 "<b>Lunch with BS:</b> Bindeshwar Pathak")
A sociologist by training, he designed a toilet with a simple flush system that did away with the need for manual cleaning in 1968. Armed with the design, he has spent the last four decades trying to change social prejudices and sanitation practices, one pot at a time. As I walk into the New York Cafe at Radisson Blu Plaza to have lunch with Bindeshwar Pathak, founder of Sulabh International, I am looking forward to some interesting, if indelicate, conversation with the man who has dedicated an entire museum to the world's loo habits and is credited with the introduction of paid public toilets in India.
At first glance, Pathak, dapper in his trademark red silk jacket over kurta-pyjama, seems an unlikely toilet evangelist. Within minutes, though, our conversation veers towards how he was drawn to this cause. "As a child, I would see bucket pots in toilets but never realised that women would actually come twice a day to manually empty them out. They were untouchables, and hardly ever seen. Then one day, I accidentally touched one of them and caused an uproar. My grandmother made me eat cow dung and urine to purify myself…." From such orthodox origins, Pathak grew up to join the Bihar Gandhi Centenary Celebration Committee. "I was a lowly writer there in the late sixties, until I was entrusted with the job of improving the lot of manual scavengers, Harijans - Gandhi's beloved people," he says.
With no background in toilet engineering, he spent three months living with scavengers and eating in their homes, much to his father and father-in-law's disgust. He even cleaned a couple of toilets to see what it was like. "It was so degrading, so foul, that I didn't think I'd survive the experience," he recollects soberly. Eventually, Pathak found a tattered World Health Organisation booklet on pit toilets for rural areas. "I modified the design to a two-pit model in which the excreta collects in one pit and composts in the other, involving minimal water for flushing," he explains between sips of fresh lime soda.
The second incident was more tragic. "A little boy in a red shirt was attacked by a bull in the local market. A murmur went up among his rescuers that he was a Harijan. No one came forward to touch him or help him! By the time I managed to rescue him, he was dead… I realised then that working with these people was my life's calling, my mission."
But then, Pathak's fortunes went south. He had no funds to implement his ideas. He ran from pillar to post trying to get government grants to make his toilets, but to no avail. He had to sell his wife's jewellery to make ends meet and yet, often went to bed hungry. Maybe that is why even today, the owner of the Rs 300-crore Sulabh International remains a frugal man. "There were times in my youth when I had no money for dinner. So, to date, I eat sparingly," he says as I guiltily order harissa-rubbed sea bass while he opts for just mulligatawny soup.
The attentive staff brings a basket of warm bread to the table. Pathak absent-mindedly nibbles on a piece of focaccia as he talks about the one bit of advice that changed the course of his life. "A senior IAS officer told me that if I kept up this search for funds, I'd never get any work done. He advised me to develop a self-sustaining model for public sanitation." That was how the idea of pay-per-use toilets came to him. Five years later, Pathak's toilets were all over Bihar, and the joke was that Biharis not only had to pay for rail and bus tickets, but also to answer nature's call.
Two affluent executive-types occupy the table next to ours. They fidget uncomfortably when snippets of our conversation float their way. For Pathak, however, sanitation is his dharma; he sees nothing amiss about talking about it at the lunch table.
Our food arrives and the conversation veers towards the ripple effect his toilet design has had in the communities where Sulabh works. "In Alwar and Tonk [Rajasthan], along with the new toilets, we also provided vocational training to ex-scavengers. We spoke to and counselled people of other castes there, who had forbidden the scavengers from even entering the local temple. Today, the temple priest himself calls these once-untouchable people to his house, eats and drinks with them. When asked what's changed, he says that now that they're no longer cleaning toilets, he sees no difference between them and himself."
Who would have thought that a simple change in toilet engineering would re-engineer age-old social mores, I wonder as I enjoy the embarrassingly large portion of fish spiced with a hot chilli pepper paste while my abstemious companion sips his soup. The key, he says, relatively oblivious to the pleasures of the palate, lay in focusing on the people and their specific needs: "Compassion and empathy achieve much more than strikes and protests," he says, adding that in his experience, folded hands always trump violence and anger when it comes to bringing people around to one's way of thinking.
As he indulges his sweet tooth with a beautifully presented creme caramel topped with seasonal fruit, the conversation turns to philanthropy. "The rich in India need to find their own conscience; to give a little of what they earn. We must learn the art of giving before the art of living! I look around, I see billionaires… but where's India's Bill Gates?"
I order a cup of cappuccino as we discuss his plans. Clearly, his toilet business has tapped a huge untapped demand in India, for Sulabh International's annual turnover is an astonishing Rs 300 crore (compare it to about Rs 60 in 1973-74), of which most of the profits go into charitable works. "We disburse about Rs 15 crore per annum in honorariums to indigent widows; rehabilitation schemes for manual scavengers; the cleaning of six ghats in Varanasi and in the running of a school in our Delhi campus for the children of scavengers. In the next few years, our plan is to expand our focus to other marginalised communities such as devdasis, prostitutes and lepers," he says. Another project about which Pathak is excited involves inspiring affluent companies and businessmen to adopt villages and blocks to improve their sanitation infrastructure. Also on the anvil is a sanitation university for which his organisation has already acquired land.
It sounds like a lot of work, I remark as we get up to leave. But clearly, that is not something that fazes the affable 72-year-old. He still works 16-hour days, he says. "Just like my wife gave birth to our three children, I also became pregnant and gave birth to Sulabh. How can I not be deeply involved with it?" I ask him how he has remained so youthful and energetic at his age. He smiles, "To stay and feel young, all one needs to do is love one's work. That's the passion that keeps me youthful."
At first glance, Pathak, dapper in his trademark red silk jacket over kurta-pyjama, seems an unlikely toilet evangelist. Within minutes, though, our conversation veers towards how he was drawn to this cause. "As a child, I would see bucket pots in toilets but never realised that women would actually come twice a day to manually empty them out. They were untouchables, and hardly ever seen. Then one day, I accidentally touched one of them and caused an uproar. My grandmother made me eat cow dung and urine to purify myself…." From such orthodox origins, Pathak grew up to join the Bihar Gandhi Centenary Celebration Committee. "I was a lowly writer there in the late sixties, until I was entrusted with the job of improving the lot of manual scavengers, Harijans - Gandhi's beloved people," he says.
With no background in toilet engineering, he spent three months living with scavengers and eating in their homes, much to his father and father-in-law's disgust. He even cleaned a couple of toilets to see what it was like. "It was so degrading, so foul, that I didn't think I'd survive the experience," he recollects soberly. Eventually, Pathak found a tattered World Health Organisation booklet on pit toilets for rural areas. "I modified the design to a two-pit model in which the excreta collects in one pit and composts in the other, involving minimal water for flushing," he explains between sips of fresh lime soda.
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During his stint in the scavengers' colony, two events changed his world view. "I saw a young bride being forced to clean toilets before her henna had faded. Her piteous cries wrung my heart, but her mother-in-law told me not to interfere. She asked me how else the girl would earn a livelihood when society would let her do nothing else. I can still hear her cries in my head," he says. This made Pathak realise the importance of integrating scavengers into society by breaking caste barriers.
The second incident was more tragic. "A little boy in a red shirt was attacked by a bull in the local market. A murmur went up among his rescuers that he was a Harijan. No one came forward to touch him or help him! By the time I managed to rescue him, he was dead… I realised then that working with these people was my life's calling, my mission."
But then, Pathak's fortunes went south. He had no funds to implement his ideas. He ran from pillar to post trying to get government grants to make his toilets, but to no avail. He had to sell his wife's jewellery to make ends meet and yet, often went to bed hungry. Maybe that is why even today, the owner of the Rs 300-crore Sulabh International remains a frugal man. "There were times in my youth when I had no money for dinner. So, to date, I eat sparingly," he says as I guiltily order harissa-rubbed sea bass while he opts for just mulligatawny soup.
The attentive staff brings a basket of warm bread to the table. Pathak absent-mindedly nibbles on a piece of focaccia as he talks about the one bit of advice that changed the course of his life. "A senior IAS officer told me that if I kept up this search for funds, I'd never get any work done. He advised me to develop a self-sustaining model for public sanitation." That was how the idea of pay-per-use toilets came to him. Five years later, Pathak's toilets were all over Bihar, and the joke was that Biharis not only had to pay for rail and bus tickets, but also to answer nature's call.
Two affluent executive-types occupy the table next to ours. They fidget uncomfortably when snippets of our conversation float their way. For Pathak, however, sanitation is his dharma; he sees nothing amiss about talking about it at the lunch table.
Our food arrives and the conversation veers towards the ripple effect his toilet design has had in the communities where Sulabh works. "In Alwar and Tonk [Rajasthan], along with the new toilets, we also provided vocational training to ex-scavengers. We spoke to and counselled people of other castes there, who had forbidden the scavengers from even entering the local temple. Today, the temple priest himself calls these once-untouchable people to his house, eats and drinks with them. When asked what's changed, he says that now that they're no longer cleaning toilets, he sees no difference between them and himself."
Who would have thought that a simple change in toilet engineering would re-engineer age-old social mores, I wonder as I enjoy the embarrassingly large portion of fish spiced with a hot chilli pepper paste while my abstemious companion sips his soup. The key, he says, relatively oblivious to the pleasures of the palate, lay in focusing on the people and their specific needs: "Compassion and empathy achieve much more than strikes and protests," he says, adding that in his experience, folded hands always trump violence and anger when it comes to bringing people around to one's way of thinking.
As he indulges his sweet tooth with a beautifully presented creme caramel topped with seasonal fruit, the conversation turns to philanthropy. "The rich in India need to find their own conscience; to give a little of what they earn. We must learn the art of giving before the art of living! I look around, I see billionaires… but where's India's Bill Gates?"
I order a cup of cappuccino as we discuss his plans. Clearly, his toilet business has tapped a huge untapped demand in India, for Sulabh International's annual turnover is an astonishing Rs 300 crore (compare it to about Rs 60 in 1973-74), of which most of the profits go into charitable works. "We disburse about Rs 15 crore per annum in honorariums to indigent widows; rehabilitation schemes for manual scavengers; the cleaning of six ghats in Varanasi and in the running of a school in our Delhi campus for the children of scavengers. In the next few years, our plan is to expand our focus to other marginalised communities such as devdasis, prostitutes and lepers," he says. Another project about which Pathak is excited involves inspiring affluent companies and businessmen to adopt villages and blocks to improve their sanitation infrastructure. Also on the anvil is a sanitation university for which his organisation has already acquired land.
It sounds like a lot of work, I remark as we get up to leave. But clearly, that is not something that fazes the affable 72-year-old. He still works 16-hour days, he says. "Just like my wife gave birth to our three children, I also became pregnant and gave birth to Sulabh. How can I not be deeply involved with it?" I ask him how he has remained so youthful and energetic at his age. He smiles, "To stay and feel young, all one needs to do is love one's work. That's the passion that keeps me youthful."