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Sweet Victory

By Anjali Desai '03

As the afternoon heat settled over the village, I sprawled across the cool earthen tiles covering my bunga floor. Excited cries of children resonated through my ears as I contemplated the content of the words I read. Curious to see what the children were up to, I stood up to unfasten the arched window shutter and peered through the metal bars. Fifteen kids, ranging from the ages of four to twelve, gathered to coordinate a game of cricket. In the surrounding villages students recited their alphabets and learned arithmetic while the children in my community eagerly waited for their turn to bat.

On January 26, 2000 a violent earthquake attacked Gujarat devastating the lives of thousands. Manav Sadhna, a non government organization based in Ahmedabad, gathered 200 of their volunteers and brought them to Ludiya, Kutch, a northwestern region of Gujarat that suffered greatly from the natural disaster. They aided in constructing homes and rehabilitating lives. They also helped eighteen families acquire land and relocate, establishing the town of Gandhi Nu Gao. In response to the demands of the new community, Manav Sadhna built a school and several housing facilities for government teachers.

Over the next two years, only a small number of children attended school regularly, not enough to justify the cost of supporting a government teacher. The school was shut down; children interested in learning were encouraged to attend school in the neighboring town, less than 15 minutes away by foot. The parents, discontented with the decision and seeking to silently protest, ceased sending their children to school.

Interested in further immersing myself in my village, I decided to spend the night at the home of Veera Ben, one of my surrogate mothers in the town, the mother of nine other children. I walked around the four wooden cots that rested on her veranda, settling on the one located between Mehru and Karman, two of her sons. I climbed onto the wooden bed, the sides intricately carved by her husband, whose family specialized in woodcarving for many generations. I grabbed the bright patchwork quilt waiting for me at the edge of the bed and draped it over myself. Mehru’s mother had sewn the quilt herself, one of many that each Kutchi woman traditionally stitches and amasses in preparation for her marriage or to give to her daughter as a wedding gift.

While everyone else dreamt, Mehru and I lay awake next to one another, staring up at the night’s veil glittering with its golden jewels. I quietly laughed at myself; one and a half months had passed since I arrived here, but every night I gazed in awe at the thousands of stars that illuminated the nocturnal sky, stars usually hidden by pollution and street lights back home in Houston, Texas. After relishing the tranquility for a few peaceful moments, we joined efforts to count the infinite stars. Suddenly, I remembered the multiplication table I composed for Mehru a couple of days before, the one he had promised to study so that I could quiz him.

“Didi, I didn’t have time to study. We had to work on our farm today to harvest the wheat, but I will, I promise,” he explained reassuringly.

“Mehru, you’re such a smart kid, why did you quit going to school?” I asked.

“I love school,” the eleven year old exclaimed. “My teacher used to tell me that I was a really good student, that I learned quickly. But my father will only send me and my siblings to school if the school house in this village reopens.”

My observations of Mehru’s behavior led me to think of him as extremely astute. Perceptive for his age, he always understood me despite language barriers, my limited knowledge of Kutchi.

I asked him what he dreamed of for his life.

Shrugging, he replied, “It is not about dreams. I’m going to be a wood worker like my father and my grandfather.”

He explained that the work runs in his blood and that he intended to carry on the tradition.

Touched by his pride and drive to preserve his heritage, I smiled as we rested in silence for a few moments.

“But I still want to go to school,” he added. “I still have my notebook.”

Something had to be done.

Several days before Diwali break ended, before schools reopened, I visited every house in the village campaigning to parents to send their children to the neighboring school. I argued about the value of education, how it would brighten their children’s futures. Parents showed little interest, thoughtlessly agreeing to let me take their offspring if it would allow them to return to their daily chores.

To my disappointment, only Veera Ben was present when I visited Mehru’s house; I had hoped to speak with his father. But she agreed almost immediately to send him. Thinking that was easy enough, I headed home.

When the first day of school arrived, not a single child was dressed and ready to go. Frustrated, I urged the mothers and kids to hustle and meet me in front of my house. Thirty minutes flew by but no one showed up. Sighing with disappointment I stood up to go in. Just then one of the older boys turned up. I grabbed his hand and marched through the village shouting that I was leaving for school. Most of the children showed disinterest, while some of them spit out excuses. The parents did nothing to encourage or discourage their children’s decisions. Mehru looked at me briefly, relaying nothing.

Two other boys, including Mehru’s youngest brother joined us. Linked hand in hand, I figured three was a start, and we proceeded towards the school.

Then from behind I heard a shuffling sound. I turned to see Mehru hastening towards us, grinning from ear to ear. He held a notebook in his hand. We slowed down as he caught up.

“What about your father,” I asked.

“Don’t worry. My brothers are helping him.”

Mehru and his three companions unlatched my gate quickly and scurried in my direction. Brimming with delight and anticipation to impart the day’s events, they commenced chattering concurrently.

“I learned how to count! We got homework! The teacher complimented my handwriting!” they all bellowed out.

Mehru stood calmly watching the others. His younger brother tugged at my top, begging me to teach them something. Mehru glanced at his baby brother, nodding his head teasingly. He then held his hands out holding the slates I had lent them that morning.

“I will come by and pick them up tomorrow morning before we leave for school,” he said.

Satisfied, he turned his back to us and strolled away. An implicit connection lingered in the air; we had both experienced a sweet victory.

Did You know?

Indicorps offers a variety of programs and opportunities that encourage leadership and civic engagement. While the fellowship focuses on empowering people willing to do whatever it takes to affect change, we also have local volunteer programs in India, an established internship program, an emerging domestic program, an effort to engage late-careers seniors in development, an online volunteer opportunity site, and more....

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Inspiration

If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.

- Lila Watson