along it. The vehicle stopped in front of our house. I climbed inside, and my mother said goodbye to me. She wondered if she hadn’t done a stupid thing in allowing this trip, which was going to separate us for nearly two weeks. She put the veil of her sari over her hair, taking care to hide one eye already wet with tears. We had to go on a few hundred metres to have enough room to turn around and get back on the road out of the village. We got to the station at around seven o’clock. The Rajdhani Express was going to leave in half an hour. We got on board, and I chose a compartment where there was room for my friend Afsana and my father, who was accompanying me. It was the second time that he was going to New Delhi, too. The train left on time! That was good news because it meant that we should arrive on schedule the next morning at about ten.
In the train the conversations started very quickly. Who were we? Where were we going? The passengers were surprised and delighted to learn that we were going to the capital to meet the president, the prime minister and the secretary general of the Congress Party. I was sure that they had already forgotten why we were invited, dazzled by the famous people we were going to meet. The further the train went and the more travellers got on board, the more our accents became noticeable. We heard incomprehensible regional languages being spoken. When night fell we got into our couchettes.
I woke up early in the morning when the WCs were free and the carriage was still asleep. I washed and got dressed quickly and then I went back and sat on the couchette. Waiting while the other passengers surfaced one after the other I watched the scenery go by.
Strength to Say No Page 9
