The story of a victim, abused over and over again

(as told to R Akhileshwari)

Ours was a big joint family in a big house that had several men and women servants. Relatives seemed to be coming and going all the time. Visitors would drop in.

          Cousins would come for holidays and their friends would be welcome even when not accompanied by cousins. The elders were not bothered about the children. My mother was busy in the kitchen, father was busy with his business and we children were basically free to do what we wanted after returning from school and during holidays.

          I was introduced to sex quite early, may be when I was six or seven years. I don’t remember the first time though and who did it to me. I do remember the many places in the house that were not frequented and this is where a servant would take me and he would play a game during which I would be on top…one day I got angry because he did urine on me…it was all sticky and I was so angry I did not play with him again.

          Then there was a cousin who used to live in our house. One day he took me to the garden and asked me to sit on him and said let’s see who has more strength, you push and I will push. I told him no, silly, this game is not played like this. You should sit on me. From then onwards, we would regularly go to garden, and play the game.

          Then there was this relative who was a regular in our house. Why he would come I don’t know. He would give me gifts and take me out for walks. I would get tired and sleep off in his room. Once or twice I woke up to find him sucking my lips. I think he was trying out kissing.

          A friend of my father would always make a point of bringing me a chocolate. I was about 9 to 10 around that time. He would give me the chocolate take me close to him and put a hand round my shoulders and then…feel and pinch my breast. I did not know how to refuse the chocolate but I never ate it. I threw it away because I knew he was not good. Why didn’t I tell my parents? Or anybody? I knew all these things were bad but I did not know I should tell anyone. I was also scared. My mother had no time for us. She would only beat us…

          She was always criticizing me so I was afraid to tell her such bad things. My father was okay but we, especially girls had very little interaction with him and the question of confiding in him never even came to my mind. Maybe my sisters too were similarly abused. I wonder if we have the courage to speak about them even now, when we all are grandparents.

(Published in Sunday Herald, the weekly magazine section of Deccan Herald)

Balamma, my love

Balamma was an integral part of our life as far as I remember. She had been employed in our house seven years before I was born to take care of a newborn as my mother had contracted small pox and it was believed she might not survive.

Balamma stayed on to see the birth of five more of us.

When our father decided to move us to Hyderabad from our home town for a “convent education,” Balamma was put in charge of four of us. She was our cook-cum-caretaker and her word was law. As children she terrified us with her imperious and uncompromising authority. When we turned teenagers she was indulgent, and as we stood on threshold of adulthood she resented our new-found independence.

       Balamma must have been as old as our mother, but as far as I can remember she was always toothless. She did not have a single tooth and till this day I don’t know how she lost them!

       We called her “old woman” whenever we were angry with her and she resented it no end. She took care of us for so long that we never knew what it was to be without her. Balamma, I realize now, was one of the greatest influences on me.

       She got us addicted to tea and made us hate cabbage and French beans because she cooked no other vegetable as they were her favourites. She had a huge repertoire of rustic, wise, witty, pithy sayings for every situation in a day. I now use them unashamedly to impress people. Interestingly, enough, she never used an abuse word.

       Balamma’s poverty, the tales of deprivation of her family, her saving and scrounging of every paisa that she would faithfully send to her daughter and her seven children, all left a deep impact on my tender mind. She became my friend during my late teens when she accepted me as an equal. Later on, it was cemented when I was the only one left behind as other siblings either found their calling, or had married and left home. She was protective like a mother hen of her brood. She would hover around whenever guys dropped in for a chat, giving enough evidence of her presence just in case they harboured unholy thoughts!

       If girls came over she would spoil them no end, feeding them, chatting them up despite being a woman of few words. If I was late in returning from college she would keep a vigil at the gate and tell anyone who cared to ask why, that I was late. She would remain at her post till I appeared in the lane, and would go in once assured that I was safe and sound. She rarely went to any neighbour’s house. She never gossiped though she was alone for most of the day. I suspect she avoided the other maids’ company as she felt superior.

       Our special relationship was cemented by several things. I would readily go to buy vegetables or milk in the morning to save her the effort. I would write letters for her to her family in the village. I knew the names of all her grandchildren and even motivated her to send the younger ones to school. She loved Telugu film songs and the Sunday afternoon’s Telugu film that was played on the radio, then our only source of entertainment at home. I would invariably tune in to her favourite programmes and we even saw several films together. Balamma spent part of her earnings on only two things: Telugu films and her day’s quota of paan and betel nut. Her affair with movies began when first the silent cinema and later the talkies were brought to Nizamabad, my home town, by my entrepreneur-father. Balamma would go for the night show stealthily so that my grandfather, who ruled the household with a stick, would not get to know of it. But, he had several spies in his employ and he knew exactly how many films Balamma saw, which was every single one that was released in the single tent-cinema in the town. He was so disapproving of her ‘profligacy’ that he berated her, saying she would even sell her clothes to indulge herself, a prediction that, fortunately, did not come true.

       Balamma’s favourite film was “Keelu Gurram” a fantasy film in Telugu about a magical horse. Balamma saw this movie a dozen times and could reproduce the story, frame by frame! Whenever Noor Jehan’s songs from ‘Badi Bahen’ were played on Radio Ceylon’s old Hindi favourites programme, she would stop her work and listen for a while and invariably, return to her task at hand, scolding the Singing Queen of yore. Balamma never forgave Noor Jehan for migrating to Pakistan!

       Not always was our relationship so special. As a child I remember her bullying and terrorizing us. Even her visiting grandson also, older to me by a few years, having quickly gauged the situation, would bully us. We later discovered that Balamma terrorized her grandchildren too. And she also ensured they did not misbehave in our house. Balamma was a widow and had a daughter who lived in Aakaram village in the backward, dry, poverty-stricken district of Medak with a huge brood of children. They were desperately poor and Balamma would send her entire salary –a princely sum of Rs 20—to her daughter by money order once in a couple of months. Or, she would keep the money aside in a battered tin truck, which she would take with her during the annual visit she paid her daughter. She would also hoard the discarded clothes that my mother might decide to give. She had a fancy for wall calendars and would keep them safely after we were done with them with the ending of the year. She said she put them up in her daughter’s thatched hut.

       Balamma was my mother’s confidante too. Not only would my mother share her woes with Balamma, but also leave her jewellery with her for safekeeping. She was given the monthly expenses to run the house. As far as I remember she did not misuse money or waste food. She would eat only twice a day, as was her habit for long, and she would never discard the leftovers. She would eat even spoilt food and no protests of ours would dissuade her. Her conditioning to scarce food was so deeply ingrained that even when food was available in plenty she refused to waste it. The poverty of Balamma’s family deeply affected me.

       Whenever one of Balamma’s grandsons would visit her and as they were our age, we children would play together. I still remember the stories they told of their life. Their main food was gruel, or rotis made from maize or jowar flour. These rotis were eaten with thin tamarind extract mixed with salt and chilli powder. This was when their dry land would yield maize or jowar. In bad times, when even tamarind was unaffordable, they would soak the rotis in salt water and eat them. As each of her grandsons grew he would be sent off to do “jeetam” or bonded labour with landlords. Beginning with the four-year-old Venkat to 12-year-old Bhoomiah all were “jeetam.” (Interestingly, the urbanization of Balamma was evident in the names she gave her grandsons: while the older ones were Bhoomaiah and Dubbaiah, the younger ones were Venkat, Vijay and Anand).

       The kids would graze the cows of the landlord, and when hungry would pick raw “sitaphal” (during winter), roast them in fires and eat their fill. Balamma once returned from her annual visit to her village with a back full of boils. She said she had done “coolie” during the planting season and not being used to the job, the exposure to the sun had burnt her skin. In really bad times when there was a severe drought, the family would migrate to Bombay to work as labourers. For long months, there would be no news of the family, but Balamma would keep sending letters to the village. Most of them were written by me in broken, half-learnt Telugu, and all of them would urge the son-in-law to respond with information that all was well. Rarely would she get replies, but when a post card did arrive, Balamma would have to walk 10 kms to get it read as it was written in old-style, “chain” Telugu, a script that only old-timers could read.

       Balamma would keep the letter safely and wait for a lean afternoon to walk 10 kms to an acquaintance to get it read. Once she got post card with a black border and when she saw it she was very upset…she told me the black border meant a death. After several hours of desperate hunting for someone who could read those few tragic lines, Balamma came to know that her son-in-law had passed away…

       The neighbourhood was highly impressed by Balamma’s loyalty. This led to unforeseen consequences. At the point, we three sisters were having problems with Balamma: as adult or pre-adult individuals we resented Balamma’s domination. She too couldn’t reconcile with our growing independence. Often there would be fireworks in the house and the extent of Balamma’s hurt came to the fore when she announced that she would be leaving us for employment with a family not too far away, and it would be at a higher salary. We were dumb-founded, but Balamma did leave and that too without informing my mother (my father had passed away by then).

       The neighbours had found her a job for a higher salary after convincing her that she was being underpaid and exploited by us. She left with her battered tin trunk and bedroll comprising a thin carpet and a pillow.

       For the next few months we would run into Balamma on the road, or at the vegetable vendor. She was always on the run. She had to look after two kids and run errands also. She seemed distinctly thinner and when we asked about it, she simply said the food at her new employer’s house was loaded with asafoetida which she found unpalatable. One day we ran into Balamma’s employer who casually informed us that Balamma was seriously ill and was admitted to the nearby government hospital. We rushed to the hospital and found her lying on the floor in a corridor. We three sisters, all under 18, decided that the dirty hospital was not the place for Balamma. We paid the bills, got her discharged and took her to a private doctor, and then home. She came only too willingly; it was her home too. We then sent a telegram to our mother informing her of Balamma’s illness. She took the first train to Hyderabad. All of us took turns to care of her, feeding her, giving her medicines apart from cooking for ourselves and attending to our studies. None of us ever spoke of this episode, but it did teach us to appreciate each other.

       Balamma literally became homeless when it was decided I should move into a hostel to complete my post-graduation and our city establishment was closed down after 20-odd years. She was rendered jobless in her old age and as I finished studies and moved out of town for job I lost touch with her. She had returned to her daughter, but occasionally came to visit my mother at her own expense, travelling 150 kms up and down.

       She came on one such visit soon after my marriage and demanded to see my ‘thali.’ When I showed it, she turned her nose up…the ‘thali’ revealed the Vaishnavite roots of my in-laws and she, I discovered, was a Shaivaite! She demanded to see my in-laws’ house to gauge for herself their status. She, I am afraid, had her nose in the air and my in-laws did not know what quite hit them: here was a servant who was being treated royally by the daughter-in-law and worse, the old woman was acting high and mighty. But that was Balamma…she was proud, dignified and she cared too much for us to think that anybody else was better than us. But she never voiced her feelings.

       Soon, she returned to her village and I did not see her again…a few years later we got the information that she had passed away. I did not shed tears then, but now there is no stopping them for the woman who gave so much. We grabbed it without ever thanking her, or even admitting it to ourselves. 

Shit! What to do about it

It is an unmentionable. But unavoidable. The problem of open defecation is not just an affront to human dignity but is a serious problem that has ominous implications for the nation’s health and yes, its economy.

          India stinks, from one corner to the other, without exception. As a country we seem to have achieved equality in this aspect. We cover our nose, avert eyes from heaps of excreta wherever we look, bemoan the lack of sanitary habits in our society and blame the government for not doing anything about it. But we refuse to even discuss it much less associate ourselves with finding solutions and implementing them.

          It is no wonder that editors shy away from stories on open defecation and recycling of human waste? Celebrities don’t want to associate their name with it. Politicians avoid talking about it. NGOs prefer issues that can attract international funding and dealing with human shit is not one of them. So it is no surprise that a programme to encourage people to build and use latrines has been a non-starter. And India lags far behind achieving the Millennium Development Goal of reducing by half the proportion of people without access to basic sanitation by 2015.

          As for Andhra Pradesh, it can pride itself for constructing as many as 38 lakh individual sanitary latrines (ISL) in rural areas in the last ten years to wean away the people from the habit of defecating near water bodies, in wooded patches and in bushes. The cost of building the toilets was a mind-boggling Rs 540 crores. Today a mere 20 per cent of the ISL are being used while 80 per cent of them are being used as a storage room. While water supply to the latrines is an issue, a larger issue was overlooked. “We admit this was a hardware-oriented approach,” said Ajay Mishra, Principal Secretary for Rural Water Supply of the AP government. “We realize a behavioural change is needed for people to use the latrines,” he said. Therefore, as an experiment, AP has roped in self help groups in 20 villages to spread awareness on the dangers of defecating in the open and the need for personal hygiene to protect their community especially its children from disease and death.

          Unicef, which has been pulling its hair in desperation at the lack of political will in dealing with this unmentionable issue, points out that five out of 10 killer diseases that target children are caused by poor sanitation, inadequate water supply and poor personal hygiene. Diarrhoea, jaundice, malaria and hookworm claim thousands of lives every day. Diarrhhoea alone kills 1000 children a day. While sanitation coverage in urban areas is 83 per cent, in rural areas it is a mere 26 per cent. It is no wonder therefore that the country loses as many as 180 million mandays and Rs 1200 crores loss annually due to sanitation-related diseases.

          The total sanitation campaign of the Indian government has set a goal of making the country free of open defecation by 2012. As part of this programme, it has instituted Nirmal Gram Puraskar awards for villages where every household and school have ISL. So far, 4,959 villages have won the prize. India has about six lakh villages. If we could make 5000 villages open defecation-free in say five years, it will take us at least 45 years to cover the rest of the 5.5 lakh villages.

          Either we live with stench of death and disease from a stinking India or as concerned citizens we make sanitation our priority and not leave it entirely to the government. We need to break the taboo and openly discuss shit and its disposal.

Generosity of the poor

What is it to receive generosity? Having been born into a privileged family and later on in life having much more wealth, opportunity and good fortune than an average Indian citizen,  one cultivated the habit of being generous. As one grew older and less focused on acquiring, I began to see the joy in giving.  So, whether it was in the form of small change or sometimes even currency notes to alms-seekers, used clothes, a ride in my car for students , speaking to the various people whom we ignore or who are invisible to us like the watchmen, lift-men, cleaning women and even beggars I experience constant joy. 

More important, I never cease to be surprised by the generosity that begets generosity, just like love begets love and hate begets hate.  A mere ‘thank you’ makes you a friend forever with your college canteen’s cashier. A ‘thank you’ to the autorickshaw driver, known for their cheating ways and fares, brings out amazing gestures. He is either startled and gawks or his hand shoots out involuntarily in a salute to acknowledge your gratitude, a typically male way of greeting friends, bending the head and touching the forehead. The younger ones respond with a ‘welcome’ and a smile in a society that is increasingly learning public politeness. Some of course are rude; they dismiss you with a grunt or make sounds of impatience, indicating that you to get on with your life and allow them to go on with their work.  Asking after her family and children of the woman cleaner in my college establishes a connection of friendliness that is constantly invoked whenever we run into each other. Acknowledging her existence in an atmosphere where she is seen as someone who is far below the status of the average teacher in the college, literally makes her come alive. On seeing me her eyes brighten and she greets me. At times, she allows herself the luxury of a smile, which also reduces the social distance between us to an extent.   This role of as a  giver__of recognition, affection, money__ gave way to being recipient of amazing generosity.

My daily walks sometimes involves in driving in my car to a particularly green locality which is about five kms from home.  On way back the other day, I stopped at a roadside tea stall since I am a compulsive tea-drinker. This stall is run by an old woman who stocks biscuits made locally, daily newspapers, cigarettes and stuff like that. Since most of her clientele is the tea-drinking, paper-buying men, she keeps the stall open only for a few hours in the morning. She basically retails tea that she stores in a vacuum flask that is refilled by a local neighbourhood restaurant that makes it. Evidently, what she makes in this miniature business is too little but it keeps her busy as she told me one day. Her stall is in front of her house and she apparently makes good use of the footpath on which her stall has been built. The other day, after my walk, I drove up to her stall and bought a cup of tea and a few biscuits. As it was an unusually cold day, I was tempted by the thought of a second cup. Even as I was considering it, a group of youngsters came up to the stall, ordered tea, drank it and left. My temptation got better of me so I got out of the car and went up to the old woman and asked for another cup. She was crestfallen. The tea was over ; the flask was empty and the refill wasn’t due in another half hour or so. No matter, I said. Thinking that she shouldn’t regret ‘loss’ of business, I asked to buy a special edition of a newspaper. It cost six rupees. I gave her ten rupees and decided to buy some toffees for the change of four rupees. She said one rupee fetched two toffees. So I took eight toffees and almost pocketed them. Realising that she hadn’t counted them, I put them back on the counter and counted eight even as she protested. I then put them in my pocket and said bye to her. She put her hand in the toffee jar, pulled out a toffee and handed it to me..as a bonus! Was it because she felt my disappointment at not getting a second cup of tea? Or was it because I bought the toffees as a token of kindness and she felt compelled to respond? Whatever it was, it caught me totally unaware and moved me deeply. Economic status need not be a barrier to generosity, is what the old woman conveyed. I drove away marveling at the generosity of the poor! And I was overwhelmed at being a recipient of such generosity.

Ends

Darling, yeh hai India

Darling, yeh hai India

By R. Akhileshwari

Why are we like this, asked an anguished NRI dancer after we established eye contact in the railway compartment and got talking. Why are our roads so dirty? Why don’t we follow traffic rules? Why do our buses/bureaucrats/bosses treat us so badly? The questions put my back up. Isn’t this the attitude of all NRIs? Find fault with everything in India? Expect the best on par with their adopted land without contributing anything? You run away from here daunted by the challenges, return to get emotionally recharged, and then have the gumption to criticize India? I bristled. But let’s be honest. Shouldn’t we ask ourselves, why are we like this? Our daily experiences provide plenty of cause for not only for  heart-burn but plenty of soul-searching too.

        Sleeplessness, brought on by the stress of daily deadlines prompted me to advance my morning cuppa of caffeine brew to pre-dawn. The venue was changed from the dining table to the sit-out and as I was sipped the heart-warming drink and drinking in the new experience, I spied upon my neighbour, a religious woman, who was collecting flowers from across the neighbours’ compound walls. She also got her share of exercise by the acrobatics that were necessary to reach flowers that were blooming tantalizingly almost out of reach, over the compound walls or on higher branches. She tried to pull a branch of pomegranate tree, trying to reach the flaming “anarkali” but it proved a tough task so she gave up. I discovered subsequently that the flowers were for her morning puja and this method of gathering flowers was a daily ritual. Surely, when the neighbourhood had ready flowers why buy them from the vendor who shouts his heart out every evening trying to find a customer? Besides, doesn’t the Hindu philosophy enjoin the faithful to do their duty (of worshipping God with flowers) and not bother about the consequences of depriving the neighbours of their flowers and fruits, in the semidarkness of pre-dawn hours? And without their permission to boot.

        A neighbour in our office complex decided to expand his wholesale business since his road-facing office was ideal for a retail outlet of readymade clothes. He remodeled his office into a posh shop, removed the hitherto broken pavement in front of his office and replaced it with gleaming granite and soon installed iron rods and connected them with chain, cordoning off the space in front of his office so as to ensure that his potential customers were not inconvenienced by having to rub shoulders with the traffic of humans into the office building. A painted sign warned that the enclosed parking space was meant only for his customers. The only trouble was that the space belonged to the municipal corporation. The access to the building was reduced by half which led yours truly to approach the building’s elected body for redress. They regretted they had no control on the municipal space. Evidently, the businessman worked out an arrangement with the contractor who had “contracted” the parking space by “sub-letting” the space to the businessman. If we complained to the municipal corporation, my colleagues argued, the inspectors will come, take a bribe from the businessman and continue to allow him to use the space. Thus, we would ensure one more source of income to another corrupt official. Besides, we would be incurring the ill-will of a neighbour. So what if the reduced parking space inconveniences the visitors and often a two-wheeler parked literally on the road, obstructs the free flow of traffic and results in a jam?

        Then there are neighbours who let out their drains on the roads instead of laying an underground pipe to connect to the neighbourhood’s drain. There are others who in the cover of darkness dump garbage in the unused corner outside your house. Again, those put out the trash can in the corridor of the apartment complex to avoid their kitchen from getting dirty. There are others who wash the sit-outs, merrily splashing the passers-by with dirty water. Take the instance of this office building I often visit for one reason or the other. The airconditioner is placed outside the office, mounted on a steel stand that effectively occupies almost all the space in the corridor. As we walk past the whirring machine as everyone who uses that floor has to, we are sprayed by film of water. Then we have to watch our step because a constant leak of water keeps the area wet. In such conducive conditions, it is not surprising that moss grows luxuriantly…all in the middle of a corridor of a public building!

        Festival times are risky times, I realized. With Holi round the corner, we put away from public eye all our cane and wooden furniture, ladder, unused wood, bamboos and so on. The cane frames to help creepers to spread themselves are also fastened strongly, or the over-enthusiastic neighbourhood youth will smuggle them away to help them in the process of cleansing the world of evil by burning its effigy. Your goods that they smuggled out facilitate the burning! Come Ganesha festival, and your decorative plants are endangered. The crotons, coleas, and the evergreens are all useful in beautifying the local Ganesha installed by the neighbourhood army of brigands who not only coerce you into making a hefty “chanda” or donation but also slyly take away both potted and other plants that you have placed within or outside your house. All in the name of Ganesha, of course.

        Anyone who has lived abroad will bear me out. An Indian will be an Indian among Indians, especially in a foreign country. An Indian family when eating out in say, an American hotel, behaves just as an American does. The Indians add “please” and “thank you” to their orders, speak softly so as not to intrude on fellow patrons, remove the plates if the place requires it. And then the contrast hits us when we step into a Indian-run, Indian-patronised joint. The atmosphere is, well, what else but Indian? The waiter is shouted at, given orders rudely, the conversation is loud, the children unruly, and worst, the tables are messy after the food is eaten. Worse,  the patrons will try and bargain for a “discount” in the bill. In turn, the establishment will try and fob you off with stale food and refuse to replace a wrong order or spoiled food as is the practice in the mainstream eating places. Why are we like this? I fear the answer is, we will be always like this only. After all, we are Indians, no?

Beyond marriage and motherhood

By R. Akhileshwari

Girls should be taught to think beyond marriage and motherhood. Society should instill in them a sense of self-esteem.

Social change is attributed to several factors including access to education, exposure to different kinds of culture and experiences, a trend adopted by large number of people and so on. One thing that does not bring about change in attitudes, values and deeply ingrained social practices is making a law. For any law to effective, especially those dealing with social traditions, a multi-pronged approach is necessary combining the law, a system of stick and carrot and example set by the elite of society. Child marriages are one such social evil that cannot be eradicated by law.

An argument has been put forward, no less than by a Supreme Court bench that compulsory registration of marriages could deter child marriages. The argument is slightly off the mark. Certainly, it is time we registered all marriages, jut as we do the births and deaths but whether it prevent child marriages or increase the age of marriage, especially of girl children, is arguable. There are already a plethora of laws to protect women against dowry and age of marriage. Making one more law will distract attention from dealing with the problem squarely which is to value the girl, not treat her as a “guest” in her home.

Poor social status

Child marriage should be seen for what it is, a manifestation of the poor social status of the female which in turn results in the female fetuses being aborted in the prosperous states of Haryana and Punjab, in the killing of girl babies by the poor in Tamil Nadu and in the marketing of the girl babies in the poverty-stricken Lambada families in Andhra Pradesh. Despite Ram Mohan Roy, despite 60 years of Independence and despite a law that stipulates minimum age of marriage for girls and boys, child marriage is a reality which we as a civil society, have failed to acknowledge.

       

According to the UN, 38 per cent of adolescent girls in India in the age group of 15-19 are married off. In South and East Asia, India along with Bangladesh, has the highest number of children born to this group of under-age mothers. Early marriage is closely linked to early, repeated and unplanned child-bearing. Death rates are higher for both mothers and babies as teenage bodies cannot stand the rigours of pregnancy and childbirth. Teenage mothers have greater number of miscarriages, death during childbirth, low birth-weight or stillborn babies.

Child or teen marriages also result in sexual abuse, rape and servitude of the girl children. Postponing marriage and child-bearing gives girls the chance for more education, better health for themselves and their children. Interestingly enough, an improvement in economic and educational status has not resulted in concurrent improvement in women’s social status. The age of marriage of a girl is a stark example of the continuing low social status of the female, whether in a rural or urban home, rich or poor, illiterate or educated.

A study puts the median age at marriage of women in urban areas at below 18 years and 14.9 years in rural areas. Though the median age has increased in urban areas, still over 76 per cent girls in urban and 83 per cent in rural areas get married before they are 18 years, the minimum age for marriage. This is not surprising. Any middle-class parent who has an adolescent daughter in school will know that her friends or classmates begin to drop out of school from 9^th or 10^th class onwards, to marry.

The trickle at high school gains momentum in the Intermediate and becomes a flood at the degree level. Very few make it to post-graduation while the number of girls in professional courses is miniscule. If the rural-based, poverty-stricken parents opt for marriage for their pre-adolescent daughter to reduce one mouth to feed or because it is the ‘tradition,’ the urban-based, better-off parents are no better. They too are held hostage by tradition and the thinking that the more the girl gets educated, the more individualistic she will become, not amenable to the dictates of her parents, community and the rest of the world. So, she is married off to keep her under control.

The “model” states of Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka and the developed Maharashtra were among the 10 states asked by the SC recently to explain why child marriage continues as a bane in their states. Evidently, economic strides and technological leaps of these states have not percolated or impacted upon social values and traditions.

How to solve the problem? Education should motivate a girl child to dream and to achieve. As a society all of us should nurture ambition in girls. Not of marriage and motherhood. They can come later. First, she should realize that she has the qualities, talent and capability to scale heights. This change will not come about unless we as people in a position to influence others’ thinking make a conscious break from our own thinking that careers are meant for sons and marriage and motherhood for daughters.

Interpreting hair styles

By R. Akhileshwari

Stereotyping makes life easy. It helps most folks to “understand” situations, people and events. The trouble begins when you are stereotyped into what you seem to be but are not. Short hair (bobbed, in our lingo) on a woman can mean many things to many people, and often it means erroneous things. Invariably, you are “Madam” and not the usual “amma” to the autorickshaw-wallas, bus conductors and fruit and vegetable vendors. Why back in the 1970s which belonged to Mrs.Indira  Gandhi, cheeky youngsters would shout “Indira Gandhi” on seeing me.

          Illiterate women on the other hand seemed to be in awe of short-haired women. Once, two women labourers were walking in step with me. They got whispering as we hurried to reach our destination. One of them gathered courage and drawing closer to me, asked in broken Hindi, what is the time, amma. I responded in Telugu. She was taken aback and went back to her friend and giggled in Telugu, “Arre, she speaks Telugu.”

          Not always was I so “un-Telugu.” My knee-length hair was the envy of all, and interestingly, a sure draw of male attention. Fellow girls would point out that my plait was longer than the mini-kurtas that were in fashion then and that we wore over skin-tight churidars. The nasty landlady, who harassed us for rent that we frequently defaulted on payment, whispered to neighbours that arrogance of having long hair was the reason for my sauciness (since I would not keep a respectful silence at her verbal barbs as was expected of a tenant). Undoubtedly there were pleasures of wearing an attraction constantly on you, but they outweighed the pain of managing such unwieldy hair. After much thought and some heart ache I had it chopped off.

          The day after required much courage to go to college and face friends and admirers. Horrified shrieks, angry remonstrations, outright abuse were heaped on me by the girls. Our limited interaction with the male classmates did not prevent reactions from coming my way. They were scandalized so much at my “cruelty” that even the more timid among them who felt daunted to speak to girls, gathered courage to express their regret. A male classmate for whom I had a weakness gave plenty of sorrow by avoiding me for a couple of days. Even as I wondered why, he conveyed through a friend that he did not want to be friends anymore since I no longer had long tresses! Romance died unwept along with the poor guy’s illusions.

          A few years later, the hair was allowed to grow in anticipation of impending nuptials. It grew back to its original length which was a great source of pride for the inlaws and partially offset their unhappiness over an unconventional marriage. Having to travel 30 kms to work, which meant catching the office transport at an unearthly hour, was not made any easy by long hair. One day, the crowning glory refused to be coaxed into a proper form. It was particularly uncooperative and after a couple of disasters at plaiting it, I collapsed on the stool in front of the mirror in frustration. And jumped up with a yell. A cooperative hubby had placed on it a plate of steaming idlis swimming in hot sambar. That accident resulted in missing the office bus that forced me into a crowded RTC bus-ride of one hour, followed by a 2 km walk in hot sun from the bus stop to office, and losing half a day’s casual leave for the trouble taken. I took a decision. It had to be done. The hair had to return to its former state of short length whose speciality is that it is undemanding of any combing or styling. The shock and the scandal, the inevitable harsh words, especially from the in-laws, had to be endured. Others’ pleasure and perhaps even envy was not my pride…it was a pain.

          Even after two decades of such encounters, one can still be surprised. The other day, I was bargaining for apples with a Muslim fruit vendor. As he quoted an abnormally high price, I unleashed fluent Deccani on him to prove that I was not to be fooled. Sure enough, he was taken aback. “You have turned out to be one of us…of my own land,” he said. I assured him that I was “101 per cent Hyderabadi.”  To seal the “apnapan” of being Urdu-speaking fellow Hyderabadi, he gave me an extra apple, a deeply moving gesture. While short hair had lent distance, language brought us close!