Reality bites

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

Soon after I came to live in Santiniketan, I came upon this young girl reciting a verse just outside my gate. "If you are so good at reciting poems, why don't you come in and recite them to me," I said.

A little bit of coaxing did the trick and soon the five-year-old and I were sitting on the porch, exchanging poems in Bengali.

She made it a habit to come in and share with me the latest poem she had learnt in school and over a few weeks her friends (children whose fathers were rickshaw pullers and mothers predominantly house helps) began to join her in her daily visits. Without realising they were falling into a routine, they were spending almost an hour with me every day.

Very quickly the group grew to about twenty five. The exchange of poems gave way to my teaching them Bengali, English and maths. Since the parents of these kids have no time at all to spend with them, the kids were unwilling to miss even a day with me.

After much negotiation it has been agreed that I will get a Sunday off besides the days that I am out of town. My social life has taken a beating as I am always occupied in the evenings. But I do not have any regrets.

The amount I learn from the kids is more than I would sitting around with friends. I get lessons in local names of fruits and flowers, wonderful recipes to cure coughs and colds with concoctions from leaves, in handicrafts that they have learnt in school, and even cycling!

I have begun to share their joys (over how much they collected as contribution for holding a Saraswati Puja) and their sorrows (usually inhuman beatings from their fathers for some misdeed). We often have serious debates on whether liquor (associated with drunken fathers) is bad or why India has a population problem.

As I was spending time with the kids I began to figure out where each of their aptitudes lay. I started talking to tailoring shops, kitchen stove cleaners and cycle repairers to find out if I could start vocational training for the older kids along with their studies.

What started as a mere exchange of pleasantries with a child had grown into a major preoccupation. Strangely, I was enjoying it thoroughly. Not having kids of my own because I was never particularly fond of them, my change of heart took even me by surprise.

As I was dreaming about how in the midst of all the deprivation, these kids would grow up to be different, I was in for a rude shock. One of the older boys, Ranajit, normally very regular, had begun to skip days with me.

When I asked, he had told me that his school homework was keeping him busy. But I had begun to notice a change in Ranajit. Usually direct and forthright, I noticed that he had stopped looking at me when answering. I had put it down to the usual adolescent pangs.

Then one of the older girls informed me that Ranajit had dropped out of school and was going to sell "jhalmuri". "His father cannot afford to send him to school any more," she said in a grave voice.

"Why is that?," I asked, considering Ranajit had only one sister unlike many of the kids who have large families. "You know what his father says?" piped up Sagar, his eyes full of mischief: "piyo or jiyo". "How will he afford it then?" Sagar admonished me.

I had learnt from the kids how some of the schools gave them rice, clothes and even money to ensure that they do not drop out. I had heard that the West Bengal government had started a practice of promoting all till class six in order to not give them an excuse to stay away.

But reality was beyond all these sops. Just the thought of what must be going through Ranajit's mind as he copes with this all by his little self kept me awake at night.