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I am Sangeeta Kampani, 63, formerly from the Indian Revenue Service. As we inch towards the 75th year celebrations of our hard-won independence, equality of opportunity still remains a mirage. Here is a piece of verse I have composed for the YourTurn section, telling the story of a gardener’s daughter who finally realises her dream of getting admitted to a English-speaking school. But soon her dream comes crashing down as she realises the impossible, impassable gulf between her and the others who came from a privileged background.
From the margins
I had dreamt of this moment for years
But now that I was there
And strided into that mammoth building,
I felt I had walked into the maw of a monster.
As I gazed at its magnificent structure,
It dazzled my eyes like a distant star
One look at it, and I could fathom,
the light came from a world afar.
It was my first day in this English speaking school
My dream, my desire, my destination
And here I was, having finally found admission.
My uniform was new and crisp
But I was nervous
Struggling to find a grip.
I could sense my father’s weariness
No obvious signs
Just his silence
He kept holding my hand tight.
I noticed his breath was rather forced
Not regular and light.
He was nervous
As he looked at my scarred knees
I felt conscious
My mother had really scrubbed the hell out of me
I was lathered, shampooed, exfoliated, medicated, rubbed down,
Even moisturised
My parents tried hard to rewrite my story
They were obsessed that I don’t look like special category.
My father is a gardener
The school is his domain
The very first thing I noticed was no one called him uncle there
Everyone just yelled out his name.
Even as a ten year old
I found it rather odd
My father deserved better respect I thought.
Around me, I could hear faint whispers
Someone said I looked like burnt sugar
Never before I felt like such a wretched sore
Impinging so uncomfortably onto everyone’s core
The other children glistened with presence,
Radiated confidence
Their skins shone like porcelain
I looked at them with awe
But honestly I never felt more ugly within.
Meanwhile the teacher came
Looked at me fleetingly
“Oh, So you are RamLal’s daughter”,
she said condescendingly.
The rest of the day
No one came to me
No one talked to me
I wanted to speak
But each time I tried
Words deserted me.
On my way back, I heard hushed whispers
People saying I was a girl from the margins….
I couldn’t figure that out
But tell me,
Is that what they call children
Whose fathers toil in the gardens?
Email: sangeetakampani6@gmail.com
Twitter: @KampaniSangeeta
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.
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