Child Marriage- it must be stopped.

Her distinctive sea-green eyes glistened in the mildly warm afternoon sun. The little girl looked so innocent: there were no creases on her face, it was completely relaxed, and her smile added to the sense to joy she radiated. She started laughing, her chipped-off, snow-white teeth were exposed, but that smile told me that there was nothing troubling her. She was wearing an off-white, vintage colour kurti, with a still neatly ironed green dupatta, a typical Indian school uniform. She laughed with joy as she gossiped with her friends and her pleated, dark black hair bounced. She held a heavy schoolbag on her shoulders and she didn’t seem bothered, she was accustomed to carrying those heavy books day in and day out. She is an aware, confident, innocent school-going girl of school-going age who thinks nothing less of herself than a boy her age. She is a girl who does not know that her gender needs to be ‘shown its place’.

I have a dream. I have a dream that one day the above description will be the reality of all girls in India and abroad. I have a dream that one day this society will achieve real equality where everyone is aware. I have a dream that one day the women of this world will not be oppressed. I have a dream that one day the women of this world will be able to express their freedom of will in all its glory and there will be no one to question them. I have a dream that one day the men of this world will stop being so full of themselves and that they will no longer be the only alphas. I have a dream that one day, I will live in a world where we will no longer be defined by gender.

This dream of mine, ladies and gentlemen is mighty great and it won’t surprise me when people call it impossible, so I believe we need to start working. But we need to start somewhere, right? So we start with irradiating the extremes. We students, live with the availability of all resources in urban modern societies, and sitting in our ivory towers we often overlook the world beyond.

The truth is that each year, 15 million girls below the age of eighteen get married. That is 28 girls every minute – married off too soon, endangering their personal development and wellbeing. The girl and her family are often forced to do so because of harsh socio-economic factors. This is an example of a vicious circle of gender inequality. Gender inequality causes child marriage and as child marriages develop and increase, the contribution and participation of girls and women is undervalued. They limit their own possibilities for growth, stability and transformation which further increase this.

According to UNICEF, India has the highest absolute number of child marriages in the world, coming up with a whopping 26 million child marriages with Bangladesh way behind at 2nd place with 4 million. This only tells us one thing: We need to start with ourselves.The only way we can even try to solve this problem is to know why it happens in the first place, and I turn to our global and especially national culture and heritage for answers.

Why are about 82 per cent of those married before the age of 18 girls, while only about 18 per cent boys? The root reason is gender inequality. The global society treats women like a lowly race, while saying that they are treasure chests. There is nothing that could justify calling them either. The men of this society have announced themselves to be the superior beings that supposedly have greater intellectual and physical capabilities. These same men have dreamt the notion that the women need ‘protection’ and they need a strong leader/figure in their lives and that is the men themselves. They have been successful in fooling people that that dream is a reality. That is the one reason why the parents of the girls have to hand over their daughter, who might still be a child, to a boy.

The boy is supposed to take care of that girl but in front of the world, all he does is use her as an expensive painting, hung on the wall, in a room under lock, only there for observation. Inside the four walls of their home, the wife is an unpaid slave, an object present to cater to all of the husband’s wishes, from mopping the floor and cooking to being a prop for domestic violence and sexual assault. It doesn’t matter if the wife has a brain, because she is forced to act on all the decisions he makes about her life.

Child brides are deprived of their fundamental human rights of health, education and safety when they get married to older men, often strangers. Their freedom becomes nonexistent as they are trapped in this cycle until their self esteem and self confidence fall so low that they start to feel disempowered and isolated.

This is the situation for most girls of still school going age and that is only one of the many things that are wrong with child marriage. Young girls who are still not physically, sexually or even emotionally mature are married off to become wives and mothers; they are at a greater risk of experiencing dangerous complications in pregnancy and childbirth, often contracting HIV/AIDS. With little access to education and economic opportunities, they and their families are more likely to live in poverty.

These young girls have to become brides because of socio economic factors such as the shortage of money to educate and to relieve the parents off of the ‘burden’ of getting their child married. In India, families are somewhat foolish in the sense that they don’t feel the need to educate their daughters because she is not going to remain ‘theirs’ in the long run after all. They feel that it’s a waste of money to educate their daughters and it’s better to teach them how to cook and clean, because that is what she is going to do in life. The lack of education prevents the girls themselves to speak up against the crimes they face and they feel forced as they feel they have no other choice; if they don’t comply, their parents may run short of money.

A lot of money is also needed to get girls married because of the concept of dowry. The family of the bride must pay a certain amount to the groom’s family along with the bride and includes cash, jewellery, electrical appliances, furniture, bedding, crockery, utensils and other household items that help the newlyweds set up their home. This is usually a big problem when poor families try to get their daughters married. As a result, her marriage becomes a burden on the families’ finance. Indian weddings are also usually very celebratory and require a lot of money.

Many parents marry their daughters young because they feel it is in her best interest. When families face hardship, they may even see child marriage as a coping mechanism in the face of poverty and violence. The parents may feel that marriage will save their daughter, even if they spiral down with poverty and disease. Parents may also think that if their daughter will eventually ‘go away’, so why not as soon as possible? They want their child to be set with life as soon as possible and they may believe that marriage is a step down that path.

All such socio economic factors encourage many parents to try and get their daughters married off too early. We must solve these reasons to stop child marriages but if we observe carefully, the reason why each of these socio economic factors even exist, is because of the gender inequality rooted inside our society. In the end, I can only say, we can try to treat the symptoms as long as eternity lasts, but we need to try a holistic approach as opposed o a symptomatic one. Nothing is going to change unless we change ourselves, and hence the society, to not be defined by gender.

A Piece of Music

The shadow of the magnificent statue of the Indian monkey god loomed over the slow moving vehicle, and if I hadn’t known better, I would’ve been frightened. The orange 80-foot tall hanuman was New Delhi’s trademarked landscape, and like many other residents of Delhi and its suburbs, it held a place in my heart; Delhi was my entire life. Aryaman closed his eyes and put the index finger of his right hand on his forehead, then kissed it, a way to pray to god in the Hindu religion. He looked at me and scowled, hoping for the millionth time that I will do the same, but I shrugged, I was much of an atheist.

Klick! The startling sound cleared up my vision. The lady on my side was staring at me with disgust, her hand in front of my face, in a position such that she must’ve just snapped her fingers. The hallucinations had started again; I was staring and shrugging at her instead of Aryaman. I knew coming back would be a mistake; I had too many memories in this city, which were precious and treasured, but best if left forgotten. I put on my earphones, hoping to block out the noises of the inner city traffic and the chatter of the common man inside the blisteringly hot, smelling and crammed DTC bus. The soft instrumental violin music calmed my nerves to some extent, I had discovered by experience that music helped after such a hallucination.

‘Lajpat Nagar!’ the conductor called out the name of my locality. The shout had pierced through my music, disturbing my thoughts of how I was going to miss boarding school, and making me remember home and feel nostalgic. I climbed out of the filthy eight-wheeled vehicle into a puddle of wet mud, it must’ve rained a few days ago. Despite being exhausted from the 36 hours long train journey and being soaked in sweat after the trip from the station to where I was now, I was looking forward to seeing and experiencing Lajpat Nagar; After all, it was the typical, most famous street market of Delhi, famous for its sales of fabrics, and also my home.

I loved this place in and out, from the piles of trash squandered around, and the unhygienic yet suspiciously incredible food, to the narrow streets and the small houses squeezed together. I had grown up here and however inconvenient my home might have been, I was deeply connected with it. My love for it could not be harmed by two years in one of the cleanest, most beautiful hill stations of India, Nainital, where I went to boarding school.

As I walked past the small, jam-packed shops in the scorching sun, the tingly smell of spices from the nearby food stalls crept into my nostrils. Though I was used to this smell, my body was still not familiar with it, and my fatigued body welcomed it with a sudden, explosive sneeze. My body’s reaction to this smell was so vigorous that it startled a shop vendor to the point where he fell back off his chair. I felt guilty, so went up to the old, wrinkled man, and helped him up. The poor man was trying to make a living by selling salted peanuts. Serving my guilt, I bought two packets from him and as I put money in on his makeshift table, his lips formed a lucid but subtle curve and his eyes twinkled. I smiled back, feeling good about the fact that I made someone smile a little more, and turned back towards where my house would be.

A cool gust of wind slapped my face, and my hope for a cool evening rose. I looked towards the source of this blessing by the ‘almighty’ and my atheism was justified; it was an employee at a nearby fabric shop being deceitful. The puny, feeble teenage worker was spreading out fabrics for the customers in a rather unenthusiastic way, tired from the day’s work. The unexpectedly large showroom looked incredibly colorful, stocked with piles of fabrics, all of different hues and of different materials. The environment of the shop had a very cheerful sense to it and the people were cluttering around hurriedly, excited for the upcoming wedding season for which they were purchasing. Different salespeople threw rolls of fabric around, and they swayed in the sunlight magnificently, their decorative beads glittered and they showed off their embroidered patterns. The show looked so synchronized and coordinated that it looked as if it was rehearsed a million times to an unmatchable perfection, and sure enough, it had been polished by years of practice.

I had become so engrossed in this performance of skill, that my feet had gone auto-pilot but not the good type; I was snapped out of my observation session when my feet touched something slimy and spongy. I looked down at my feet and was relieved for the fact that I had chosen to wear my old sneakers instead of my favorite, new Reeboks. As I pushed down on my feet, rough textured, chocolate brown sludge oozed out from the sides of my shoe soles. Cow dung in the middle of the street, typical Delhi! I had missed this place immensely.

‘Adaab, Bhai Jaan!’ I heard my old postman, nicknamed as masterji, call out. as I continued to walk. I knew it was him as soon as I heard the first word, his rusty, yet enthusiastic tone of speech tuned with the Muslim greet word so uniquely, that it was unmistakable, especially to a person who had heard it for almost all his life. I turned back and saw that familiar face, though older and wrinkled, speeding towards me. Master-ji had and become frail and grave; the skin on his face sagged as if it would fall off any moment now, and his body had become ever thinner and tenuous, but he still hadn’t lost his beloved bicycle as a partner. Even though he was becoming worn out, he refused to walk and insisted on doing his work religiously on his lovely red ride, and so as I greeted him back, he sped past me and replied hurriedly- ‘later!’

Being at home after such a long time, most people would be intoxicated, but not me. I was somewhat happy to be home but I couldn’t help but remember how I and Aryaman used to play tag around these streets, hiding in between shop stalls and sneaking out when we suspected that we were vulnerable; these small fragments of memories that came back were dangerous for me, I hadn’t fully recovered from the disappearance of my best friend from my life. I still had those unresolved issues, and I knew they were not going to go away, but I could try to forget what happened and I was trying. I was successful too, to some extent, I only thought of Aryaman once or twice a day now, when I saw his picture or when I thought of home, but now it was going to be endless.

The constant reminders of my memories with Aryaman were going to be agonizing. We had made these at my own house, in my own room, where he had slept so many times and my basement, where we played ‘Super Mario’ for hours on end. This was our Batcave, where this dynamic duo had crazy dance parties and gossip sessions (‘Batcave’ now sounds sarcastic: we weren’t the manliest of boys). We had played every single board game of our generation there, from business, the Indian game from which monopoly was inspired, to snakes and ladders, the most basic but still one of the finest games ever made. We had learned to treasure the essence of simplicity in life, however nonexistent it was. It almost felt as if Arayman had left for the sake of irony-he just proved how complicated and tragic life could become and yes, I was grateful for that realisation.

When Arayman left, I was in grade 8, and I had lost my soul mate. I was like a single twin: abandoned and extremely sad. I was traumatised and I went through an emotional roller coaster when I was merely 13 years old! A young teenager stopped talking and there was nothing that could cheer him up, so his parents did what they thought was best for him, they sent him somewhere he will forget his best friend. I’m grateful that that young teenager was me and that my parents were cautious that I did not have unresolved problems. They ensured that I talked to the school counsellor every week. I was not angry with how they treated my situation because my counsellor turned out to be a significant part of my life and after I had poured out everything, she would help me solve my problems; She was the one who suggested listening to, and even better, learn to play the violin. It was one of the best ways that I had learned to express my emotions, by composing my thoughts as musical notes. I slowly started to cherish the small things in life and I think that I became happy, I had finally started to forget, but now I was here, and this day had already been bitter. Even if I had missed home, I had missed Arayman more.

I continued on my path, wondering how my house might have changed in the past two years, when my eyes caught a glimpse of weather beaten, chocolate-coloured wood around the corner. I had reached home. My walk slowly turned into a sprint, I was excited to meet my mother and I wanted to embrace my house in my arms. I went up to the porch and pressed the doorbell just once, despite my excitement- my mother hated impatience, especially in this case: we had an exceedingly annoying doorbell. As I waited outside, the mahogany, floral carved door caught me in awe for the millionth time, it truly was alluring.

My mother opened the door after a lasting five minutes, and as soon as she opened the door, I embraced her in my arms. It felt comforting to a level which was indescribable, to have someone who cares for you in your arms, I had no intention of releasing her from my grasp. I soon had to pull away, and we had a small reunion at the doorway, full of kisses and hugs. She then went off to the kitchen, typical of her, worried that I might be hungry, and sure enough, I was starving. I went to my room and freshened up; it was completely the way I had left it- clean, tidy, and with everything in its rightful place. My mother was obsessive about being tidy, and I had got that trait from her. She had taken good care of this place, just as I had expected.

Mum had told me that it would take another 20 minutes for my favourite delicacy, chole-bhature (made by my mother’s hands), to get ready and so I proceeded to rediscover my house. I soon realised that this excursion in my castle of a house, was pointless; the place hadn’t changed a bit! The marbled, patterned floors had worn down a little, and it reminded me of how, when we were little, me and Arayman used to race on our cycles indoors, on these same marbles floors, all day long. The new coat of paint reminded me of my father’s wrath when me and Arayman tried to draw ‘power-rangers’ on the walls. The green-stained windows that opened to the living room reminded me of how Arayman used to summon me for a coloured water balloon fight on the day of Holi (the Hindu festival of colours and water).

As I walked past the door to my basement, I refused to step in or even glance at it; not when my wounds had almost completely healed! My intentions were to walk by the door as if it wasn’t there, but it was, and so was somebody else. Just then, a tune I was so familiar with, reached my ears, and the hair at the back of my neck stood up. The muscles at my calves tensed and I stopped, rock solid. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face and dropped to the ground. It made a sound that pierced through the music and defibrillated my brain back to its senses. My heart had skipped a beat. I hadn’t heard this tune for the past two years, I just couldn’t, it would be excruciating, and here I was.

I was at the same place I had last heard it, and maybe, just maybe, I was with the same person I always listened to it with. Maybe he was just a few meters below me, I wondered. I asked myself this question a million times in those sixty seconds- ‘was it possible?’ Had my dead best friend had come back to life?! It was true that only Arayman knew where the disk was kept, and it sure was a rare tune, but it could also be possible that the universe was not in my favour, even though the odds were. There was still a one percent chance that it wasn’t him, but there was a ninety nine percent chance that it was. I was torn apart but I finally decided. I relaxed my muscles and moved on.

I could not bear the pain of losing him, not again. I realised, some things are best left forgotten.

It was Happiness Herself

Her distinctive sea-green eyes glistened in the mildly warm evening sun. The little girl looked so innocent: there were no creases on her face, it was completely relaxed, and her smile made it all the more beautiful. She started laughing, her chipped-off, snow-white teeth were exposed, but they added to her innocence. She was wearing an off-white, vintage colored frock- stereotypical, but graceful on young girls. Her dress swayed in the light, cold breeze as she was swept up and down with the swing.A wreath made up of small, white and pink daisies rested ravishingly on her alluring, hazel-brown hair. These were pleated into two beautiful braids, both of which rested on her bare shoulders. Her hair looked astonishing as the streaks of the different shades of orange shone from the sunset. She held the chains of the swings in a sloppy, childish manner, and as she went up towards the sun with the swing, she shrieked with joy.

The young girl gave away an expression of happiness such that you could only see in children. Children don’t have a single worry in life- they enjoy every single lingering moment without the fear of losing it forever, something that we, as adults, strive to achieve. I did not know this girl, I saw her just a few minutes ago, but I felt a sense of belonging to her- it felt as if I was sent to this earth to protect what she symbolized: an ocean of pure joy condensed into the most precious droplet. It felt as if her life was paradise and I had to guard it against monsters who would want to exploit it. I was scared and angry about what the world was most definitely going do to her, it was going to destroy her, but not on my watch! She was an inspiration to me; she is an inspiration to the whole world. She symbolizes the merrier world we all hope to live in someday.