Is just the right to education enough?

For a country reeling under various ills, we’re probably all in agreement that illiteracy is the root cause of our problems. We’re also, paradoxically, a country that prizes education, knowledge and learning. So our educated junta, say, like the OA, sometimes even have two post-graduate degrees. Because we don’t consider it a waste of time. And because for us middle class, bourgeois lot, not having a degree is a matter of shame. All we have to give our kids, is our so-called middle-class values and a good education.

When I was growing up, ‘failures’ in school were looked down upon. It was a convent school and a couple of our classmates were children of the class IV staff. The father of one was our school bus driver, of another, the guard at the school gates. And while they were given the opportunity to study with us, they could barely keep up. Pretty much a misfit in class, I spent a lot of time with these girls who the rest of the class wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. And I enjoyed the time I spent with them. Great girls, other than the inability to keep up with the rest of the class.

At PTA meetings, the class teachers complained to my parents that I was a bright kid who would fare better if I weren’t allowed to mix so much with the ‘failures’. That I must change my seat and my friends to get better marks. I remember making a token attempt at changing my seat and hanging out with the other girls, but it didn’t work out. In retrospect I realise I was a sensitive kid, quick to take offence, ashamed of my shabby skirts, let down twice and very aware of how different I was, in the UP upper caste milieu.

Anyhow, the girls failed again and were asked to leave school. Those were days when we didn’t have email and cellphones and soon I lost touch with most of them. As time went by I grew into myself, made new friends, changed schools and ditched my misfit image with it and was soon Head Girl, on the school magazine editorial board and generally living it up.

But I always did wonder what happened to the kids who were asked to leave. No other school would take them, because they had failed twice in our school. So who took a chance on them? Was that the end of the road? Did they go on to become Class IV staff too?

It all came back to me a few days ago when I was reading up on the Right to Education. How do these poor kids manage? I know that inspite of coming from a family that was far more educated (even my great grandmother was more educated than the mothers of most of my classmates, some of them not even Class X pass), I still felt like an outcast. Children can be cruel and girls can be worse than boys in terms of discrimination. Money talks. Money matters. Skin colour matters, no matter how hard we try to tell our kids otherwise.

It took immense strength, moving to a co-ed school and creating a new image for myself before I truly began to believe in myself. Labels aren’t easily cast off. As I walked the ramp, took the mike at debates, led the school and marched through the city streets carrying the school flag, I grew in my mind. Grew into a person worthy of my own as well as others’ respect.

So how hard, I wonder, will it be for these kids who come from less privileged backgrounds, forced into rich private schools, to sit alongside kids who take their summer holidays in Europe, come to school in Audis and go for piano, ballet and horse riding lessons every week.

I was also pleased to see that a father here, went to court and prevented his daughter from being expelled from school, for failing twice. I don’t want to be unreasonable so I really would like to know why this number has been picked. Why twice? Why not once or thrice or ten times? And what do schools imagine these children will do once they’ve been expelled?

Also – while there is now the right to education, are there enough facilities? Some schools don’t even have water for the kids to drink. There aren’t enough teachers and there are no classrooms, just broken down shacks. On the other hand, I hate to be the voice of doom. Something is definitely better than nothing and I am sure we will soon see each of these problems being tackled. The road ahead looks tough but I respect Kapil Sibal for every positive  step he’s taking. He has my vote, every single time.

A little bigger than my problem

It was only two days ago that I was wallowing in self pity, feeding on your empathy, quite sure that it was the end of the world for my kids. Their imagination stamped upon, their creativity stifled, poor misunderstood, unappreciated babies. Ah woe is me.

Until I picked up the paper and read this. Tribal children in Jharkhand – poverty stricken and diseased. Hot rods driven into their distended stomachs to kill worms. One rebels against the image that the West has of our country. Uneducated, superstitious, poor, neglected. Each time a foreigner brings it up, we find ways to disprove them. Our IITs, our malls, our metro systems, the new shining India.

And then something like this happens and everything else is wiped out. Is insignificant in the face of something like this. When all it takes is a little bottle of Zentel once in 6 months, why is it that its not getting to these poor tribals? Where are the government hospitals? Are they staffed? Are medicines available? And they probably aren’t if people are resorting to plunging hot rods through a child’s stomach. Some as young as three years old. As young as my little Bean. Read more at Tracking Hunger.

What are we going to do about it?

Pick a side

… if you can.

If you’ve been following the news, you’ve probably caught this bit too. Fearing a CRPF lashback, the villagers have abandoned their homes and disappeared. If I’ve stayed quiet on this for the last week, it is only because I am very torn. I feel for the CRPF guys – apparently they only get Rs 300 a day field allowance, are poorly trained and neglected to an extent where you wonder why they bother to protect us.

But I also feel for the tribals and yet if I mention it, I risk being lumped with terrorists and other unpatriotic elements. If there’s one thing I’ve gone hoarse repeating on this blog, it is that violence is no answer, and yet, what do these people do after years of silent resistance? Are we really listening to their pleas? Nope, we have our iPods plugged in and it doesn’t matter that we’re pushing their limits further back, encroaching on their livelihood and squashing them mercilessly. Exactly how long did we imagine we’d get away with ignoring their plight?

The government is gearing up to crush them, they say. Crush, defeat, repress – I am tired of hearing such terms. Everyone has a point. There are three sides to every story. When are we going to give them a fair hearing? Why can we not meet them halfway? It is as much their India as it is ours so how dare we override their rights to their way of life?

I know Arundhati Roy is nobody’s favourite person, and yet I can’t help but see her point. In fact, lets not talk about Arundhati – I leave you with Palash’s piece on Mob. He says it better.

Pleading depression, milord

I felt quite bad when the shoe was flung at Chidambaram. Simply because I felt that hitting one member of a political party in the face with a shoe, is no guarantee that you will get justice. Neither is it right to humiliate one person for an entire political party’s misdoings. And finally, I felt it was wrong for a member of the media to become activist. I’ve had this argument often. You can either be at a place as the journalist, the observer, or then as an activist. When you cross those lines and breach trust, you create problems. Mostly though, I don’t condone taking the law into your own hands.

And yet, inspite of the family rushing in to call their son depressive after his attack on Rathore, I can’t help but feel that this was in a weird way, justified. Don’t get me wrong – in my sane moments I go back to condemning violence.

But I also feel this sense of hopelessness. That no good is going to come of this case. That the poor girl’s soul will get no rest. And it’s somewhat better to see young men go attack molesters and rapists rather than waste their time storming pubs, molesting young women and being ridiculously xenophobic.

Funny thing though, I notice our ICICI ATMs in Delhi have instructions in Hindi, English and Marathi. It’s never really bothered me and it still doesn’t make a difference to my life – but I think its time to show the MNS and Sena guys a mirror by registering my protest here.

So – why Marathi in Delhi? Why not Punjabi or Bengali or Tamil?  Take your Marathi off my ATM and replace it with ANY of the other languages across the country before you send the poor taxi drivers packing. No, I really don’t care if you replace it with Bodo, Santali or Dogri – just replace it with any language from any state that doesn’t behave as though the rest of the country needs a visa for entry.

Happy Republic Day

…to all of you. The Brat came back from school with a little flag … our National Flag. After I unpinned it I fussed over what to do with it, that wouldn’t be disrespectful. I wondered what he’d understood  of Republic Day in school. Independence is somehow easier for a child to understand than the transition of a country to being a republic, the adoption of a constitution.

On the other hand, its sad to see that the US brand Haagen Dazs recently opened shop in Delhi, and put up a sign that said no Indians were allowed. Yes, I waited for them to explain themselves. For the controversy to blow over. And they did try. Very unsatisfactorily.

Apparently they turned the Indian away because of the weekend rush. Really? So they first insult the Indian guy, then they insult the average Indian’s intelligence. Its a fricking ice cream parlour, not an aircraft. How hard is it to request a customer to wait a few minutes if you are busy?

I passed the controversial store the other day and was very pleased to see it empty. I hope it continues to stay empty and they’re forced to shut down and haul their racist arses back to the US. Sorry to sound so vindictive, but I’d have thought someone would do something about it, but since that isn’t happening, its up to all of us to boycott the sorry sods and let them take the hint.