Strength to Say No (6 page)

‘Do you have a rickshaw available this morning, Gopal Babu?' my brother-in-law asks the proprietor of an important park for bicycle-taxis.

‘I think so, but I won't be able to tell you until about ten o'clock in the morning. I expect some cancellations, but nothing is confirmed at the moment.'

‘I'll stick around. I'm counting on you, Gopal Babu. I have to get work – I have a family to feed.'

‘Everybody has a family to feed, but I have only a hundred and fifty vehicles. Don't worry, I know that you're honest and
you're a good worker. I'm going to find you a place. Don't go away.'

Gopal Babu is an old man with a long white beard that is always carefully trimmed. The whole town of Purulia knows his story. When he was young he got into debt with a local moneylender to buy his own bicycle-taxi so he could go into business for himself. In twenty years Gopal Babu covered tens of thousands of kilometres without ever leaving the town of Purulia or its environs. He never took a day off, not even after the accident with a lorry full of merchandise that cost him the use of one of his arms. The driver of the lorry had driven on without stopping, and some local people found Gopal Babu lying at the side of the road. Ever since then his left arm has been half paralyzed, but the next day Gopal Babu took up his vehicle again and continued to work. He sent his children to school for years. The temptation to employ them was great, but he didn't want one of his sons to suffer what had happened to him. The adolescents grew up and passed their examinations with flying colours and Gopal Babu asked the town authorities to fast-track passports for the boys. Without paying any bribes the old man convinced the communist authorities that they owed him this favour, all the more so because they hadn't done anything at the time of his road accident. That was a clinching argument that the old man had kept up his sleeve to use at the right moment. The boys got their visas and were able to emigrate to the United States. Rather than retire and live off the remittances sent by his children Gopal Babu began to acquire more rickshaws and then hire them out by the day to villagers who didn't have the means to buy a vehicle of their own. As the management of the park became more and more time consuming Gopal Babu stopped driving. At night the
rickshaws are kept in the parking area of the depot where two watchmen guard them until early in the morning.

Every day Badhari presents himself at the meeting place in the depot. When there is no rickshaw he waits in front of the stalls, his stomach hollow; he doesn't even have the means to pay for a cup of tea for himself. When a rickshaw becomes free Badhari can breathe again. He knows that he is going to earn some rupees and that the costs of the day are covered. In a few hours he travels several dozen kilometres. Purulia is too small a town to have efficient public transport and too big for people to get around in on foot. A woman asks to go to the market, a man has to get back to his office, children coming out of school have to be taken home. There is no time to lose. Hardly has one customer got off when you have to take on another; the rickshaw should be empty for the shortest amount of time. The interminable negotiations for a few rupees are the most tiresome; sometimes you have to agree to pedal for next to nothing because the competition is fierce.

The rickshaws swarm like flies in this region of Bengal, especially as the Bengalis who have succeeded in crossing the border between Bangladesh and India work for much less. During the day the bikes go all over the place and don't stop except when they have to.

The other danger is a breakdown or a puncture. But Badhari has great initiative: if the chain breaks he pushes the bike to the destination. If the tyre bursts he repairs it in a few minutes, for the hire is expensive. And at the end of the trip half goes to Gopal Babu and half to the driver. At three o'clock Badhari has to stop working because the return trip to the village is long and absolutely must be done in daylight.

For a month my brother-in-law works an average of two days out of three. The rest of the time he waits for things to get better. Gopal Babu suggests that he work at night to earn more money. Badhari could double his wages if he worked until eight or nine o'clock. By leaving midway through the day he is missing the customers who leave their offices at the end of the afternoon, people who go shopping in the evening or quite simply need to get around the town. There have been times when he didn't hesitate to sleep in a corner of the depot, but since the birth of his son he absolutely must return every evening.

For several days I am with the in-laws, and I miss lessons. I have to return to Bararola, especially as I am anxious to get back to school. My sister packs her things – she is going to spend some days at home so that our parents can also enjoy some time with the baby and see how well he is.

At the entrance to the village Josna stops at the temple of Radha. The few metres of concrete seem to be in a state of neglect. No painting has been done; the work isn't going forward very fast. All the villagers are supposed to contribute to the construction of the temple, but no one really has the means to give even a few rupees. The donations are rare, for stomachs are empty. The funding comes mostly from the Mahatos family, the cousins of the great landowners who have made their fortune in the fresh-water fishing industry. In spite of the state of the temple Josna recites some prayers before coming into the courtyard of the house a few minutes later.

Our brothers and sisters mob Debu. They all want to touch
him and play with him. Baba takes the baby in his arms for a few moments before returning him to Josna. He explains that Ma isn't there but out working in the rice paddies. He himself must go and take the bidis to the dealer and get tobacco and leaves for the coming days. I suggest that he take more of it than usual because Josna and I will be able to help him roll bidis whenever we have the chance to do it. Baba tells me that the teachers have come every day to ask for me. I have to return to school as soon as possible.

I got a scolding from Arjun, the head teacher. Arjun didn't even take the time to park his bike in the courtyard. He asks me to explain why I missed the three previous days. I explain that I had to help my sister who had just had a baby. He doesn't want to know about it. Pupils ought to come to school every day except in the case of illness. I promise to stay after school so that my teacher can help me catch up with the lessons I missed.

At the end of the week our teacher tells us about the rights of children. I am surprised to learn that we have rights and that our parents cannot do what they like with us. According to my way of thinking I belong to my procreators and they can do what they want with me until I am married, after which I should abide by the decisions of my future husband. I am fascinated by the idea that we have the right to decide about our lives and that our parents cannot force us to do what they want. If only my sister had been to school she would have had an easier life! Then we go on to a lesson about hygiene in which Atul explains to us that it is important to cut our fingernails
regularly. Another discovery! I would never have thought that illnesses could be caused by bacteria on our fingers.

Ma looks after Debu's every need. She is happy to see that this child born in the middle of winter is well and reassured to know that Josna is capable of bearing a child, even if her daughter, with scars all over her abdomen, will have trouble coping with a new pregnancy.

She can't take her eyes off him. ‘Fortunately Debu is a boy,' she says.

My father comes into the courtyard with two big plastic sacks. One contains eucalyptus leaves and the other tobacco. He asks me to bring him a bucket of water to soak the leaves. As he puts out his cushion and the tools of his trade I begin the wetting process while telling him what I do in class. I am happy to learn and to discover new things every day. I inform him that dirty fingernails are carriers of disease and that he needs to wash his hands several times a day. He smiles, he who never really knew his mother and has learned everything on the job.

My paternal grandmother, he tells me, died when he was still a child. He remembers her as a woman whose face was marked with pustules who lay for days at a time in a feverish state. She went blind and then the shivers and the hallucinations became more and more frequent. My grandfather had people come who were able to treat her, notably with Ayurvedic methods. It was said that she had to be inoculated with another virus to cure her. I didn't understand what that meant, but that didn't matter because it didn't work. She died a few days later in terrible suffering. My grandfather never wanted to marry again, so Baba was brought up by his father's family: his uncles and aunts and his grandmother. He went to school for only a few years. He knows how to count but not to read. When something has to be written he copies out the characters from memory – most of the time without making the connection
between the letters. As his family owned no land they all worked as agricultural labourers. Around the age of ten Baba learned to roll bidis, and since then that has been his main activity.

The members of our caste marry around the age of ten. I was nine when my parents suggested finding me a husband. I was furious with my mother who talked about it first and enraged with my father who wasn't opposed to the idea. My parents wanted me to find a husband just then because my dowry was the best it could be – more than ten thousand rupees! I protested vigorously about this plan and ran to take refuge at my uncle's a few doors away. My parents came to get me, but I was so angry that I refused to see them and even to sleep at home that night. I was terrified at the idea of having the same experience as my older sister. My uncle agreed that I could spend the night at his house, as I had often done before. He reassured my parents and promised to bring me home the next day. My uncle didn't ask me what we were quarrelling about. I went home the next day. I was convinced that, considering my reaction, my parents would have given up their idea. But for fear of a new confrontation I left immediately for school.

Our teacher teaches us history, English, mathematics and Bengali literature. I am always chosen to sing the national anthem or the prayers. In spite of my mediocre voice the head teacher insists that I be the one who leads the other pupils. I try hard to make sounds come out of my throat, to keep my mind on the words in spite of the fear that is stifling me.

As always on the last day of the week we get to have a half-day of discussion, in the course of which our teachers inform
us about things other than our school subjects. This week it's not about hygiene but about scientific experiments at the museum of natural sciences in Purulia. I don't really like this place – except perhaps the workshop where you have to make mixtures of liquids and identify the smells – but the advantage of these outings is that we are with all the other pupils of the school, and that allows us to meet children who began school at the normal age. Pinky is one of those. She is shy and very reserved; she is slim, her hair is almost blonde and she has big, bright eyes. Her parents are as poor as the other inhabitants of the village. Her father went away several years ago – first to Purulia, where he became a bus driver, and then to Calcutta, where he claimed to have a taxi. For years Pinky's mother regularly received money through intermediaries that the father found in town. He was contacted by an agency that specialized in placements abroad. He left India for a country in the Middle East where he was supposedly recruited as a private chauffeur. After a few months the mother received no further money nor even any news of her husband. The telephone rings without being answered regardless of the time that Pinky's mother calls.