Strength to Say No (9 page)

‘What should we tell them when they ask us to stop going to school?'

‘You should tell them in the first instance that you do not agree. Haven't your teachers taught you that you have rights, one of which is that you can say no to your parents when they suggest that you abandon your schooling?'

‘Yessss!' the whole room choruses.

‘Very good. You should also remind them that school is mandatory and that to give it up is not an option. If your parents insist you absolutely must talk about it with Atul and Arjun. They can help you, and it's up to them to intervene when such a situation arises.'

I ask, ‘But isn't it self-centred to put our future first? Shouldn't we help our parents?'

‘That's not wrong, but it's not entirely right, either. The Indian government is behind you. The president, the president of Congress and the prime minister are working so that you'll no
longer be faced with this kind of dilemma. You owe respect and obedience to your parents, but only when it's to do with your personal education in the context of the family. I repeat,: school is obligatory for all children – that's what our government says. The prime minister has reiterated it time and again. I know very well that all this seems abstract to you, but it's very real, and your teachers are there for you. I have also come to tell you that we're going to organize a major show at the museum of natural sciences in Purulia. I need two pupils to give a speech about school, what it means to you and whether you think that your life is better since you've been enrolled in it. Who wants to do it?'

Nobody speaks up. People look at Arjun and Atul, as if it were up to them to decide.

‘I would like to speak as long as I don't have to sing,' I say.

‘Everybody has to sing a song, as well as the national anthem. That's not so hard, is it?'

‘If everybody sings, then I'm happy to sing, but I don't want to be the only one.'

‘Fine! One other volunteer, a boy for balance?' says Mr Kundu, replacing the strand of hair on his head.

Once more, no one comes forward. Arjun suggests Rajat, the other good pupil of the class. I would have liked Pinky to volunteer. She is undoubtedly the poorest among us, with an absent father, and would be in a good position to explain why she continues to go to school while her family survives only thanks to the help of her uncle.

Back at home my mother is still furious with me. I hurry straight to my father and offer to help him. He has been in a
rush these past few days because he hasn't rolled enough cigarettes. The dealer is impatient because he can't manage to fill his orders. He threatens to reduce Baba's quota. The two of us go faster. The hand movements have become so automatic that I even have time to tell him about the visit of the deputy minister and that I am going to make a speech in front of the other children of the region at the museum of natural sciences. He is proud of me and says not to worry about my future. I know that in his mind that means that my dowry will be less important the more educated I am, but I'm relieved at his words. I double my speed, and some hours later Baba takes the bidis to the wholesaler.

He comes back with a new load of tobacco, some leaves and strings and some banknotes in his pocket. On his way home he stopped at the little local market where he bought some rice, some wheat, a small container of oil and some vegetables. There have been times during these last few days when we had nothing but rice water for a meal. Ma puts the rice into a cooking pot before filling it with water. The
panta bhat –
a dish of left-over rice – keeps for a long time, resists the heat and is said to have properties to withstand high temperatures. The cooking water is always carefully saved.

My mother weaves bamboo baskets – as did the first inhabitants of Bararola. It is not very profitable, but it gives us a supplementary income and something to buy eggs with, especially for the youngest children. My big brother, Dipak, makes trips into town to find a job that pays more than working in the rice paddies.

We climb on to the bus for Purulia. The teachers warn us that no one is to get off before we reach the terminus. They hand the tickets subsidized by the State of Bengal to the driver, who mutters about this army of children that he doesn't get much for even though they fill the whole bus. In Purulia we walk a few hundred metres past dozens of stalls with appetizing dishes arranged in a geometric form.

Inside the museum there are several hundred of us. Most are pupils of the region and all are taking part in the cultural programme. In all, ninety schools are gathered together. Some have prepared performances of traditional dance, others are organizing reading or theatre workshops. One of the groups has come accompanied by a … python! It has to be measured with a measuring tape. I keep my distance from this animal that frightens me as much as it attracts me. My classmate Ashok is thrilled to bits. He throws himself on the reptile and strokes it as though it were an affectionate kitten. It is 1.95 metres long; the teachers ask us to convert the measurement into yards. Further away you have to smell some spices and foods in identical pots without labels. I am more comfortable with conversions of measurements than with smells.

Mr Kundu is there; he goes from workshop to workshop, joking with the pupils, encouraging those who are struggling to read the inscriptions in English and introducing the pupils to each other.

At the end of the morning we are all called into the big conference room. The deputy minister of labour announces the programme: there will be songs, dances and speeches. I'm scared to death at the idea of getting up on the platform and speaking in front of so many people. The first pupil climbs up, introduces
himself and then launches into a poem in Bengali. The applause is richly deserved. Then my turn comes. I have a lump in my throat from stage fright. Mr Kundu says some encouraging words to me. I recite the verse perfectly. My voice is clear, the pupils applaud and I run back to my seat. My teacher congratulates me discreetly.

A few minutes later Mr Kundu asks me to come to speak at the rostrum. In front of the microphone my fear disappears. I introduce myself and say what I did before I enrolled in school. I talked about everything in detail – the work in the rice paddies, how I learned to roll bidis in order to help my father, that the plan was for me to go to the brick factory like my sister and her husband's family. I also told them how I was happy at school, that the work there was not only easier but also more fruitful, because I feel sure that with the knowledge that I acquire there I will be able to earn more money than the rest of my family and give them a better life in the future.

I am getting carried away, and I begin to describe the proposals of marriage that my parents made to me as well as my refusal to obey. Am I right not to listen to my parents? I reply before anyone can interrupt me. Yes, because they do not realize that they are putting my future at risk. Am I against marriage? No, but it is too early for me to get married to anybody, no matter who he is. I have witnessed the distress of my sister, who didn't even know that she was pregnant only a few months after her arranged marriage. I saw her give painful birth to four babies who all died. I didn't want to go through all that myself. I say what I have felt all during these last years, motivated by the feeling that I am right to refuse my parents' offers. I have no idea how much time has passed since the beginning of my talk.
Half an hour, perhaps an hour? Every time I tackle a point, a new idea comes to mind.

At the end of my speech, the pupils applaud warmly for many minutes. I blush and I am staggered by their reaction. I go back to my place, but the kids get up and come to shake my hand; the girls give me a hug. I would never have thought that they would agree with me. I was expecting to be booed and treated like a bad girl. Mr Kundu tries to clear some space around me. He asks the kids to go back to their seats. He goes up on the platform, replaces the strand of hair and congratulates me at length for this speech.

‘What Rekha Kalindi is going through many of you are also experiencing. When a situation like this arises you should not hesitate to talk about it with your teachers. They have answers and can help you.'

After the speech a dozen journalists come up to see me. They ask me for further details about my story; they ask if what I said really happened as I described it. Several cameras are placed in a semicircle around me. The microphones are held out in my direction, and I repeat what I said on the stage. Arjun, Atul and Mr Kundu come one by one to congratulate me. The deputy minister tells me that we are going to see each other again very soon. I think of my parents' reaction when they find out that I have put our lives on display in front of all these people …

I go back into the house quietly and go to the courtyard to be by myself, alone with my exercise books. Ma snatches the slate from my hands and orders me to go fetch some wood to use in
preparing the meal. I comply with her orders without arguing. That doesn't do any good when she's in this state.

‘I'm on to your game, you little hussy!'

‘What game? What are you talking about?'

‘I've heard what the kids in the village are saying about you. In front of us you refuse our marriage offers, but behind our backs you go with boys!'

‘I don't go with anybody! Who told you that? You shouldn't believe those brats!'

‘Oh no? And why should I believe you? Because you're so sincere and perfectly behaved, perhaps? I'm going to speak to your father, and you'll marry the boy who's chosen for you, whether you like it or not!'

‘I'm not marrying anybody. Leave me alone, you old witch!'

The words are hardly out of my mouth when my cheek is red from the slap. My mother takes me by the hair and continues to hit me. I try to get away, but she holds me tight with one hand while the other grabs a stick. I cry and I shout, but nobody comes to intervene. After several minutes she stops. I remain lying on the floor, shaking from fear that she might start hitting me again.

The wind was dry and cold. I heard the village children in the distance playing with a ball or trying to ride bicycles. Their carefree attitude contrasted with my state of mind. I daubed a little water on my bruises, but that didn't make any difference to the pain. I rummaged in Baba's things and found a little pot of camphor cream. I gathered my scattered exercise books and sat huddled up in a corner of the room. My finger followed the letters, and I read in silence for fear that I would be discovered.

My big brother Dipak came home sooner than expected. Since he stopped going to school, he has been running a little cardamom-tea shop not far from the statue of Hanuman beside the national road. He understands immediately that I have been hit.

‘Ma?'

I nod without saying anything. He puts down his two big kettles and the rest of his equipment before leaving the room, annoyed at not being in a position to reason with our parents about my projected marriage.