Right to Education and So Much More...

The Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act (RTE) enacted by the Union Parliament came into effect from 1^st April 2010. The crux of the legislation is that it makes mandatory for the state to provide free and compulsory education to all children between the six and fourteen years of age at a neighbourhood school. Amongst other things, the legislation sets benchmarks for the quality of education to be imparted in terms of school infrastructure, learning equipments and number and quality of teachers. If this law is to be implemented in its letter and spirit, it would require a massive deployment of resources – financial resources for meeting the objective of setting up large number of neighbourhood schools i.e. schools within 1-3 km from the homes of children and manpower resources in terms of number of teachers to man those schools – for in both these respects the gap between what exists and what is desired is huge. That is if we forget the next level challenges of quality and commitment of manpower. The law gives the state three years time to set up such neighbourhood schools, of which a year and a half has already lapsed.

So much as far as the broad contours of the legislation is concerned. But then the devil is always in the details. The legislation has been passed by the Union Parliament but as is the case with all legislations, the law per se defines only the broad parameters. These broad parameters have to be then supported by rules which define the various finer details which are left by the legislature to be drafted by the executive i.e. the Cabinet and the bureaucrats. In the case of the RTE, the Union Parliament has only passed the main law but left it to the individual state governments to frame rules to support the legislation. As things stand today, one and half years after the law was enacted only about 20 states have framed the rules which in effect means that the remaining states have not even taken baby steps towards implementing the legislation. And considering the huge deployment of resources and setting up of processes and infrastructure at various levels which even an attempt at implementing this legislation requires, this state of inertia is remarkably poor. What is more worrying is that it is the bigger states such as Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Maharashtra, Gujarat and West Bengal which have not yet framed rules to the RTE Act.

The provision in RTE Act which has been most in the news and which is also being held up as the reason behind some states going slow on framing rules is the one relating to all private schools having to reserve 25% of its seats for children from economically weaker sections of society (EWS) in the neighbourhood. As per the RTE Act, the state would reimburse such schools by paying them at the rate of average expenditure incurred on the education of a child by the state which might be less than the fees that the private school would have otherwise charged from any other student, even if the element of capitation fees charged at the time of admission is ignored. The devil, as always, will lie in the detail – at what rate the private schools will be reimbursed will be notified separately by the respective state governments. But in any case the scope for profiteering by the private schools, whether in the garb of capitation fees or annual fee hikes, will be definitely reduced to that extent. The private schools have come together in several cities, including New Delhi and Bangalore and have challenged this particular provision in the RTE Act.  The matter, as of now, is pending for adjudication before a constitution bench of the Supreme Court.

This particular provision in the RTE Act, to my mind, is a brave piece of legislation. Its genesis might have been rooted in the problem of not having sufficient number of government schools to be able to impart the promised education to all children but it has nevertheless potential for far reaching consequences. It will not only open windows of access to a quality of education better than that imparted in most government schools for children belonging to EWS, but will also bring a certain diversity to the teaching and learning environment in schools. Many parents from the well-to-do class of society are apprehensive about the fact that their children will share space with children from an entirely different background and with habits and priorities very different from those that they would like their children to have. But then the state must think differently from an individual for its perspective and priorities are different from those of individuals. This particular provision in the RTE Act has immense potential to promote a more inclusive and accommodating society in the long run. It helps no one’s cause to bury your head deep into the ground like an ostrich and not see what is around and real, which is what the gated communities, heavily overpriced multiplexes and exclusive shopping malls are forcing us to believe. More true for children who were born into this lifestyle of exclusivity (or isolation, as you may see it) than for somebody who has seen both sides of the fence. Studying with or being friends with somebody belonging to a family with needs, goals, habits entirely different from yours can be a learning experience for both – an experience which has a better chance to crystallise into a maturity that comes from being aware of differences and of reality, whether good, bad or ugly. It shall make the younger generation, especially the privileged lot, more aware of the context in which we live – we are still a poor country with millions of people living in unacceptable conditions of poverty – and how this context is different, very different from the make believe world that the exclusive schools, apartments, malls and multiplexes would want us to imagine.

Of course all of this is largely an urban phenomenon but then given how the cities have always been pivotal hinges around which widespread social changes have taken root and spread into the countryside around it, it makes sense to make a mountain out of the molehill that the provision relating to reservation for EWS children might appear at first thought. And yes, there is no denying that this experiment is likely to open up several new points of conflict – between the state and the private schools, the parents and the state, the parents and the schools and between children belonging to altogether different sections of society – but then dealing with an issue is always a better bet in the long run than denying it altogether. After all peace, as somebody told me and I remembered, comes not from absence of conflict but from dealing with conflict.

The Hindu : News / National : Gone in 50 seconds

The Hindu : News / National : Gone in 50 seconds

Stories from Manesar, Kadapa and elsewhere

Aman Sethi’s essay in today’s Hindu aptly titled “Gone in 50 seconds” goes on to describe how the speeding up of its assembly line at Manesar brought Maruti to a screeching halt. A fifty second assembly line translates into the plant rolling out 1152 cars every day over two shifts of eight hours each. I found the starting paragraph particularly fascinating where he says “On most days in this industrial suburb of Delhi, a phalanx of robotic arms weld sheets of pressed steel into silvery monocoque body shells that emerge from the paint shop in shades of arctic pearl white, glistening grey, blazing red and midnight black.” The sum and substance of the essay is captured in one particular paragraph where he writes “For a worker, line acceleration can be a harrowing experience. When I first began working for Maruti, assembly lines used to run right through my dreams, said a worker with a laugh and continued that, these days I suppose I am so tired that I don’t get dreams anymore.”

A few days earlier, I was standing on the terrace of a 15 storeyed high rise apartment with Azhar and Saddam. They were construction workers employed with the Delhi-based contractor firm which was to build the planned massive residential project comprising of five imposing towers of which only one had been completed and occupied so far. From atop the terrace of this sole completed tower you could see the landscape all around – a landscape dotted with half-finished buildings, tall cranes, massive earth movers and scores of workers with yellow coloured helmets sitting pretty on their still heads as they went about cementing the foundation of a neighbouring tower. A little further away you could see a few abandoned semi-constructed buildings, a famished water body and a colony of tin sheds clustered together in no particular pattern. Azhar was in his late 20s while Saddam was much younger. Both were from Kishanganj in Bihar. When I walked into the terrace, I found Azhar standing alone, leaning lightly against the parapet and looking down peacefully from the vantage point that he was in. After I had viewed the landscape all around and spent a few quiet moments looking into the skyline of a city transforming itself into now familiar shapes and colours of concrete towers, I felt the urge to strike a conversation with my quiet companion and contemporary. Azhar dropped his reticence at the first opportunity and showed much interest in the ensuing conversation. He told me that he was in this line of work since the last ten years and that he had stayed and worked in Delhi, Hyderabad and Bangalore in all these years. He promptly counted five localities in Bangalore where he had stayed and worked in the last eleven months. He did painting work for which he was paid Rs. 300 for every eight hours of work in a day. Besides, he was also getting overtime wages at the same rate for every additional 8 hours of work. He said that he and his colleagues ended up working 12-16 hours every day and added that they did not mind it because there wasn’t any other “time-pass” for them at that place anyway. I think he smiled when he said that his work is his “time-pass.”

By this time a boyish looking Saddam joined him and it was then that they told me that they are both from Kishanganj. How often do they go home? They said that they do get to go back to their home for 15-20 days after every six to eight months but I noticed that they said it without much enthusiasm in their voice or demeanour, which is what I had expected when I had asked them about their native place. How was living in the city like? Not bad, Azhar said. Then with a slight hesitation in his voice he added “except that I have to live in a jhuggi.” And then he pointed out to that colony of tin sheds and said “that’s where we live.” Each tin shed shared by 3-4 persons. Every morning he and his colleagues are at the worksite by eight. But before they arrive for their duties, they cook their meals for the rest of the day (each house mate does it by turns) and carry the same to their work site. By the time they return to their tin shed most of the lights in the only completed tower would have gone off. And they have little unspent energy to brood upon such trivialities like having to live in a jhuggi. Today morning when I read about the worker in the Maruti factory who would return home so tired that he didn’t get dreams anymore, my mind scampered off to a distant terrace of a fifteen storeyed tower.

In the beginning of this week, I met Muneer on an autorickshaw. He was driving it. Muneer happened to forget taking a critical turn (critical considering the number of one-ways in Bangalore) en route to my destination. Both of us realised it soon after but by then it was too late for a course correction. So we made light of it and Muneer explained how he went ahead in one particular direction because every day he happened to ferry his passengers in that direction. On a route clogged with vehicles it is indeed sometimes difficult to distinguish one road from the other or one traffic signal from the next. They all look alike – restless, distraught and noisy. Muneer went on to describe how the city has transformed itself over the years and how lives have changed. He explained how he and his entire family could have a full meal for ten rupees not long back, and now you do not even get a packet of milk for that much. He said he earns an average of Rs. 500 every day after working for nearly 12 hours in a day and ends up spending Rs. 400 out of it, despite his devout way of life. He went on to describe in his own colourful style as to how the city had been ruined because of the influx of Biharis. (this after he had confirmed that I was a native of Bengal and he had said a few good words about Bengalis in general) Why Biharis, I asked? Because the locals here got hooked on to Manikchand (gutka) after they were introduced to it by the Biharis. The Biharis have swarmed the city, he said. All the construction workers are Biharis. I asked him why. He said because if a local is even spoken roughly to he will not turn up for work the next day, whereas the Biharis – even if they are shouted at, abused and made to over work – they refuse to leave. His generalisations apart, I felt that Muneer’s surmises about how the job market right at the bottom of the pyramid functions was not very far from reality. I am grateful that he told all of this to me in a very jocular vein and not with the sense of despondency that it deserves.

As deftly as Muneer had explained the decline of purchasing power of rupee, Raju who works as a driver at my office explained the logic behind migration from rural countryside into urban jungles such as Bangalore. In his village in Kadapa district in Andhra Pradesh, if one has an acre of land and he sows groundnut he will extract a maximum of 1000 kilograms of groundnut. This he has to sell at Rs. 600 per quintal which translates into a meagre income of Rs. 6000. He did not forget to underline the irony that the groundnut which the farmer in Kadapa sells at Rs. 6 per kg is bought from hawkers in Bangalore for Rs. 5 for 50 grams. He went on to explain that agriculture in his village and in so many other regions of Rayalseema is not irrigation-driven and is therefore wholly dependant on the rains which must not only be sufficient but should also come at the right times during the crop cycle. Five years ago the farmers went on to install borewells to draw water from the underlying water table but in no time the borewells fell into disuse because the water table beneath did not have much to offer. Does it not make sense then, he asks, to desert the villages and come to cities looking for work? Any kind of work in any kind of conditions. Would they then bother about such trivialities like having to live in a jhuggi, I wonder.

Meanwhile, when it gets very hot in the afternoons or very dusty and noisy at the traffic signals, I pull up the tinted windows of my car, switch on the air-conditioner and play some soft music. And I try hard to forget that there is a world outside my car of which I am a part and which is a part of me....