Girija. My Giri, once a stranger then my sister’s friend and then to mine. She was the girl who was so excited to see the pond in the village. My first image of her is that of Giri grabbing her yellow silk skirt and raising it to above her knees and dipping her foot into the water and giggling non-stop. She giggled as though someone was tickling her. I didn’t take my eyes off her. As an iron attracted to a magnet, I was pulled towards her by her magic laugh. I went near her and followed the same process as her. We dipped one foot and took it out and laughed and then the other. She giggled for some reason; I giggled looking at her. I played a new dip and laugh game in the pond where I dive effortlessly every day.

“Hey! Fish, Fish, Fish” she shouted over joy.

I spit into the water to bring more fish to the visibility, and as I expected they arrived. But as a crowd, fish too was attracted as me to her. She followed me and by then the game dip and take were replaced by spit and laugh.   

We repeated the process several times and were immersed in a different world until a woman came to take her away.

Her mother’s pull indicated how furious she was,

“Why didn’t you tell me? We are searching for you for an hour.” Her mom said to her by lifting her and then kissing her. A mother’s love was in the limelight, and few family members surrounded them. Nine-year-old Giri moved from me to the grip of her mom. She turned several times, I wished it was for me, but it was for the love she had for the waters.

 As I was looking at her, a man’s hand tapped my head and switched off my happiness by yelling at me. The eight-year-old me was attacked by a man, whom I didn’t know at all. It was my first experience of the real world around me. He just said two words and pushed me slightly and he went off, his vengeance, his anger everything was shown on his face. I fell on the steps where I was half immersed in the water. That day I encountered discrimination without knowing it would be part of my life forever. I was pointed out by a name that even I didn’t know the meaning of.

My sister the rebel flew to save me, not by lifting me from the water but by throwing a stone at the man who pushed me. The stone travelled for three steps and fell in front of her. I think even a stone knew that a girl from a lower caste will go through a lot if she raises against an upper-caste man. But as a kid, we didn’t know it. The man didn’t see, but his fellow men saw it. I stood from the water and walked towards my sister Valli. Two men walked fiercely towards us. Valli held my hand and we started running, it started there. I started running for my life at eight and still running. Ways might be different, but the pain is the same.

 I shouldn’t have asked that question to myself. I should have lived by accepting society as what it is. I should have followed in the footsteps of my dad, grandad everybody. They thought me the same, to accept everything around me as it is. They justified that everything is improving. Some elders advised me “Hey Raja look, we weren’t allowed to enter the pond back then, see you people are diving into it. Things are improving, don’t fight.” An eighty-year grandpa advised me once. My answer was I am not fighting, I am telling that I am no less than others.

The rebel in me was growing day by day, whenever I and my fellow friends were treated as second-class citizens for no reason.

I think that the rebel in me was highlighted in my Giri’s view. When there were so many guys in our village she choose me as her friend.      

Giri, an occasional visitor to my village but a person who always stays in my heart, whether she is near to me or not.

Original Copyright © Sukanya Pon