Strength to Say No

by Kalindi, Rekha; Ennaimi, Mouhssine

  After the class I had no wish to go back home, where remonstrations very probably awaited me. I went off to Afsana’s and we played the tag game of kho kho until my little brother came to get me.

  The telephone rings inside the house, and Ma hands it to me. it’s my cousin Sathya, the daughter of my paternal aunt, and she wants to speak to me. She is about the same age as my big sister, and we understand each other particularly well. I’ve sometimes spent several days at my aunt’s in her little hamlet, which is an hour from us by bus. The whole family makes rattan furniture, and the men then sell it at the market. Sathya tells me that her cousin would very much like to come with his parents to meet me. I am astonished by this request. If she wants to come to pay us a visit, she knows very well that she’s welcome.

  ‘Why are you talking to me about your cousin?’

  ‘He would like to marry you. We’ve learned that your parents want you to marry, and he is interested.’

  I reply that she must have misunderstood because I do not intend to get married. It’s not worth the trip because my answer will be identical even if he is standing in front of me. I will not change my mind. I ring off and hand the telephone back to my mother. I don’t say a word. She has obviously heard everything.

  I understood that my parents had the firm intention of getting me married, most likely before the next winter. Ma is too busy nursing my brother Tapan to work in the rice paddies any more. Baba no longer manages to earn enough money. The price of food is going up, and we have to drink the water that rice was boiled in. It is becoming more and more difficult to go on like this. Are my parents right? Must I ease out of the family environment and leave room for my younger brothers and sisters? I feel guilty that I was ever born.

  On Friday Arjun drops in on each of the classes. He asks the teachers if anyone is missing. Some pupils are absent; but not to worry – Arjun gets on his bike and visits each of the families with a truant child.

  We are repeating words in English that Atul has written on the blackboard. With the help of a pointer he indicates the verbs that we have to say out loud. The lesson is finished. Atul asks us to stay quietly seated while he goes to get the headmaster.

  Arjun thanks us for being there and tells us that we are advancing spectacularly and that we must persist in our efforts so that we will have a good enough standard when we join the upper classes. He is smiling and less abrupt than when he teaches our class.

  ‘Do you know what you ought to do once a day?’ Arjun asks the class at large.

  ‘Wash our hands!’ we all chorus.

  ‘Very good. And what should you do at least once a week?’

  ‘Cut our fingernails!’

  ‘Very good. Today I am going to talk to you about pregnant girls. Do you know what “pregnant” means?’

  ‘That means that the girl is going to have a baby,’ replies Budhimuni, one of my ex-friends. I’ve been angry with her these last few weeks.

  ‘Very good. Do you know how to tell if someone is pregnant?’

  Silence. Nobody knows. Arjun rephrases the question. ‘Do you know what the symptoms of pregnancy are?’

  ‘You have a fever and you throw up.’

  ‘Very good, Rekha. Any other symptoms?’

  ‘The breasts get bigger because there is milk in them and the belly gets bigger as the baby grows.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The childbirth is very painful and sometimes it happens that the baby is born dead. Or it lives for only a few weeks because it is very weak. Making a baby doesn’t work every time. That’s why couples begin again. Sometimes the mother can lose her life while giving life.’

  ‘That’s right again, Rekha,’ says Arjun, visibly surprised that I know so much about the subject. ‘But if the pregnancies are difficult it is also because the mothers are too young to give birth to a child. That is the subject of this discussion. A woman can have as many children as she wants on the condition that her body is ready. If she is too young, she can die.’

  Other pupils speak up and ask questions. I know most of the answers since I’ve seen my older sister’s unfortunate pregnancies. At the end of the lesson Arjun thanks us for attending this educational discussion. We put our things away and say goodbye to our teachers. I am going towards the exit when Arjun asks me to stay behind for a few minutes.

  6

  SPEECH

  No pupil has ever entered this room before. The double doors are fastened by a latch and two big padlocks. Arjun looks among his big bunch of keys for the right one. He slips off his sandals with an automatic movement, and I do the same. The concrete floor is cool. A few shafts of sunlight penetrate through a little window covered by a screen with flaking paint. A bulb is suspended from the ceiling by a long cord that comes down almost to the level of a little wooden table. A fan moves the air.

  The headmaster looks serious. He pushes a few sheets of paper to the side of the desk and sits down on the plastic chair. I remain standing, my eyes lowered, waiting for Arjun to speak to me. He is very strict, and all the pupils are afraid of him, especially me. He takes his mobile phone out of his pocket and switches it off. I wait for punishment or a serious telling-off about my behaviour towards Saraswati – I had a fight with her a few days ago. I know in advance that he will pay no attention to my arguments and that he’ll never understand that she has turned my friends against me.

  ‘Where did you learn all that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those symptoms of pregnancy, the side-effects?’ he asks me in an unusual tone of voice, both gentle and warm.

  ‘I noticed it by myself.’

  ‘Have you already been pregnant?’

  ‘No, sir, it wasn’t me I was talking about but my big sister.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She threw up a lot. I thought she was ill, and when I asked my parents to take her to the doctor they said that it was normal …’

  ‘She was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes, but at the time I didn’t know that. Her belly wasn’t round – it was just like usual.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Her pains became more and more frequent. She didn’t eat normally, she was in a bad mood, she often complained, sometimes even about me although we have always been very close. At night she hardly slept at all. I would see her pacing around in the yard or in the room. The owner of the brick factory called her back because there was a lot of business, but she didn’t want to go because the work conditions and the life there were very difficult. The workers slept in sheet-metal huts without water and without electricity. My mother urged her to accept because the pay was significant and could turn out to be crucial in the coming months. I didn’t understand at that time what she meant, but now I know that she was talking about the future birth.’

  ‘Sit down, Rekha,’ Arjun says softly, placing a wooden chair in front of his desk.

  I sat down while keeping my schoolbag hugged to my chest. I would never have thought that the headmaster of my school, under his authoritarian and brusque demeanour, was capable of listening to and showing kindness to his pupils.

  ‘She went there – she took the bus that goes along the national road. My mother prepared two hard-boiled eggs for her and a little rice in a plastic bag. For several weeks we received no further news of her, but that was the way it always was when she went to the factory. In the middle of the day the owner phoned and asked to speak to my parents. My mother cried while Baba’s face became more and more blank. He put down his cigarettes and his tobacco basket and took the phone from my mother’s hands. I heard him say that he would come to get his daughter at once. Late in the evening when they came home, my sister was pale, feverish and her belly had swollen up. She didn’t say anything. My mother took her in her arms before carefully laying her down inside the house. She reassured me and told me that my sister was pregnant and that her condition was normal. I didn’t have to be worried.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ asked t
he headmaster, hanging on my words.

  ‘She had fainted. The workers brought her round by throwing buckets of water on her face. The boss panicked – he thought that she was dead and imagined himself already accused of causing her death. He gave her the equivalent of a month’s wages in cash on the condition that she cleared off.’

  ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  ‘I asked my parents to send her to a doctor. I was convinced that my sister was dying and was going to go any minute. Her eyes were glassy and she was trembling. She seemed out like a candle when you’ve blown on the wick. I had never seen her like that. She is always smiling, always in a good mood; we have always understood each other very well. This time I had the impression that she didn’t even recognize me, that I was just another stranger among others. The village doctor came to see her late in the afternoon. He just recommended she rest and not do anything but stay in bed all day. Her belly became rounder as time went on. In spite of her pains she was delivered of a little boy.’ I decide to leave out the miscarriages and the deaths of the babies she’d had before that one.

  ‘This labour went all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It lasted for a long time. It was in the winter, and it was cold. There were a lot of people with my sister trying to sooth her during the pains, and she gave birth to a fine little boy. She is very well now.’

  ‘And the baby is well, too?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We were very afraid that he wouldn’t make it, but it was OK. He is fine, and he’s been eating solid food for a little while now.’

  ‘And you? Your parents take good care of you? Have they tried to marry you off, for example?’

  ‘No, no one has ever forced me to do anything at all. Everything is fine. I help my mother with the housework, and when I can I give my father a hand so that he can make more cigarettes. He is paid according to the number he makes, you know.’

  I don’t want to tell him about the different marriage offers.

  ‘Very good. Thank you, Rekha. You can go now,’ Arjun says, getting absorbed in his papers.

  I didn’t dare believe that he hadn’t mentioned the quarrel with Saraswati! She had really annoyed me by telling all my friends that if I didn’t want to be married it was because I had a boyfriend I was seeing on the sly. It’s obviously false, but all the kids in the village have fallen for it. In spite of my denials I am seen by certain people as a girl without virtue.

  Budhimuni, my neighbour and friend from infancy who understood the reason for my refusal, advised me not to give in to my parents’ propositions. That was mainly because if I had agreed and consequently had to give up school she would have been obliged to quit, too.

  Whatever her motives, Budhimuni takes my side while that pest Saraswati spreads false rumours. I had no other choice than to slap her in front of everybody to show that I disapprove of this kind of talk that tarnishes not only my reputation but also that of my parents. If I had done nothing I would have been shunned immediately, and my family might have believed her lies. Atul separated us, but if Arjun didn’t refer to it it must be because my teacher didn’t tell him about it. His support encourages me to work still harder and be the best pupil in the class. I must get into the regular class as soon as possible.

  Baba has cramps in his hands. He can’t move his fingers any more. I put away my exercise books and I grab the tobacco basket. I roll a few hundred cigarettes. That isn’t enough, and we are far from the thousand bidis per day that we have to do. My mother prepares a little rice with curry powder for dinner, which is the only real meal of the day. The next morning for breakfast we drink the water the rice was boiled in. It is bitter because Ma left it on the fire for too long the day before. I leave for school, my stomach rumbling from the effect of that foul drink.

  At the end of the morning we receive a visit from the deputy minister of labour of the state of Bengal. Atul told us about it a few minutes beforehand. He is an important person, and we must make the best possible impression both of ourselves and of the school. Those people help us every day by defending our rights in public institutions. I feel a little weak, and I’m dizzy. I have eaten nothing solid since a few balls of rice last evening.

  Mr Kundu looks like a politician. He has hardly any hair on top of his head – just one long strand remains, which he carefully replaces when it falls over his face. He is very informal, and in a few minutes he has broken the ice with his stories, which reveal that he, too, began school late. He was proof that a person could succeed in spite of an education that was outside the conventional pattern.

  ‘I come from a distant region but one where the customs are similar to the ones here. I had to interrupt my schooling to go to work. Fortunately, because I am a boy my parents let me make my own decisions. For some years I combined school and work. And I have to tell you that you, too, you never have to sacrifice your education for paid work.’

  ‘But what about when our parents don’t earn enough?’ I asked, calling out my question in a clumsy way, too direct and not respectful enough. The pupils turn around to look at me. The headmaster, a bit embarrassed, tries to make up for my clumsiness.

  ‘Rekha, stand up and ask the question that you want to ask Mr Kundu. I am sure that he can provide you with an answer, isn’t that right, sir?’

  ‘She’s right! The problem is that the parents don’t earn enough, and that has consequences for your lives. They need to decide what they really want: to have you earn a few rupees so that the family is better off now or to invest in your future so that your children won’t have to make this kind of choice? I am happy that you’ve raised this point. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Rekha. Rekha Kalindi, sir. I am the daughter of Karno Kalindi, who rolls cigarettes all day long, but that’s not enough to feed us all.’

  ‘Rekha, in our programme we essentially target poor families because they are in economic distress that forces them to make their children go out to work. But this is not the right solution; it’s a short-term vision and Mr Arjun’s teaching team is here to help you.’

  ‘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.