Communication

Knowledge and democracy

THE notion that there is not one India but many forgotten Indias and Indians may sound cliched but is nevertheless true. Those of us who have travelled through the many societies that coexist in our country face this truth many times, as I did again last month during a short visit to Gujarat. Three separate encounters within four days, foreground the problem of the shikshit berojgar (educated unemployed). Indeed, the gravity of the problem of the educated unemployed cannot be emphasised enough.

The question was first posed by Gunvant, the only son of Dhuriben and Paragbhai Parmar of Mau village in Bhiloda taluka of Sabarkantha district. I was revisiting Mau after a long gap and was walking through the Bhambi vas (Chamar hamlet), glad to meet old friends. In 1985, when I began my journey in rural India as an activist, Mau was one of the first villages I had visited. Mau had already witnessed a major subaltern struggle by then: the Bhambis had fought for gochar (common pasture) land in the late 1970s. The struggle, the first of its kind in the area, was successful and 27 Bhambi families acquired 40 acres of land for cultivation. The registered an agricultural cooperative society which continues to run till date. The difference made by this cooperative to a once landless people is remarkable. Mud huts have given way to pucca dwellings; people have more material goods inside their homes, better clothes on their bodies, as well as the self-assurance that accompanies regular income.

Mau had been like a second home during my years in Bhiloda and I had received much love in this vas. Now, as old memories merged with the new and images of younger faces crowded out aging ones, I met other young women and men whom I could with some difficulty relate to as the near-naked children who used to run around in the vas. One of them was Gunvant. Clad in a neat shirt, Gunvant sat on a charpai (string cot) with a young toddler in his arms. ‘I have passed MA (with Sanskrit) but have been jobless for the last few years. I do odd jobs as and when I find them,’ he told me.

Gunvant’s parents are agricultural labourers who had experienced great tribulations, not least a paralytic stroke which had rendered the father speechless. They had educated Gunvant, their only son amongst five children, with great difficulty. But now, as the time had come to reap the reward, little was forthcoming. ‘Everywhere you go pairvi (influence) or money by way of bribe is required. We have neither. We do not know of people or agencies that we might approach. Nor do we have the money to travel to nearby towns and cities and look for a job, and where would one begin to look?’ Dhuriben asked. Paragbhai looked on expectantly, clearly hoping that I might be able to help.

Nathiben, a widow who had lost her husband Shivabhai to TB in 1986 had subsequently delivered twins. As an undernourished mother, who also had to care for her other children, Nathiben could not save one of the twins from death, but the other had survived. She now proudly pointed out that her son was attending college. For Nathiben this was indeed a victory. But my heart sank at the thought of Gunvant and of other stories, similar to Gunvant’s I had heard. One was of another postgraduate in economics from Nandoj village who after many years had finally settled down as a tailor. Youth who made it in B.Ed were considered lucky for they had a greater chance of being hired as teachers in a government school, the best job that one could possibly hope for in the area, other than a job in a government office.

There are of course many facets to the problem. These youngsters did not receive any occupational training nor have access to ready capital to begin an enterprise even if trained. Therefore, jobs in the business world of self-made entrepreneurs remain out of reach. Other jobs in the private or public sector are also hard to get in the absence of influential connections. Most of these youngsters find it loathsome to turn to a life as an agricultural labourer like their parents, or follow their caste occupations like leather tanning and related work. Their traditional knowledge has been used as a convenient service but not valued. It has only brought them ridicule and contempt, not respect and status. Even if they were to now swallow their pride and turn to leatherwork for economic sustenance, will their finished products – in quality and design – be able to compete with those available even in the local market?

The ‘other’ world has made severe inroads into theirs, impinged upon it, without allowing them similar access. They remain outsiders to that other world. Times have changed. There is a difference between them and their parents. They are educated, and understand their society and state better than their parents did. But despite this knowledge they are almost equally helpless. And those of us concerned with the processes of change, who impress upon parents the vital importance of educating their children, are equally helpless today.

This story from ‘developed’ Gujarat, however, does not apply to all sections of the Gujarati society. Another section of society, only two hours away from Bhiloda, is on the threshold of another world, a world which Gunvant and Nathiben would find hard to even imagine. This is the world of the graduates of Indian Institute of Management Ahmedabad, whose minimum salary once they graduate is in the range of Rs 4 to 20 lakh a year. They face virtually no job uncertainty and the initial salary increases rapidly as they gain experience and hop from one job to another, usually with high paying MNCs. Sons and daughters of rich or middle-class Indians, they look at education in a high-fee institution like the IIM as an investment that pays rich dividends. The ‘new Ahmedabad’ across the Sabarmati with its wide roads, dazzling lights, shopping malls, shining plazas, skyscrapers and artistically designed bungalows caters – as it must – to these rich Indians of rich India.

It was time for me to head back to Delhi. However, the Ashram Express provided no respite from the nagging question mark. The train was crowded with youth packed like sardines in all the compartments of the train, and even on the roof. Ten minutes before the train was to start, I had to fight through the crowds on the platform as well as in the compartment itself. Hot and sweaty, I was dismayed at this unhappy situation. While on the one hand it was difficult to stomach this forced occupation, another part of me revelled in this ‘takeover of reserved spaces’ by the unreserved. I soon learnt that these youngsters were graduates who had come to appear in the written exam for 200 posts of station masters in Gujarat. Over 100,000 candidates had applied for these posts from all over the country.

‘Couldn’t you at least distribute yourselves over many trains,’ I asked? But I soon realised why they didn’t do so. Passes were issued only to the SC and ST candidates. Distributing themselves over many trains would have meant travelling in smaller numbers, which would make it harder to travel without tickets. And they had a long way to go: my co-travellers had to return to Bihar. They could, therefore, ill-afford to pay for the tickets to and from the examination centres.

By not issuing passes to all candidates, the government was forcing these youth to take recourse to illegal means, which under the circumstances seemed the only available course of action. Shouldn’t this ‘illegal action’ be given official permission? If only passes valid for one week were issued to them, the pressure on trains would get distributed, ordinary travellers would not be as adversely affected, and the youth would have a chance to explore a bit of the host state, if they so desired. Most people in the compartment agreed that this would be a more just solution. But will our government ever act upon such public opinion?

As the train stopped before a station, through the window I could see a beautifully adorned train with silken curtains and flowery designs. This was the ‘Palace on Wheels’ designed to give tourists a feel of aristocratic Rajasthan. Was this about India’s past or present? About reality, myths, or mystification of reality? Against this background of the ‘Palace on Wheels’ sat the graduate job seekers who had climbed down for some fresh air.

My fellow occupants looked on. Crammed on the seats, they hoped not to miss the Jan Sadharan (a train with no reserved compartments) from Delhi back to Bihar. The young man sitting next to me was from Tilka Manjhi University in Bhagalpur. I remembered February 2002 when I had last visited Bhagalpur as a member of a fact-finding team to investigate an incident of police firing on student agitation which had resulted in two deaths, nearly a dozen injured and many more arrested. The student protest, which had not remained restricted to Bhagalpur alone but had spread to many neighbouring districts, was against an unprecedented hike in university fees. How can students from all social classes access higher education if public universities start behaving like private ones, the students argued?

Similar questions can be posed about our government. Is there any place in our democracy for these BA-pass hopeful station masters of India? Or for the Gunvants who can now stand tall and look at others straight in the eye? India, however, does not look straight at them. In fact, it overlooks them. But for how long? The word, knowledge, encapsulates many meanings. Education need not be ‘knowledge’, nor are the knowledgeable always wise. The saga of the forgotten Indias only confirms this.

Bela Bhatia