In recent months I had travelled around to dozens of villages and met several thousand people thanks to my public speeches. If the schools and public places in general accorded me a favourable reception that was not always the case with certain committees in villages where the traditions were more entrenched. I remember the mother who tried to hit me because I was spreading unhealthy ideas in the minds of her daughters. According to her I was spreading ideas that were unworthy, insulting and degrading for our society. Like my mother she thought that if the young children now had the right to see and approve of their future husbands they would go off the first chance they got and lose their virtue. I had trouble explaining that the health risks could be critical. She didn’t want to hear about it, replying that she herself had given birth to six children without ever feeling she was at death’s door. Her daughter was neither more nor less fragile, so why should she give up on finding a husband soon?
It was obvious that this woman had never had any miscarriages or a stillborn baby and that she was unaware of the risks that she was making her daughter run. The public was divided on the question. The debate was launched. Each of us stuck to our position. For the first time I had to make an unplanned exit before the situation got out of control. There is no one more deaf than the one who doesn’t want to hear.
I also remember the father who violently took me to task during another speech. He accused me of being ignorant of our traditions and of corrupting minds while making poor people like them feel guilty. In uniting their children at an early age the parents were acting in their roles as unifiers of dynasties and guardians of the patronymic line. He added that marriage was something too serious to be entrusted to children. These sometimes painful confrontations were very instructive, since they helped me ponder the relevance and the meaning of the fight that I was leading.
My friend Afsana opens an eye. She is sitting and watching the snowflakes fall. In a few hours we will be in New Delhi. The first vendors come on board the train. In some stations there are dozens of them offering tea, coffee, fruits, rice or lentils. They bring a little thali to us, but I eat very little. The food is greasy, and there is no bread. I ask Baba if I can have some fruit and almonds. He calls out to one of the vendors, who has nothing but hot drinks. But, never mind, the seller sends his son to look for the right things so as not to lose the sale. The young man comes back a few minutes later with some peeled fruit wrapped in newspaper neatly tied with a little string. Baba takes out some rupees and hands them to the little boy who hurries to pass them on to his papa. He smiles at me. I lower my eyes, and I can’t help thinking that he would be better off being in school.
We enter the New Delhi station about an hour late, but some people are there to welcome us at the end of the platform. They are bundled up in thick overcoats, and I envy them because I am freezing. They suggest going to the market to buy some warm clothing for us. From the car I see several people sitting in front of a little fire and rubbing their hands together and staying quite close to the flames. I choose a thick sweater that I put on immediately, plus a jacket and a black hat. Afsana and I are now dressed to face the winter temperatures of the capital. We go to the hotel in the car that has been assigned to us.
At the hotel I am afraid to take the lift. I admit to not trusting these big grey metal cages. I prefer to take the stairs even if our rooms are on the fourth floor. The telephone rings, and I have trouble fishing my mobile out from all the layers of clothing I have on. The number that comes up is unfamiliar, but the town code is that of Bangalore. I have just missed a phone call from my brother. A few seconds later the phone vibrates again, and I pick it up.
‘Rekha? Are you all right?’
‘Dipak? Yes, we’re fine. We’re in New Delhi!’
‘In New Delhi? What are you doing there?’
‘We’ve been invited by the president and the prime minister. They want to give us a medal. We’ve been selected by the “Child Heroes” programme,’ I answer excitedly while getting out of my jacket and my shoes.
‘But that’s fantastic news. Do you know what they’ve planned? Do you think you’ll get some money?’
‘I don’t know. They told us that we’re going to spend a fortnight here with other kids who come from all the states of India. Baba is with me, and we’re sharing a hotel room. Ma stayed in the village.’
‘Was that all right with her?’
‘Yes, the situation has become bearable. You know she attends meetings and says publicly that she’s proud of me – that I was right to refuse the marriage propositions.’
‘What? Really?’
‘Yes, no kidding. At the end of one speech some girls questioned her and even congratulated her. She was happy to have all the attention. She told the pupils that she had only done her duty as a mother, that she had no other choice, considering our financial situation, but that now she is sorry she was so strict with me. I even heard her tell some pupils that she’d been wrong to be stubborn on this point.’
‘She’s really unpredictable. I’m glad the situation has calmed down. Tell her that I called the next time you talk to her.’
‘OK, I will. You’re still working as a floral decorator?’
‘No, the marriage season is over. I’ve found a new job.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, I’m working in construction. I’m a builder and painter. There’s a lot of work in this line. They’re putting up new buildings every day here. It’s exhausting, but the wages are better.’
‘When are you coming to see us? It’s been a long time since you came back to the village.’
‘Not for six months. I’ll come to see you during the next monsoon when there won’t be any more work here.’
He asks to speak to Baba before the phone runs out of credit. I unpack my things while they chat for a moment.
I would have liked my brother to become a teacher. It’s true that it’s not paid very well, but there are several advantages to teaching in one’s own village. You don’t have to move house, you stay near your family and you can easily look after them in case there’s a problem. The work is very interesting and instructive, on top of which you profit from a certain prestige that benefits the whole family. Instead of that Dipak goes from one hard manual job to another. Now it’s impossible for him to move in another direction. Baba rings off and hands me the phone. I’m happy that he’s here. He watches over me and prevents unfounded rumours from circulating. My mother and my family would never stand for anybody being able to call into question my modesty nor sullying my honour by spreading doubts about my virginity because I am far from home or because I am rubbing shoulders with strangers who could take advantage of the situation. A girl, even a poor one, is duty-bound in all circumstances to stay far from men and to be sure to avoid any compromising situation.
At the end of the afternoon we are all invited into the hotel lobby. They inform us that a series of activities is planned for this fortnight and that we must wear the uniform on each official outing. We are issued with a dark-red jacket featuring the national coat of arms, a pair of matching trousers, two pairs of socks and a pair of black lace-up shoes. We are invited to get acquainted with each other and to use this first evening to rest after our trip. I have trouble getting my head around the fact that we all come from the same country. Some boys wear turbans, some girls wear bracelets up to their shoulders. I later learn that the girls come from the region of Rajasthan in the far west of the country. One kid of about ten has slanting eyes and thick black hair. He looks Chinese, although his parents live in Assam. It took him more than two days to get to New Delhi by train. I am immediately faced with the language barrier. His dialect is completely strange to me, and the same for the girl with the bracelets. Afsana tells me that they are speaking their regional language just as we speak Bengali. She nevertheless manages to exchange some remarks with them in Hindi. I ask her to translate what they are saying to each other.
The girl saved several people fr
om drowning. The ferry was crossing a branch of a river when she saw water coming in at the back of the boat. She at once warned the captain, who turned back to the riverbank where he had just weighed anchor. Without her intervention the boat would have sunk, and hundreds of people would have been drowned. In Rajasthan, as in Bengal, people rarely know how to swim.
The young boy was at the market with his mother. He noticed a man who was parking his motorbike on the pavement without bothering to untie the two big bags on the luggage carrier. He immediately thought that it could be an explosive device because a few months before that a bomb had destroyed a market, causing the deaths of several dozen people. Since then the police had called for increased vigilance. He told his mother, but she didn’t believe him. The boy, who must be three or four years younger than I, then shouted, ‘Bomb alert!’ in the middle of the bazaar. Some men ran to him and he pointed at the motorbike and said that a man had just parked it a few minutes ago before rushing off. The market was evacuated and the police took over. A squad of bomb-disposal experts confirmed that the bag contained explosives. He was invited to meet the inspector general of the police, who suggested that he should be included in the annual Day of Young Heroes of the Nation.
Each of the following days was marked by at least one meeting with the big shots of the country. We met ministers who told us again and again that our deeds were inspirations for millions of our countrymen. There were many activities planned for every day. We went to the zoo, to the amusement park, to plays and to performances of northern Indian Kathak dancing. The next day was the most important because we were due to meet the prime minister in person. We were welcomed by one of his councillors who checked that our outfits were spotless before inviting us to follow him. We were taken to a sumptuous room with walls delicately tiled with an exquisite blue-tinted mosaic. In spite of his great age the prime minister was determined to greet us individually. He gave each child a garland of flowers, putting it around each neck. He spoke slowly and listened to accounts of why we had been chosen for this annual national event. Each of us was entitled to a little thoughtful and personal word. I was impressed by his height and his knowledge. Then he sat down on a chair and reminded us that he, too, came from a very deprived background. He said that he studied by candlelight in order to discover the light of knowledge. I was enthralled by his personal journey and by his speech, which was translated for me as he spoke. We were given a watch and a clock. I was determined to say good-bye to him and thank him before he left. The guards forbade me to approach him, but he came back one last time and put his hands together and bowed his head towards me.
I try to talk with my new friends in Hindi, but the conversation is laborious. The fact is that we don’t understand each other. I have to keep calling in Afsana to interpret. The security guards laugh when they hear me making such a mess of it. However, that does not prevent us from having meals at the table with other kids. On the contrary, these linguistic concoctions give rise to unpredictable discussions that make us hoot with laughter.
They told us about the programme for the following days, the most important being Republic Day when we, as well as the army, would pass in review before the president of the country. I was astonished to learn that we would ride on the back of an elephant during the parade! I talked to my father about it once we were in our room.
‘I will not climb up on an elephant.’
‘You say that because you’re afraid, but don’t worry, it’s not dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ I said, telling a white lie. ‘It’s true that the idea of being seated on the back of a pachyderm does not really reassure me. But still, Baba, I can’t climb up on Sri Ganesh – he’s a god! And the son of Shiva! No, no, I find it insulting and degrading to put one’s backside on the divinity who is supposed to remove obstacles from life – and, remember that he also represents knowledge. I would feel guilty the moment I did it.’
‘I don’t think you have any choice, Rekha. The parade on Republic Day includes several thousand people! It’s an honour to be there. You can’t offend your hosts by refusing their customs.’
‘I prefer to upset human beings than a god. I’ll have a word about it tomorrow with our handlers.’
‘Do what you like, but I doubt if they’ll make an exception for you!’
The tutor in charge didn’t seem at all offended by my request. On the contrary, he found my reasoning very respectful. He suggested that I get into one of the parade vehicles just behind the elephants. That shouldn’t pose a problem. I thanked him, relieved not to have to climb up on to a howdah.
It’s very cold this morning. A thick fog envelopes the great boulevard in front of the presidential residence as far as the India Gate. Soldiers in flashy uniforms, musicians and military vehicles parade in front of us. The officers salute the president, who is standing on the reviewing stand. The parade comes level with the head of state and the prime minister, and I feel hugely honoured to be there. Just when I salute I have the sensation that our eyes meet in spite of the poor visibility caused by the fog.
A big party is organized two days before our departure. There is music, and we all dance. I try once more to talk to my new friends. There is some progress, but not enough for me to do without a translator. The vast size and diversity of our country hits home. I understand also that in spite of this mosaic the kids everywhere are urged to get married from a very young age – that it’s not a local or regional phenomenon but indeed a national curse. The president said it during our first meeting, but I had not really taken in the full import of her words then.
Afsana snaps me out of my reverie. We have to hurry, we have an appointment for the official photo! All the young people are in their uniforms. A photographer points out the steps to us so that we can take our places, but just then a convoy of cars stops beside us. Surrounded by several bodyguards the president gets out of her car. The plan is for her to be in the picture. She comes up to me and I greet her respectfully by putting my hands together.
‘Hello, Rekha. How are you?’
‘Very well, Your Excellency. Thank you for your concern.’ I reply naturally and politely as we have been taught by the people looking after us these last few days.
‘I am lucky to meet you twice. I hadn’t thought that we would see each other again so quickly.’
‘I am the lucky one to meet you a second time in such a short space, Madam President.’
‘Have you enjoyed your stay?’
‘Oh yes, very much. I have learned so many things that I can’t wait to tell my classmates!’
‘What do you want to do later?’
‘I don’t know yet, Madam President. I would like to teach or help change things in our country, but I don’t yet have a very precise idea, mainly because I don’t want to have regrets if I don’t manage it.’
‘I am not worried about you, and your future seems to me very promising. Let’s go have the photo taken now,’ she says, giving me the rose in her hand.
She sits down next to me. In a few seconds we will be in the same picture.
The next day we finished our visit by going to visit the Red Fort. I was dazzled by all the lights. It looked like Diwali, the Festival of Light, even though it was the middle of January and fog covered the city. Still, I was not unhappy to return to my village in Bengal. The further the train went, the more of my heavy clothing I could take off.
My friends were impatient for me to tell them about this latest trip. They wanted to know everything right down to the smallest detail. Atul suggested rescheduling a class so that my class mates could hear about my experience in New Delhi. I described those meetings with the other young people who were dressed differently and spoke incomprehensible languages, but had identical problems to ours. Of course, I mentioned the meetings with the members of parliament, the prime minister and the president, as well as the encouragements they gave me personally. But I also described all the villagers I had encountered. The reactions were parti
cularly lively when I started describing the glacial weather, the sumptuous monuments and the merry-go-rounds in the amusement park – where I got motion-sick. The welcome from my classmates filled me with energy. I was full of confidence and again ready to tour villages, schools and public places in order to raise the awareness of young people and their parents about the dangers of early marriage.
After school I knock on the headmaster’s door. Arjun shows me a chair and gestures for me to sit down. I have one last favour to ask of him. I preach against pre-adolescent marriage, but my speeches are directed at people whose main priority is just to survive economically. For them their children’s literacy is optional. The least I ask is that Arjun guarantees me that this won’t happen to my own friends and family. My parents made the mistake of not enrolling me in school from the required age, but I hope now that Arjun will provide my younger brothers and sisters with schooling so that they will never have to end up in the conditions that I am denouncing.
Rekha Kalindi was eleven years old when the former Indian president, Pratibha Singh Patil, told her, ‘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.’
Rekha helps her father (below, watched by his youngest child), who has been rolling traditional Indian cigarettes (bidis) for decades. The low wage is barely enough to feed the whole family.
A young Bengali girl carrying wood
‘Despite legislations and some efforts by government and non-government agencies to educate the people about the dangers of early marriage, prejudices and beliefs underlying the preference continue in India. In West Bengal, too, there is a silent complicity to child marriage; many rural communities treat it as normal and routine.’ – Extract from ‘Child Marriage in Rural West Bengal: Status and Challenges’, Biswajit Ghosh and Ananda Mohan Kar,
Strength to Say No Page 10
