Strength to Say No (11 page)

At home I tried to redeem myself by bringing in some extra income to supplement my father's. I worked all day without a break. In the evening, at dinnertime, my mother forbade me to enter the house. I stretched out under the little window where I shivered with the cold. Dipak discreetly brought me a small portion of rice, which I devoured in a few seconds. I waited until everyone was asleep to sneak indoors without making any noise.

I was woken up by kicks, blows with a stick and insults from my mother.

‘Get out of here, you little bitch! Who told you you could sleep inside? Clear off! You worthless brat! You dishonour your whole family, but you still want to take advantage of its generosity and its hospitality. Who fed you from her own breast when you were only an infant? You want to make decisions by yourself, eh? In that case, you will never sleep under our roof again!'

I ran out of the house, shielding my head from a possible blow from a bamboo stick. Once I got to the well I stopped, out
of breath. I poured some water over my head. My hand was injured, and the least movement of my wrist was terribly painful.

This treatment went on for several weeks, and if I succeeded in coping with this domestic violence it was above all because my father's attitude had softened. He regularly had me sent some little helpings of food when my mother wasn't around. Dipak brought me a straw mattress and a little blanket so that I wouldn't die of the cold when I spent the night out of doors. Sometimes I thought that it would be better if I went to live for a while with my sister to escape the hell that my mother was making me live in, but I had to forget about that because it was quite possible that her in-laws would throw me out even before I got to the doorstep.

I recognize the voice of my teacher Atul. He is asking why I haven't come to school for weeks. My mother answers him in a friendly tone of voice and says that I am with my elder sister and that for economic reasons I had to take a job in that district. Atul insists that I must return to school as soon as possible. Many concepts have been dealt with in the course of these last weeks that I absolutely must catch up with before it is too late. My mother answers, still in a friendly tone of voice, that she will pass the message on to me as soon as we speak on the phone or when she goes to Sampur, adding that I really don't wish to go on with my schooling any more. She is lying through her teeth. I don't know how long I can keep resisting this pressure
and coping with this situation. I know that everything would go back to normal if only I would accept the marriage proposition.

Back in the courtyard I see my mother with a stick. I push the tobacco basket away and try to escape, but it's too late. She slaps me and the cigarettes go flying in all directions. I rub my jaw as I gather up the leaves. She grabs me by the arm, drags me inside the house and closes the door.

It was damp. The sky was overcast, and a storm was on its way. In the distance I could already hear the rumbling of thunder. My body and my stomach understood that they had to be satisfied with a few balls of rice per day. My legs were covered with bruises, my face was puffy and I had a backache from rolling bidis from dawn to dusk. However, these discomforts and the treatment inflicted by my mother seemed to be relatively less dramatic than what my sister had endured.

I set myself up in a small space on the dried-mud terrace running out from our house. The last few nights had been especially chilly; winter was coming. I asked Dipak to get me a sheet to cover myself in the evening. At every moment of the day I kept looking around for fear that my mother would suddenly appear. Her insults and bullying always led to slaps or blows with a stick. Her anger seemed permanent and sometimes plunged her into an alarming state. I had the impression that my decision terrified her. Unlike Ma the village neighbours had moved on to other things and even though they all still had their various opinions about it my speech was now ancient history.

The arguments inside the house got worse. Dipak was angry with Ma and reproached her for her behaviour the day before when I repeated my wish not to be married. Baba intervened and also defended me. Ma didn't want to hear about it. As long as she lived her children would submit to the rules, which had proved
to be well founded. She accused them of being ‘cowardly', of being ‘irresponsible', of ‘letting me play and waste my time at school when we have nothing to eat'. My brother pointed out to her that Josna had nearly died four times because of these out dated rules. Voices were raised, the tone became heated. Dipak announced that he was going to leave the village to try his luck in a big city – Calcutta or Bangalore. His mind was made up; he didn't want to stay in this backwater any more where there wasn't enough work.

I talked regularly to my sister on the phone, but always secretly. She had, of course, learned that I was opposed to marriage, that I had exposed our life for all to see and that since then our mother has been treating me like an animal. She took in my news, asked if the situation in the house had improved; I replied in the negative, and I apologized for mentioning her difficult pregnancies in public. She advised me not to give in to the marriage propositions, even though she was probably more afraid of our mother than I was. She envied my courage, the courage that she hadn't had when the same situation had occurred some years before. She regretted that she couldn't have any more children since her reproductive organs were so damaged. The doctor advised her to have a new operation to avoid the risk of infection in the future. Neither she nor her husband had the means to pay for the surgery just then. Her husband still didn't earn very much. I was sorry for her, for him and for their child. I asked for news about little Debu. I missed him terribly. Josna advised me just to grin and bear it and avoid any new confrontation with Ma until the tension went back down and stayed down. I could hardly believe that that was ever going to happen.

I hung up, put the telephone back in its cloth case, then put it back where it belonged among Baba's things. Then I crept into the courtyard where I had left the materials for rolling the bidis.

All three of them have come: the teacher, the headmaster of the school and the deputy minister of labour. They want to speak to my parents. The situation has gone on for too long, and some pupils have reported the bad treatment that I suffer at home. I am afraid of a new bout of anger from my mother because I'll get the worst of it as soon as they're gone. They sit down on a bed of woven rope. Baba is ashamed of receiving them without even being able to serve them a cup of
chai
. That's the reason that we receive almost no one at home. The only thing my family can offer visitors is a glass of water. Ma, who nevertheless wants to make a good impression, asks the merchant over the road to bring us some tea. She pays him with a crumpled note that she had stowed away in her bosom under her sari.

The tone of the conversation is calm and restrained, but I can't make out what they're saying. I slip into an alleyway, circle around behind the house and squeeze up against our neighbours' hut. The teacher and the headmaster say hardly anything; it's essentially the deputy minister who converses with my parents, while they sit quietly listening to him.

‘You must let your daughter come back to school. It's very important for her …'

‘It's out of the question,' Ma answers sharply. ‘She has humiliated us in front of the whole village. She is the only girl to oppose marriage, all the neighbours – everyone around us –
thinks we are parents who are incapable of exercising authority over their children, even when it is a girl …'

‘The news in the papers comes and goes. You mustn't worry about it, it is going to settle down, and in a few weeks everyone will have forgotten this story …'

‘Where does she get these ideas? No other Kalindi is this stubborn and obstinate!'

‘Your daughter is very gifted, and neither Atul, her teacher, nor Arjun, her headmaster, will contradict me. Isn't that right?'

Atul suddenly sits up, as though taken by surprise in his thoughts; he puts down the glass of tea and strokes his fine moustache to clear away the traces of liquid.

‘She is an excellent pupil. She understands much more quickly than her classmates, and she is conscientious. Her homework is always done, she often recites in class and, even if she has a tendency to act up at times, her progress is very encouraging. It is really a pity to prevent her from continuing her schooling. Children with this temperament are rare.'

‘The syllabus that she is following is meant for children who have begun school late. They are supposed to do the programme in four years, but I can assure you that for your daughter it will be shorter,' the headmaster confirms. He takes off his glasses and adds, ‘She is very mature; she evidently has much wider experience than her other schoolmates.'

‘That's because we have taught her to work very young,' Ma says quickly. ‘She began in the rice paddies, but she also knows how to roll cigarettes almost as well as her father, and from the earliest age she has helped me do housework and look after her brothers and sisters. She will be a perfect wife, especially at this age when girls are most in demand.'

‘That's all very well, but it is a very short-term view. Every day at the Ministry of Labour we have thousands of children who give up school to help their parents. Hundreds of children are married without their consent and in our experience all of them without exception give up school. And again I'm only talking about reported cases, the ones that have come to our attention. The reality is much worse.'

Baba seemed reassured to know that our situation and our poverty were not exceptional cases, at least much less so than he thought. No one really likes to admit that he scrapes along in very precarious conditions.

‘Your daughter has outstanding potential. She speaks well. I have seen her give a speech in front of hundreds of people without having stage fright, and the reactions were excellent. There are very few children capable of doing that without having had a lengthy preparation beforehand. You should not treat her as you are doing …'

Baba listened conscientiously to the three officials. He was proud that these important people were talking about his daughter in these terms.

‘Furthermore,' continued Mr Kundu, ‘the treatment that you're inflicting on her is against the law, as you well know. And there's a very good chance that the village
panchayat
will turn against you.'

‘The
panchayat
has never prevented anyone from getting married, as far as I know. Look at all our neighbours. They do the same thing; there is nothing wrong with that. And then your speeches are very fine, but the fact is that in the end I still have nothing to put on the children's plates,' Ma exclaims.

‘And that's the reason that you refuse to feed her and that you hit her?' the headmaster replies drily.

‘We take care of our daughter the same as we do our other children,' my mother retorts.