I learnt one thing the hard way in Rajasthan. Their open-ended mojris may look pretty, but they’re no good for traipsing around in the desert. There I was, one minute thinking I was shod like a local in a brightly embroidered pair, and the next minute hobbling around with a thorn embedded deep in the sole of my foot. “That’s from the babool tree,” said Pavani, a 16-year-old from a village near Sadri who was with me at the time. “It’ll fester if it stays in there,” said she. I hopped around in pain, wondering how to pull it out as it was lodged too deep. “Let me call my cousin Kamli, and we’ll take it out for you in a jiffy,” said Pavani. She was a year older, but a great friend and partner in crime, she said.
Cousin Kamli came as a surprise. While Pavani was carefree in her school uniform, Kamli was in the restrictive garb of a married woman — bangles on her wrist and elbows, lots of ornaments and head covered with a bright chunri. “She was married at the age of four,” said Pavani when she saw me looking at her, “that’s the convention amongst our community. My mother’s always opposed such customs, that’s why I’m unmarried and in school. Kamli’s father (her mother’s brother) is much more traditional.” Kamli had dropped out of school after class five and spent her days helping around in the house and tending to the family cattle. Had she ever seen her husband, I asked. Kamli laughed ruefully: “I’m told I saw him when I was four, but I don’t remember much from then …”
“Anyway, let’s get the thorn out!” Pavani said, obviously wanting to change the topic. Kamli brought out a safety pin and before I could shout “tetanus”, one cousin held my ankle firmly while the other poked my heel. “There!” said Kamli finally, holding up a large black thorn, “that didn’t hurt much did it?” It turned out that she helped the local animal healer whenever she was free, and had developed a little experience in first aid.
As the two cousins made some tea for me, I couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast. Pavani was interested in pursuing higher studies, aiming to be a doctor or a vet. Kamli hadn’t even completed class five. Both were lively and perky, but while Pavani thought nothing of running around and playing with the village children — Kamli, scarcely older, was too weighed down by her veil and bangles to do anything of the sort. Then she asked how old I was when I got married. My answer shocked both girls: “Didn’t anyone force you to marry? How did they ever find you a husband at such a late age?” Kamli asked. I didn’t feel like answering. Talking of choices and freedom to a teenager who’d been married as a four-year-old just didn’t seem right.
We sat till late that day, drinking saucers of tea, and I fielded Pavani’s questions about Delhi. “Is it really that big? Are there crowds everywhere? Is it true that there are markets bigger than this village?” she asked. I tried to reply as best as I could to her. “I’ll go to Delhi one day,” said Pavani, “I just know it. Maybe when I start working and earn enough money …” I looked at Kamli’s pretty face under the pink chunri and asked her: “what are your dreams? Where would you like to go?” She smiled: “I’ll go to my husband’s house next year when I’m eighteen. Let’s see what fate has in store for me…”
