Ashweetha Shetty – TED Talk TRANSCRIPT
I was eight years old. I remember that day clearly like it happened just yesterday.
My mother is a bidi roller. She hand-rolls country cigarettes to sustain our family. She is a hard worker and spent 10 to 12 hours every day rolling bidis.
That particular day she came home and showed me her bidi-rolling wage book. She asked me how much money she has earned that week. I went through that book, and what caught my eyes were her thumbprints on each page.
My mother has never been to school. She uses her thumbprints instead of a signature to keep a record of her earnings. On that day, for some reason, I wanted to teach her how to hold a pen and write her name.
She was reluctant at first. She smiled innocently and said no. But deep down, I was sure she wanted to give it a try. With a little bit of perseverance and a lot of effort, we managed to write her name. Her hands were trembling, and her face was beaming with pride.
As I watched her do this, for the first time in my life, I had a priceless feeling: that I could be of some use to this world. That feeling was very special, because I am not meant to be useful.
In rural India, girls are generally considered worthless. They’re a liability or a burden. If they are considered useful, it is only to cook dishes, keep the house clean or raise children.
As a second daughter of my conservative Indian family, I was fairly clear from a very early age that no one expected anything from me. I was conditioned to believe that the three identities that defined me — poor village girl — meant that I was to live a life of no voice and no choice.
These three identities forced me to think that I should never have been born. Yet, I was.
All throughout my childhood, as I rolled bidis alongside my mother, I would wonder: What did my future hold? I often asked my mother, with a lot of anxiety, “Amma, will my life be different from yours? Will I have a chance to choose my life? Will I go to college?”
And she would reply back, “Try to finish high school first.”
I am sure my mother did not mean to discourage me. She only wanted me to understand that my dreams might be too big for a girl in my village.
When I was 13, I found the autobiography of Helen Keller. Helen became my inspiration. I admired her indomitable spirit. I wanted to have a college degree like her. So I fought with my father and my relatives to be sent to college, and it worked.
During my final year of my undergraduate degree, I desperately wanted to escape from being forced into marriage. So I applied to a fellowship program in Delhi, which is about 1,600 miles away from my village.
In fact, I recall that the only way I could fill out the application was during my commute to college. I did not have access to computers, so I had to borrow a college junior’s cell phone.
As a woman, I could not be seen with a cell phone. So I used to huddle his phone under my shawl and type as slowly as possible to ensure that I would not be heard.
After many rounds of interviews, I got into the fellowship program with a full scholarship. My father was confused, my mother was worried…
My father was confused, my mother was worried, but I felt butterflies in my stomach because I was going to step out of my village for the first time to study in the national capital.
Of the 97 fellows selected that year, I was the only rural college graduate. There was no one there who looked like me or spoke like me. I felt alienated, intimidated and judged by many.
One fellow called me “Coconut Girl.” Can you guess why? Anyone? That’s because I applied a lot of coconut oil to my hair.
Another asked me where I had learned to speak English, and some of my peers did not prefer to have me on their assignment teams because they thought I would not be able to contribute to their discussion.
I felt that many of my peers believed that a person from rural India could not supply anything of value, yet the majority of Indian population today is rural.
I realized that stories like mine were considered to be an exception and never the expectation. I believe that all of us are born into a reality that we blindly accept until something awakens us and a new world opens up.
When I saw my mother’s first signature on her bidi-rolling wage book, when I felt the hot Delhi air against my face after a 50-hour train journey. When I finally felt free and let myself be, I saw a glimpse of that new world I longed for, a world where a girl like me is no longer a liability or a burden but a person of use, a person of value and a person of worthiness.
By the time my fellowship ended, my life had changed. Not only had I traced my lost voice, but also had a choice to make myself useful.
I was 22. I came back to my village to set up the Bodhi Tree Foundation, an institution that supports rural youth by providing them with education, life skills and opportunities. We work closely with our rural youth to change their life and to benefit our communities.
How do I know my institution is working? Well, six months ago, we had a new joinee. Her name is Kaviarasi. I first spotted her in a local college in Tirunelveli during one of my training sessions.
As you can see, she has a smile which you can never forget. We guided her to get an opportunity to study at Ashoka University, Delhi.