India’s child crusader REKHA KAlINDI is counted among the likes of Anne Frank and Malala Yousafzai. In her memoir, she mentions the speech that brought her into public eye. Excerpt:
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.’ 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.
I continue, ‘But let me tell you what happened to my older sister. For five years she tried to have a baby. Every time she gave birth she nearly died. Her cries, her pains, were heart-rending. She escaped death several times but not the sorrow of losing four babies. My sister did not choose to marry, but my parents chose for her. They decided that she was mature enough to be married and young enough for the dowry to be minimal. I am not criticising my parents. They do their best every day to put a bit of rice on our plates. On the other hand, I do not agree with their forcing me to quit school and marry a stranger older than I am just to have one fewer mouth to feed. But today I am here to tell you that it is possible to refuse a marriage if you don’t want it. It is possible to find another way that allows you to go to school so that you can really help your parents, have a life less hard than theirs and give your children better living conditions than the ones you had. It is an ambitious vision that is within the reach of each of you. Thank you for listening to me.’
I had hardly finished my last sentence when the crowd began to applaud, mainly the young people in the first row. Mr Kundu took the floor again and reminded everyone that the law forbids boys to marry before the age of 21 and girls before 18.
I went back down from the platform, happy to have expressed myself in front of all these people, proud of having shared my story, delighted at the idea that it could inspire other people in the same situation.
At the end of the meeting, several pupils came up to confide their problems to me. Dipali was 12, and although her parents wanted to keep sending her to school she was being forced to marry a man of about 20 because her grandfather absolutely had to see her married before he died. I advised her to ask her grandfather if he preferred to go first or to attend the funeral of his granddaughter because of a pregnancy that turned out to be fatal at her young age. The case of Bina, aged 13, was very similar to mine. I could only encourage her to follow my example by wishing her great determination and fewer problems than those that I have had with my mother. I added that sooner or later the parents, who know they are in the wrong, realise they have no choice but to throw in the towel.
Some mothers said they envied the courage they failed to have some years before; others were moved and promised to stand up to their husbands who were considering giving their daughter away although she was still too young to become a wife.
The next meeting takes place in front of a hospital also situated several kilometres from the village. There are hardly any children. Once again I have butterflies in my stomach before getting up on the platform and facing dozens of adults. I adapt my speech by saying this time that since I refused the marriage proposed by my parents my dowry is very small. less than Rs1,500, while some time ago my parents would have had to pay out more than Rs5,000. I don’t spare any detail of my older sister’s miscarriages. Some women seem touched by these events, as if they themselves had experienced them and then suppressed the memory before they surfaced again with my speech. They are the ones that I particularly address, the mothers, for although they almost never have the power to make decisions, they exert a great influence on their husbands.
I encourage them to listen to their daughters rather than to punish them or to bully them. I mention my painful confrontation with Ma, who is now sorry and recognises that she was wrong. I urge these mothers not to repeat the same error as the one committed by my mother. I speak for a little over 10 minutes. The message seems to get through, judging by the reaction of the crowd. The deputy minister straightens his unruly hair before concluding and thanking the audience.
The public meetings multiplied without my really realising it. I had to do about 15 of them in all. The deputy minister insisted on making an evaluation after each speech. He corrected me, especially when I talked for too long. He reminded me of the points that we dealt with during the training programme.
He also noted the positive elements in my speech; he stressed the pertinence of my examples and the very positive reactions of the audience. Each interview I gave made me more credible and emphasised the depth of my message. A journalist from the Hindustan Times questioned me for several minutes. She was interested in the smallest details and had me repeat the answers so that she could be sure she understood everything. The pages of her notebook became blacker the longer we talked. I told her the whole truth and she seemed to believe me. The photographer took shot after shot.
When I ask to see them, he showed me ones where the journalist and I appear sitting on the steps of my house, then some others where I am alone or in close-up. He asks me to roll somebidis since that’s my usual work. I take the basket and the leaves, and in the space of a few minutes I show the camera 25 perfectly rolled cigarettes.
My parents are also interviewed, first separately and then together. Even the neighbours come in for a few questions. The reporter takes my mobile, enters her number and asks me to call her if I need anything at all. I thank her politely. I can’t begin to suspect that when it appears her article will be read by practically everybody in India, including the President.
Excerpted with permission from the book The Strength to Say No by Rekha Kalindi and Mouhssine Ennaimi, Penguin Books India, Rs299