In a nondescript city service bus in a nondescript north Indian town, a father and his daughter were making their journey home. You wouldn’t look twice at them even if you were sitting right opposite – a plain looking teenager who wore her salwar suit rather like the school uniform she’d been used to wearing, and a middle-aged man, typical of the north Indian plains, with slightly henna-ed hair, betel stained teeth, a much-used satchel of documents and a rolled up Hindi newspaper.
Both father and daughter stared blankly ahead. Their expressionless faces will not tell the casual observer about their positive states of mind, a result of a conversation with the headmistress of the town’s best convent school earlier in the day. Positive, even slightly happy, but for entirely different reasons. The daughter, because she’d been offered admission to the arts stream. It meant she did not have the stress of waiting for the second or third list of other secondary schools. The father, because he’d been told that his daughter wasn’t really good academic material. The management was kind enough to recognize her extra-curricular activity and her leadership skills, said the headmistress, and “we’ve always been fond of her – she’s such a cooperative girl”. Good. It felt as if some weight had been lifted off his chest.
For the girl, however, this sense of contentment did not last the full bus journey. Sixteen isn’t an age where kids like her are allowed to make life-altering decisions on their own. They simply did what their marksheets allowed them to, and girls usually concentrated on making the most of the interlude between passing out of high school and turning eighteen. Turning eighteen meant getting married. Life meant nothing more, and she knew it. Out of her window, the street view wasn’t promising either. Garish sign boards that sold anything from a Re 1 telephone call, to a future in a land where English was spoken. Men and boys in their loose baggy shirts and identically tailored trousers, all made of discount material. The Bata shoe shop with more cartons than footwear. The haphazardly parked vans, push carts, carrier trucks, bicycles, two-wheelers. Crowds of men everywhere, some waiting, some walking, some drinking tea, hawkers, porters. A typical busy street, a typical town, ordinary people, ordinary lives. Chances are high, she thought, that I will marry someone from this kind of crowd, serve him and his family and be at home for the rest of her life. Watching TV, cooking, cleaning, waiting. She may be happy, if she was very lucky. Perhaps she might get a boy less than five years older than her. Maybe. Her thoughts went back to the conversation with Sister Dorothy. The headmistress said she had potential, but she didn’t really apply herself in her studies. “If you spent more than just a week studying before the exams, maybe you could be a topper.” The Sister was kind enough to overlook this, and her marks were slightly above average, just enough to make the provisional “discretionary” admission list. She really didn’t have an academic future. The Sister had warned her too – if she didn’t apply herself in her class, she shouldn’t expect any further favors. That would make her parents happy, the girl thought. This is just what they wanted. Decisions are funny things – sometimes one doesn’t even know one is making them. The lucky ones are those who see choices very clearly at every decision point in their lives. Many just breeze through these points, especially when it is presumed that they don’t have the maturity and the worldly knowledge to make them. Conscious decisions, weighing the pros and cons, analyzing what-if situations, all these are seldom available to a girl like her, like many others, a liability to her family. But sometimes, just sometimes decisions get taken on the spur of the moment, in some irrational frame of mind, prompted by the silliest of stimuli. AHA, the hoarding said. “Admissions open for HSC pass girls. Become a airhostess. Guaranteed placement”. Pretty girls. Short skirts. Nice shoes. Flying. Traveling. Other places. Away from here. Maybe. I’ll have to come here again and read the advertisement fully, the girl thought to herself, as she visually memorized the landmarks. Almost home. “Last but one” was their bus stop. They got down. A fifteen minute walk would get them home. She dreaded this part of the journey with her father. He almost never talked, and if he did talk, it was mostly to chide her. But today, she knew, the lecture was going to be different. “You know I never wanted Parul to get married to that man.” He started as they took their first steps on the kaccha road. “But what choice did I have. Majboori thee… the rishta was brought by bade-bhai saheb, and I couldn’t turn down the favor.” “I know she wanted to study… she got such good marks too. But what will girls do with marks? Kahaan milega ladka? Boys these days don’t want even a BA pass. Forget an MA. IAS door ki baat hui.” She listened quietly. She could predict which way the rest of the lecture would go. “But whatever we did was for good only. At least she is taken care off… I hope she is… anyway, we can’t do much about it. In our family, women need only this much education. “Ab toh chodo uski baat… leave her alone, let her be. She is settled. Your mother and I have to worry about you now. The teacher says you aren’t good in studies, so I am not feeling guilty in your case. You go to school… try to pass HSC, and spend time, na beta, learn the ways of life with your mother. Let me find a good boy for you. It will take time, beta, so I will start searching now. “You agree? Na mat bolna, beta.” She nodded. They were home. Lunch. Some TV. She will take a nap. And, she thought to herself, she will think. Think hard. ****“Madam?” “Madam! Hello!” “Oh sorry. How much?” “Four copies. Rs 120. Change please.” The young woman took the four thinly bound booklets from the clerk, stuffed three of them into her bag, and rushed to railway station. She sat down on the bench. R. Raavi, Rath, Raaz, Razia, Reeya. She checked the column against Reena. There it was. Her new name. Rhea Srivastava.
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