Strength to Say No (2 page)

‘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.

‘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.

‘That's so you don't waste the rest?'

‘Exactly! Sometimes you can make three cigarettes with one leaf. But most often you make two. Then you put just the right amount of tobacco, always with the idea of making it as profitable as possible. The more bidis you make with the same small amount of material the more money you earn.'

Baba takes up a pinch of tobacco, lays the right amount on the eucalyptus leaf then puts the rest back in the basket. The next movement of his fingers seems automatic. In a few seconds my father has rolled the cigarette, circled it with a fine thread, packed down the top and folded the bottom. The cigarettes are arranged in packets of twenty-five at one side of the basket. He takes a second leaf with his right hand while the left grabs some tobacco.

‘Can I do it too?'

My father continues his mechanical movements as he replies, ‘Not now. I have to hurry because in the morning you work best and quickest. When I've finished you can practise. But pay close attention and don't waste the tobacco.'

These last few years Baba's abilities have greatly diminished. Since he is sitting down all day he has pains in his back and cramps that make him stop for several hours. His eyesight is also failing and his productivity suffers because of it. But this work by itself is not enough. To meet our needs when the occasion presents itself Baba goes to make some extra money at demonstrations organized by the communists by warming up the crowd with his drum. At other times he is employed as a porter or day worker in the rice paddies. The work is hard but it pays better.

I spend most of my days in the little courtyard in front of our house. I play jacks with stones and sometimes marbles or hopscotch with my friends and neighbourhood children. I did go to the village school, but when I was four my parents stopped sending me there. I learned to count up to ten, but only in Bengali – English isn't taught until much later. I am afraid I'll never have the chance to learn any more. From then on I help Ma to tidy up and clean our home. I also help her cook, at least when there's any food. It is not unusual for us not to have much to eat. I've got used to eating very little in order to leave more for my younger brothers and sisters or for Baba so that he can work. Lately the situation is very bad. Ma nurses my little brother Swapan, but she is not well. My father can't afford to
send her to a doctor in town. The one in the village is the only one who has listened to her chest, but the medication he provided hasn't changed anything. Ma is always in a bad mood, and her pain is increasingly severe. The only solution is just to wait for it to go away.

We no longer have anything to eat. For several weeks now we have had to make do with one meal a day. My young brothers and sisters have empty bellies and often cry. The conversations between my parents end in arguments. Ma reproaches my father for not bringing in enough money to feed the whole family, forcing him to beg for rice from the neighbours. He is ashamed of it, but it is the only way for his children to have their next meal. The people of the village know our situation and give what they can out of solidarity. We are of the same caste, the same community and the same village.