Strength to Say No (14 page)

The trip home took an hour on foot. My parents insisted that I never come back at night. I suggested buying a bicycle with the money we had been given by one of the politicians. That would be useful for everybody and make the longest trips easier. Baba approved of this idea, and we went together to Purulia by bus. We met my brother-in-law. He advised us to go to see his boss, who had several hundred bicycles and would have some good advice.

Gopal Babu was in his workshop supervising dozens of people who were repairing things, hammering things or inflating the tyres of the vehicles that were fairly bashed up from their intensive use. The racket was deafening. At the back of the yard two men were welding a passenger seat on to a rickshaw. On the left a dozen workers were handling and daubing some parts covered with grease in plastic basins whose colour you could hardly make out. Their fingers were black and sticky, and the grease had got under their fingernails. While Baba was introducing himself and the owner was listening absent-mindedly I noticed that there were several scars on his arms. He was keeping an eye on his workers. We had the feeling we were a bother and making him waste his time. His right hand didn't move but the left stroked his white beard; then he looked at his watch.

‘It's nearly lunchtime. Have you eaten?'

‘That's very kind of you, but we don't have much time. We're going …'

‘If you don't take the time to eat you must really be rushed for time. But allow me to insist. You are from Badhari's family
and I can't let you go away with an empty stomach. What's more the workers are about to stop, and we can talk in peace.'

‘Thank you! We accept with great pleasure and thank you for your welcome and for your hospitality.'

Several little dishes were placed on a straw mat right on the ground. Squatting down we all took some vegetables, chicken, sauce and roti. Between mouthfuls Gopal Babu asked Baba, ‘What exactly are you looking for?'

‘We need a little bicycle. We live in Bararola and my daughter needs a bike to get to school.'

‘You're looking for a bike for your daughter or for the whole family?'

‘For the whole family, of course. Who can afford the luxury of having several bikes in one family?'

‘There are some. Believe me, there are some. When I was a boy there weren't many cycles, but as time went on some people got rich, and the bike is still the most affordable way to get around. Your daughter goes to school, you say? That is a very good thing. Me, I fought for my children to be able to have an education worthy of the name and have an easier trade than mine. They are all in the United States and come back to see me every summer. They have their problems, too, but then everybody has problems, right?'

‘Yes, life isn't easy, but it is our destiny to follow the route ordained by the gods.'

‘Without wishing to sound like a blasphemer, I have learned in the course of my modest life that the gods are also open to negotiation. Their judgement is not as final as people
think,' Gopal Babu replied, before bursting out laughing.

Baba didn't react. I smiled and, for fear of being observed, I bowed my head over my plate.

‘What do you do for a living, Kalindi? You're a farmer?'

‘No, I have no land, unfortunately. I roll bidis.'

‘That gets very painful after a while, they tell me …'

‘I'm not complaining! After twenty years it's true that my back hurts, but the advantage is that I have completely stopped smoking.'

‘That's a good thing! And is your daughter doing well at school?'

‘Yes, she spends her time studying, nothing else interests her …'

‘That's good, my girl,' says Gopal, fixing me with his dark eyes. ‘You have to take advantage of these carefree moments to work and think about your future. My children are very glad that I urged them to go to university rather than to work as cycle-rickshaw drivers. I can't help feeling I've seen you before … Have we already met?'

‘I don't think so, Sir, or I would have remembered it.'

‘Wait a minute, you aren't Rekha? The little girl in the newspapers?'

‘Yes, my name is Rekha …'

I felt that my father was uncomfortable at this turn of the conversation.

‘Oh, yes. I remember. You're the little girl who refuses to get married!'

Babu went pale; he thought that this story was buried for good, but it had followed him here.

‘Listen, Karno, daughters like yours are exceptional. I am
delighted to meet you. I don't know what other people say to you, but I want you to know that I am very proud to meet you. You must get a lot of rude remarks, especially in your village, but you will always have my support. Our country needs people like you. I had three sons, but if I had had a daughter I would have given her the same chances as her brothers.'

‘Thank you for your support, Gopal. We're very happy to have a daughter with so much character and personality.'

‘Enough of this chit-chat! Amosh, go to the workshop, take the best bike, service it, lubricate it properly and bring it here when it's ready.' Gopal ordered one of his workers, who hurried off towards the garage.

‘This is very kind of you, Gopal Babu, but I am determined to pay.'

‘I understand. Even if my gesture is not out of charity, I don't want to offend you. Give me what you had in mind in budgeting for the bicycle, and if you have the least problem come back to see me. This bike is “guaranteed”, as all the companies say nowadays who sell fans or mixers,' he said, bursting out again with a deep laugh.

‘Thank you very much! May the gods reward you for your goodness,' Baba stammered while holding out the carefully folded notes.

The owner put them in his pocket without counting them. Amosh returned a few minutes later accompanied by a magnificent black bicycle with a leather saddle, new tyres, a basket on the handlebars and a luggage carrier equipped with a cushion. I was thrilled, although the machine was almost as high as I was, and it looked like I was going to have trouble riding it by myself.

We set off for the village after thanking Gopal Babu at length for lunch and for giving us such a good price on the bike.

We glided along the road, the breeze whipped against my face, the wind blew through my hair. I was sitting sideways on the comfortable luggage carrier. My father pedalled faster and faster under a glorious sun. When we reached the statue of Hanuman we got off the bike so that we wouldn't damage the tyres by riding over sharp stones. When we were on the dirt track again Baba suggested that I pedal the bike. I was impatient to take over the machine, and I pedalled fast, the better to feel the cool wind on my cheeks.

In our excitement we forgot to buy a padlock so the bicycle had to spend the night inside the house.

I have been appointed the head of the class. Atul announces it to the pupils at the end of the school day. If a tricky problem comes up or if we have questions that we prefer to deal with among ourselves the pupils can come to see me. On the way home my friends congratulate me and are curious to know what my training programme was all about. I tell them that we played games while learning a lot of things, that I met people with the same problems that we have even though they live a long way away from our school.

I don't go into the details because I have to call my sister. She is confined to bed with a fever, and her voice on the telephone is weaker than usual. The doctor prescribed her some tablets to lower her temperature. I ask her if she is carrying a new baby in
her belly. She says she's not – at least she doesn't think she's pregnant. Spontaneously I suggest paying for the operation that the doctor has been advising her to have for some months.

The next day I accompany my father to the bank to withdraw the last few thousand rupees that remain in my account. He gets on the bus to the in-law family, and I ride the bike back home. Mr Kundu tells me that he has just organized the first session at which I must speak in public. That's in one week, but I don't mention it to my parents.

After school the headmaster and the deputy minister of labour are waiting for me so that we can go together to the meeting place. When we get there several dozen people are waiting. The meeting is taking place in front of the police station in Jalda, several kilometres from our house.

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.