When the Government of India passed the Right to Free and Compulsory Education Act-2009, education went on to become a Fundamental Right and not a privilege accessible to a handful. Post-RTE, private schools were ordered to reserve 25 per cent of their seats for students coming in from financially-weak sections. They had to be given compulsory admission. A process was put in place through which parents could submit documents proving their economic status and neighbourhood school/s had to accept them minus admission tests. The Act also stated that students could not be denied admissions under any circumstances, nor could authorities flunk them in examinations till they had crossed the elementary-level classes. The Act’s 25 per cent reservation demand created a stir—private schools began to talk about the Act’s ‘unfairness’, adding extra financial burdens on them. Even then, the Bill was passed and implemented. And five years were granted for its execution. While the government was busy celebrating its ‘victory’ over private schools, voices were being raised in several quarters regarding the feasibility of the Act. Somewhat similar to the partly successful, partly disastrous ‘No Child Left Behind Legislation’ of the US, the sustainability of the Act was being questioned. Some of the questions raised was surrounding the plausibility of the Act; with 80 per cent of the Indian population living in rural areas; how was the government planning to provide a culturally acceptable education which was also pan-Indian in character? Acceptability, after all, was one of the four pillars of the Act, including availability, accessibility and adaptability. Critics also felt that the available infrastructure was too weak to support quality education to all. There was also fear surrounding the question of reaction—how would children coming from completely different economic realities react to being clubbed together? Could this Act bridge the gap between classes or just widen them further? Is it fair to throw children from financially-weak backgrounds into fancy schools and ask them to cope? Was it fair to promote these children to the next class, even if they flunked previous ones? Most importantly, was the Right to Free and Compulsory Education-2009, a pragmatic idea? In the past few years cases have come up where children have been denied admission by schools and no visible action has been taken. Will it be fair to assume that this idea is powerful in thought, but like every other policy, fails miserably when it comes to execution? We asked experts about their opinions in the Issue of the Month.
SHYAMA CHONA// India has been an independent nation for over 60 years now. But the difference between our haves and have nots has not been bridged yet. Since the gap will not disappear by itself, it is the duty of our nation’s policy makers to create an environment where the discrepancies are addressed. Through the RTE Act, which reserves 25 per cent of seats in private schools for underprivileged students, the Centre is asking us to dream a little bigger. We should give the Act our consent because the idea behind it is to create a healthy learning environment. As every new pebble creates ripples in a pool, this idea, too, has managed to stir up a debate. But I believe that the positives of the Act outweigh our concerns. It is true that our country has are too many cultural and regional differences which will prove to be difficult to bridge by a single Act alone. Having said that, no one can deny a child her or his right to quality education. Because our country is a democratic one, it is but natural that there would be difference of opinions. However, one does not abandon an idea because of difference of opinions. Thus, the Act’s implementation should be carried out by individual institutions according to their systemic needs. What the Centre has ensured is a system of checks-and-balances; adopt it, when you do, according to your style, but adopt it nonetheless. What the Centre is planning to do is to offer young minds a chance to grasp a reality that is different. It is what children, as they grow into adults, will eventually be expected to do. As far as peer pressure is concerned, it is the school and parents’ responsibility to teach children tolerance. It is also a parents’ duty to teach children to not differentiate. I realise that change is difficult, but it always is. The bit that leaves me disheartened is the fact that such an Act had to be forced down our throats like a bitter pill. We, the teachers, are responsible for the holistic growth of students. We should be able to teach them to live with others which the Act expects us to do. I believe that the Act is a pragmatic one. Education is no longer a charity; it is not even an act of social welfare anymore. Privatised education is an industry where money is being parked. What are we doing with all that money? Why is the Centre not allotting more land to private schools? Why are private schools not offering scholarships to bring in more meritorious students—from every background—into its fold? And why are we not talking of the better-run government schools such as Kendriya Vidyalaya when we are seeking a change in the system? These are the questions that we need to ask ourselves while discussing the Act. As for the argument surrounding the ‘added financial burden’, I find it an unfounded worry. Instead of spending too much on infrastructure (swimming pools, polo tables or AC buses), spend on quality education (teachers). Instead of arguing about who is from where, teachers should see their students according to their merit, capacity and ambition. The rest is immaterial. What every child deserves in this country is a child-friendly school. For that to happen we need to make teachers’ training mandatory. We need to make sure that we let our egos go, before we start ‘teaching’ others about equality. Teaching is not a nine-to-five job; it is a calling. A life of a teacher does not have compartments—it is not enough to have knowledge alone, it is also imperative to respect human beings, albeit a human being who is younger. I recently travelled to a village in Kashmir where I met such lovely children, who are now going to school wearing uniforms and shoes like ‘privileged’ children. Their parents now believe that education is not an expenditure, it is an investment. I concur.
ARUNA SANKARANARAYANAN// The RTE Act is significant as it has brought the issue of education into the forefront of the public debate. For decades, our society has been indifferent to the question of quality education—especially the kind we offer to our children coming in from lowincome groups. The RTE has stirred-up the proverbial hornet’s nest and stoked the much-needed fire. But the Centre is yet to seriously address the question of quality in education, especially in its primary schools. RESEARCH SHOWS that a powerful predictor variable of student quality is dependent on the teaching quality. That in turn is based on the capability of teachers. The better the teacher the more qualified the student will be. The Indian reality is that here quality has been on a decline and even ‘reputed’ schools are fighting high attrition rates. Furthermore, it is not enough to just meet the ‘numbers’—if the right people are not in that group. People who are passionate about learning, have strong communication skills and are empathetic are the best teachers— do we have them? In India, teaching is still a profession which does not attract the crème de la crème of graduates. The Centre needs to address this issue first and make policy changes to turn teaching into a coveted profession. Teachers’ training programmes need to be revamped. They need to be selective when choosing the future mentors of our nation. Compensation has to be comparable with other coveted professions—say a management or an IT degree. Teachers should be encouraged to think out-of-the-box and make rote learning a thing of the past. Only then will the RTE seem a plausible design. While younger children, by and large, do not come with a baggage of prejudices and biases, in older classes, students would need to be counselled on how a person’s family background need not entirely determine a child’s future aspirations and ambition. Therefore dealing with the children (especially from the privileged background) is not that big a problem. Parents and teachers are the ones who may find it hard to dispel their preset notions. The spirit of the Act , indeed, has to be lauded, but it is also essential to note that the Centre is not resolving problems by asking private schools to reserve 25 per cent of their seats for the disadvantaged. Despite those available seats, 80 per cent (and above) of India’s students will continue to be schooled in government-run primary schools with weak infrastructure and erratic classes. We cannot ignore the reality that quality of education offered in government schools has to improve for the RTE Act be ‘fair in spirit’. On their part, private institutions will have to offer supplementary remedial programmes (tuitions) to the underprivileged children. We need to remember that academics is just a singular aspect of school life. Institutions should try to promote integration in sports and co-curricular activities alongside classroom interactions—sports in fact can serve as a great leveller and agent of peer acceptance than classroom interaction. When students from different backgrounds are thrown together, umpteen issues are likely to arise. Rather than shying away from these, schools should use them as opportunities to help children learn problem-solving and social skills. Boarding schools here can serve as great equalisers as day to day differences among children of different classes will not be so obvious in that environment. However, the boarding schools have to have sensitisation and counselling programs to make sure all children feel comfortable in an alien environment away from parents. We have to remember that creativity flourishes when there is diversity and a diverse classroom can propel intellectual growth. The change required thus will have to be more social than infrastructural within a classroom and more logistical on the Centre’s part. Honestly, the Act comes with a host of problems. Yet there is no denying that it wishes for the best. Intrinsically, there is nothing harmful in the idea of children from different backgrounds studying together. But good intent is not enough to make a scheme a success. What we need are more child-friendly schools which offer a stimulating environment for every child, ensure all children are physically and emotionally secure. Further more, support children with difficulties with additional help— both academically and emotionally.
Why the West should sit up and notice the Sleeping GiantNAPOLEON warned us that China was a sleeping giant best left undisturbed. No longer. The giant is well awake and not only has the West disturbed it, many of the West’s elite appear to fear it. Nowhere is this more true than when it comes to the debate about China’s growing naval power and in particular its attitude towards China’s claim for sovereignty over the South China Sea, to which other bordering nations—the Philippines, Vietnam, Taiwan, Brunei, Indonesia and Malaysia—also claim rights. A number of policy-makers in the West, and especially in the US, warn of China’s rapidly expanding military expenditure and especially that of its sea forces. It has just put into service its first aircraft carrier and appears to be strengthening its navy to the point that it could mount an attack on longclaimed Taiwan. In reality China’s naval growth starts from a low base. It would take decades of its present rate of growth before it would come anywhere near matching US capabilities. India, with its vested interest in free passage, watches carefully from the sidelines. India will leave the wrangling to others but if they ever slackened in the struggle India would become more outspoken, even vociferous on the subject. Long before Napoleon China had Admiral Zheng He who in the fifteenth century led large fleets as far away as Africa. But unlike his European contemporaries Zheng He and his emperor had mainly curiosity. They possessed no idea of subjugation, slavery or colonisation. They were not on any mission to “civilise”. Only in the most recent of years has China given its navy prominence and even today its expenditure on naval power compared with the US or Europe is small. In late April, the US and the Philippines staged a mock battle to show they could recapture a Philippino island from foreign forces. Earlier in April a Philippino warship found Chinese fishing boats close into the Scarbough reef, a submerged shoal of rocks that the Philippines claim. The fishermen called in two Chinese civilian patrol boats. Beijing persuaded the Philippines to withdraw their warship and replace it with a civilian coastguard ship. But China did not withdraw either its fishing boats nor its patrol boats. “Chicken can be a dangerous game,” observed The Economist in the final week of April again. Neighbouring countries have rushed to occupy as many of the sea’s land spots as possible. Today, China controls the entire Paracels islands and 15 reefs and shoals within the Spratleys. Both islands probably have in their waters large deposits of oil, gas and minerals. Since 2007 China has repeatedly warned foreign oil companies that cooperating with Vietnam would affect their business in China. Beijing insists that its historic map, claiming the whole South China Sea, is a valid territorial claim. It argues that this has been so since the fifteenth century. But its contours are vague and it is not recognised under international law. Contradicting this claim China has ratified the United Nation’s Law of The Sea Treaty. The treaty compels states to surrender the majority of their historical claims in favour of the maritime zones awarded under the convention—in particular a 200 kilometre off-shore economic zone. (But the US has not, shooting itself in the foot.) The other countries involved have not stood still. The Philippines has proposed that ASEAN (the regional co-operation body) set aside disputes among themselves and form a united front to force Beijing to clarify its aims. The US has reiterated UN policy that there must be freedom of navigation in the sea and, according to a new report by the International Crisis Group, Beijing is worried that US involvement will internationalise the disputes, isolating China. The report also points out that “the proliferation of domestic actors and the complicated structure behind Chinese management of the issue has often been described with reference to the traditional myth of nine dragons stirring up the sea.” There is a bulky bureaucracy which includes 11 ministerial-level government agencies. Then there are the powerful national oil companies. Apparently the politburo for years has not given any directives and the foreign ministry lacks the clout to bring them into line, although it has to carry the can when dealing with the outside world. Its work is complicated by the lack of legal clarity, growing nationalist opinion within China, the belief that economic growth and political stability at home outweigh foreign policy and that a vociferous military outranks the foreign ministry, even not reporting some of its decisions to the politburo. China loses much credibility with its refusal to take the dispute to the International Court of Justice. A few years ago Nigeria took the issue of its dispute with neighbouring Cameroon over the oil-rich Bokassa peninsular to the Court. It lost and President Olusegun Obasanjo gracefully turned over the territory to Cameroon. China also refuses to use the arbitration mechanisms of the Law of the Sea. However, the debate is not frozen in its parameters. Some of the agencies and the National People’s Congress have been calling for the establishment of a co-ordinating body. At the top there is the feeling that China suffers from a lack of good policy options. There is now appears to be a policy of leaving this intractable problem to the next generation as was first proposed by Den Xiaoping in 1978. Last year China reaffirmed these guidelines when it signed the White paper on Peaceful Development with ASEAN. China should loose no time in sorting out its bureaucratic mess and taking the issue to the International Court of Justice as Nigeria did.
Sara Pilot and Lora Prabhu, co-founders of Cequin have one thing in common—their commitment to women’s issues“I hope we can make things different. Otherwise Lora and I would just pack up Cequin,” says Sara Pilot, founder, Centre for Equity and Inclusion (Cequin). It is this never-say-die spirit that keeps her and partner and co-founder Lora Prabhu going on with their struggles for Delhi’s marginalised women even in the face of extreme pessimism. Sara radiates the positive energy that infuses all their endeavours. She is convinced that things are changing for women—people are waking up to gender issues, media is becoming sensitised and problems are being discussed in forums. Yet, her optimism is tempered with prudence. “But overnight things will not become okay. Change will take place and that gives us the motivation,” she says. Lora pinpoints their eternal hope for change to a shared passion for their vocation. “We are passionate about whatever we want to do. If we think there is a need for it, then we just struggle to raise funds for it,” she says. It is due this single-minded focus that Cequin, a relatively young NGO (set up in 2009) has gained recognition in the development sector. In fact, the organisation is a culmination of a series of informal discussions between the two former United Nations Development Fund for Women (UNIFEM) colleagues and friends Sara and Lora. It was a short internship after her BSc at UNIFEM that initiated Sara into a world hitherto unknown to her. “At 22, you are out of university and thinking about yourself. It was at UNIFEM that I began understanding the issues women face in India,” says Sara. The influence was so deep that Sara went on to UK for a Master’s in international relations and returned to take up a job with UNIFEM. It was here that she met Lora Prabhu. For Lora though Cequin was an extension of media career. She was already deep into women-focused issues and had “done a whole series on women’s issues for Doordarshan called Sabla” among other programmes and her stint at UNIFEM was an obvious trajectory.” They both chose to quit UNIFEM around the same time—Sara for family commitments and Lora on consultancy assignments. But the two kept in touch, and with a desire to do something for the less-privileged still strong within them the discussions continued. The seeds of Cequin were set rather informally in 2008 when they were still exploring the possibility of starting a formal organisation. “Working for women’s issues is not a profession, it is a calling, and we just started working together,” says Lora adding, “Frankly starting something of our own sounded great, but I was not at all sure that we could pull it off. But Sara seemed confident.” The first grand opportunity presented itself when the Working Committee of the Congress Party sought some inputs from Sara for its election manifesto. Sara immediately advised a roundtable of women’s organisations to seek their views instead of basing the manifesto on individual inputs. Next, the duo partnered with the Women Power Connect and Centre of Budget and Governance Accountability and on October 13, 2008, brought around 50 women groups to the roundtable. The draft report was later presented to the committee. Enthused by the success, Lora and Sara, formalised their partnership and Cequin was born. They started working in a more “institutionalised manner following that and everything started taking shape,” says Lora. One of the projects that took shape was the Gender Resource Centre— Samajik Suvidha Kendra (GRCSSK) in 2009 in partnership with Jamia Milia Islamia. A Government of Delhi initiative, the GRC-SSK is a unique public private partnership project called the Mission Convergence, aimed at the inclusion of the marginalised sections of women. Though Cequin had a choice of opening a GRC-SSK centre in other areas too it chose Jamia because “it fitted with our overall vision and gave us the opportunity to work with Muslim women in urban slums—the most marginalised people,” says Sara. But mobilising 10,000 Muslim households to send their womenfolk to attend classes—educational and vocational—was no cakewalk. “It is difficult for women to come out not because they lack aspirations, but because their men have to give the go ahead and then what about the brood of children at home,” asks Lora. They had to first convince the community elders and leaders to permit the women to come out of their homes. It worked for Cequin for two reasons: one that they were a government-sanctioned agency and secondly the fact the university had given it space to operate on its premises. “Today we have 70 women wanting to enroll for a class that can only hold a batch of 30,” says Sara. For these women, denied the luxury of privacy, the centre is also a personal space where they can meet. The GRC-SSK works on the premise that women are the nuclei of society. By promoting their access to economic, social and cultural rights they can be made agents of far reaching change. The first step to empowerment was to understand the gaps in the existing social benefit schema of the government and the Jamia residents, one of the most closeted areas of the city. A door-to-door survey of 10,000 households was conducted to understand the specific demographic profile of area and targeted interventions planned. This was a six-pronged strategy breaking away from the conventional dole mode of welfare and beneficiaries. Rather, it focused on holistic development and empowerment to make women self-sustaining, economically- viable community members. Cequin provides the women of the area vocational training, non-formal education, regular health services, legal help and counseling, and also organises them in self-help groups to promote micro credit and micro enterprise activities. The SSK component provides information and linkage with the various government welfare schemes and departments. But Cequin has a much vaster vision for the women of Jamia than the one defined by Mission Convergence, Government of Delhi, for its GRC-SSK. It created a Jamia Bazaar to not only showcase their products but also act as a platform for these women to come out of their cloister and let the world get a whiff of elusive Jamia Nagar. No mean feat, if you look at the society they belong to. “There isn’t much movement in Jamia Nagar,” says Sara, adding “And yes, there is a particular flavour which we feel people of Delhi are missing out on.” They did not hold the Bazaar in Jamia, as they felt the residents must come out to mingle with the rest of Delhi. Says Sara, “We wanted the girls to step out and come to south of Delhi.” Both the bazaars have been a phenomenal success. First year, in 2010, there were 18 stalls, and the next year about 39 stalls. “The kiosks showcased the work of girls and also smaller NGOs working around the Jamia area,” informs Sara. They have refined the vocational training component to make the products being produced by the Jamia women to a fine art. For the second bazaar they sought the help of established designers like Usha Prajapati of NID to impart skills to the women trainees. “Usha sat with the girls, identified their skills and then developed a range of products that we showcased at the second Jamia Bazaar in 2012,” says Lora. Adds Sara, “In 2012 we had developed the Cequin craft identity because our vocational training had evolved and we had done next level workshops with these women on design and quality, so a range of products had emerged from those training.” NGOs from Jamia area, Muslim organisations beyond the Jamia area, and a few other women entrepreneurs participated as well, broadening the perspective of the bazaar slightly. From the visionary of the duo, as Sara says, “Lora has great ideas. I am not creative,” flow in concepts together that they sieve for the doable ones. “Since neither of us is stubborn,” Sara adds, “it is the larger picture of Cequin that dominates.” Funds are never a problem though they start with grand ideas that are “too-bigfor- our boots kind of a situation”. Says Lora, “We are so determined to roll it that we practically do so without much money.” For Sara the future is open ended: “If you had asked us our plans three years ago, we wouldn’t have been able to tell you about our Delhi Daredevil Campaign or Jamia Bazaars. This is not to say that we don’t have a vision. But certain things, they haven’t been planned. You have a bigger idea and then it all depends on the current scenario or funding, which is a big thing. Lora and I can have 20 ideas. But if we are not able to raise funds for 19 of them then there is not much one can do about that.” But there is hope for change. As Sara says, “Women have moved so much from our grandmothers generation. Obviously there is a movement. But yes, there are worse kinds of violations that we are unable to remove from our society. As a society we need to step back and think why it is happening and analyse it to some extent. We know because we are in the field. But these are things which an average citizen has to realise.” Cequin is doing much to raise our consciousness and conscience.
An incredible story about the Neeraj Grover murder. Uncovered brilliantly and written lucidly by a first-time author HUMANS, ESPECIALLY writers, have always been intrigued by the topic of death. It is partly due to this fascination, and partly due to the larger-than-life, cinematic quality to the turn of events which led to the murder, that makes Meenal Baghel’s debut novel—Death in Mumbai—the next best thing. Death in Mumbai indepthly explores events, circumstances that occurred before and after the murder of Neeraj Grover. The book’s strength lies in the honest eye it casts on the lives of the three protagonists—Neeraj Grover (the victim), Emile Jerome Mathew (the convict) and Maria Monica Susairaj (the mutual lover). Though it may read like a potboiler, the 2008 murder was as real as they get. Baghel, who is the editor of Mumbai Mirror, does what every good journalist should do—her homework. As a result she does not abandon the story midway. Where most murder stories end, Death in Mumbai begins and goes beyond the regular grid of murder mysteries to tell the stories of the shaken families of the three protagonists, trying to come to terms with their realities. Baghel also offers readers a candid glimpse into the three lives; that of Grover’s—the dynamic TV producer’s womanising ways—to glamdoll Monica’s efforts to get a foothold in the glittering world of Bollywood and her tumultuous relationship with naval officer Emile. India’s prime time queen Ekta Kapoor, small-time actress Moon Das and maverick movie maker Ram Gopal Verma (RGV) also find a place in the book. Neeraj had worked a brief stint with Ekta Kapoor, while RGV made a film (Not a Love Story) based on the murder and Das played Maria in a lesser known B-grade film. But a keen reader will understand that these are not just passing references, and that the writer takes a dig at the glamorous, dark matinee world where no story, however unpleasant, is left unexploited. The 231-pages well-researched book keeps the readers hooked till the end. It is written with finesse and is deliciously-paced. Though Baghel tries to stay fair—the mutual exploitation of Maria and Grover of each other for physical pleasure and opportunities is not skimmed over—Maria and Emile come across as malicious, brutal killers (as they probably were). It is the police that gets the fairest deal in the book. After bad raps, it is refreshing to read how the Indian Police Force get things done.
A one of its kind plot and book from the Japanese authorTHE DEVOTION OF SUSPECT X is a distinctive book—a murder mystery, and not quite. It begins faithfully enough; with a murder and an investigation (as they should). But The Devotion of Suspect X conveniently leaves that format behind within five pages leaving a reader wondering, “What then?” Inspired by the ‘puzzle genre’ of detective fiction, right from the start the book is less about ‘what’ and more about the ‘how’. For those uninitiated into the world of the puzzle genre, it is an integral part of detective fiction, first introduced in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1847). The premise of this genre is simple enough; a body is discovered in a closed room minus apparent exits. Thereby leading to the main puzzle; how did the murderer get in and out? The other characteristic of this genre—a reader is introduced to the actors as they enter a stage. In the case of this particular book, readers meet the protagonists while they are still backstage; rehearsing their alibis, putting on costumes and getting into the skin of their characters. This style too Personis a departure from the usual staple of Poirots and Dalglieshes. The story revolves around Yasuko Hanaoka, a divorced, single mother trying to create a better life for her school-going daughter, Misato, after escaping the clutches of an abusive former husband Togashi. Her seemingly calm world shatters when one day Togashi shows up at her work place to follow her home and tries to extort money. An altercation ensues that leaves Togashi dead on Hanaoka’s apartment floor. That is when Yasuko’s neighbour, Ishigami—a middle-aged, high school mathematics teacher and a genius—offers his help. Ishigami, a borderline sociopath, is infatuated with Hanaoka. Thus, the good professor not only disposes off the body but plots an elaborate web to cover up the murder, complete with an iron-clad alibi. When Togashi’s body allegedly washes up and is identified, Detective Kusanagi is brought into the case. He suspects Yasuko almost immediately. However, Kusanagi is unable to find any holes in Yasuko’s alibi. As his doubts trouble him, he goes to an old friend and classmate, Dr Manabu Yukawa, who is also a former college mate of Ishigami. Following leads Yukawa meets Ishigami and is convinced that his old friend had a hand in the murder. A battle of wits begins as the two geniuses try to outsmart each other. While one adds layers to web of deceit, the other tries to peel each layer off. Can Ishigami, and thereby Hanaoka, get away with murder—therein lies the mystery. The book is a homage to good-old sleuthing style based on mathematical deduction, logic, and often, chess! Its regular, day-to-day, honest- to-god prose is often a tad too matter-of-fact. As a reader one is not (almost) allowed to attach emotionally to any one of the characters— apart from the master-plotter, Ishigami, who frankly, stands out. The high school mathematics teacher is the most well-drawn-out character and is treated affectionately by the author. His quiet and deep obsession with his neighbour is outlined with a uncharacteristic tenderness. The ruthlessly pragmatic yet romantic sociopath, Ishigami will, in all probabilities, remain in the collective memory of the readers. Personally, it was the dry prose of the book which was a welcome change. With increasing number of thriller-crime novellas putting too much of an emphasis on building ‘drama’ and eventually climaxing into something absurd, the end of this particular book came as a surprise—simply because it is so commonplace and thereby, probable. Though the beginning may leave a reader wondering about the great reviews that the book has received thus far, if one can sustain interest despite the slow start, his or her devotion, too, will be rewarded at the end. The Devotion of Suspect X is the second Higashino book to be translated into English. Allegedly, there are several more translations in the pipeline. For those who are fond of their detective fiction, this must be on their reading list, simply because it is so very different.
Desolate and breathtaking, Ladakh has a rugged magic to itI visited Switzerland after I went to Ladakh. I sincerely wish it had been the other way around. That is because all the romantic Bollywood hype about plush, enchanting and picture-perfect Switzerland pales in comparison to the stark, naked beauty of Ladakh. It may be the lesser-loved cousin of the Jammu & Kashmir joint family and a late notation on most tourists’ calendars, but it towers unassuming, yet somehow haughtily, over the rest. Even though air tickets are quite expensive, we had decided to fly up to Leh, sacrificing a gorgeous drive in the interest of saving time. Strict departure briefings included words like ‘rest’ and ‘acclimatisation’. Wise advice you should ignore at your own peril—it is actually the difference between life and near-death. Leh—at a breathtaking height of 3,505 metres (11,500 ft) above sea level—has 35 per cent less partial pressure of oxygen than Delhi, sunshine like you would not believe and air you can actually get high on. For the vain, like me, the air is also a natural hair straightener, lighting up your blanket with static after lights out. It is so dry that you are actually ‘advised’ to eat plenty of butter—usually best with locally baked Ladakhi bread, a cross between a doughy kulcha and roti. But I would not recommend the Ladakhi butter tea to the faint of heart, which packs a pungent punch with dollops of yak butter and salt. Get the highest SPF sun block you can legally get, lay on the chapstick and do not forget to pack those sunglasses, especially if you plan to go where the snow is. If you are expecting tall trees and lush green then you are in for quite a surprise. As the plane sweeps into the Leh airport, your first impression is brown. And olive green. Leh is an Army town. From the lumbering ‘One-Tonnes’ to the CSD mark on tins of Milkmaid; from a thriving second-hand market for combat boots and frayed windcheaters to the hillside golf courses with diesel-greased putting patches; from rows of oil drums lined up like tin soldiers to the glint of the Officers’ aviator Ray-Bans—the Indian Army is omnipresent. Till you step into any of the monasteries just outside of Leh—Alchi, Shey, Thikse—where a burst of colour greets you on the outside—multicoloured prayer flags, bright gold, blue and red motifs on the walls and shy monks in their saffron and maroon robes. Most monasteries are dank and dark inside and those with serious claustrophobia would do well to avoid the sanctum sanctorum. If you have a relative in the Army posted at Ladakh, this should be reason enough for you to go right away—permissions come easy and the Army does have access to prime real estate. We went in the post-tourist season, in October, which was all very well, except we often had to survive on dry fruits and chocolates, while wearing up to four layers of clothes to ward off the biting winds. Outside of the tourist season, most eateries and shops in towns along the Indus—both toward the Pakistan and China borders—close down for the winter. Besides, the Ladakhis do like their afternoon siesta, so avoid the lunch hour for any shopping, especially after the summer when they are not even willing to entertain your lame attempts at bargaining. Taxis are the obvious way around but are quite expensive, so do settle the fares in advance. We were quite lucky with Norbu—our cheeky and daredevil driver who insisted on swinging his head back for a chat, while negotiating the curves at over 16,000 ft. Do not venture too far out of Leh if you have the slightest vertigo. Roads are dizzyingly narrow, flanked by jagged rocks and sheer 90 degree drops, though some places seem to have jumped right out of The Lord of the Rings movies. For those who do wish to venture beyond touristy Leh—and I strongly recommend that you do—there are a set of permissions that are required from the civil administration. Save those permits and do be careful of convoy timings, as the narrow roads become one-way every time a large Army convoy’s on the move.We had the opportunity to see one of these on the move. As long lines of olive green snake through the mountain ranges, along narrow serpentine tracks, the sight is as awe-inspiring as the rest. Ladakh sits between four parallel mountain ranges and plays host to a number of rivers, including the historically-evocative Indus. Each valley comes with its own colour palette and a surprise awaits you at every hairpin bend—white sand-like dunes to hard rock and warm yellow, rainbow-coloured sunsets to moonlit brown. Gompas and monasteries give way to mosques as you move from Leh toward Kargil. Combined with the abundance of sunshine, the purity of colours against vast expanses of land, it’s a photographer’s delight—I took over 400 pictures in two weeks and I can not even call myself an amateur shutterbug! There are hidden delights too, like the gazing yaks in the Nubra and Shyok river valleys, the Indus that flows quietly alongside a shrunken riverbed that serves as a road. In fact, two definitely deserve a spot on Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. One is a shrivelled hand rumoured to be Chenghis Khan’s, inside a temple in the Shyok Valley. The other is Darchik village near Batalik. Billed as the only surviving ‘pure Aryan’ village in the world, I brave the trek and a nose-bleed only to find a handful of regular-looking people, lots of empty Maggi packets and one of the most beautiful old women I have ever seen. I suppose it is all that healthy trekking and the fresh mountain air, but for a moment I seriously consider the rumours of neo-Nazis coming there to breed. But bluer than the eyes of the old lady is the regal Pangongg Tso (lake)—towards the China border, onethird of which is inside India, with the rest in China. Fluffy white clouds and brown mountain ranges provide the perfect backdrop to the blinding blue. Of course, no self-respecting adrenaline junkie can ignore Khardung La—the world’s second-highest pass and the highest motorable road at 18,380 ft. Once there, as I get out of the car to pay my compulsory respects at the famed multi-faith temple-cum-room, it is like wading through thick syrup on floating legs. Till Norbu tells me it is the sudden ascent, and I realise we have gone from 11,500 feet at Leh to over 18,000 in 40 kilometres! Ladakh is haunting not just for its beauty, but also for tales of bravery in the face of extreme adversity. The Kargil War memorial at Bhimbet, with its view of Tiger Hill and Tololing, and those who fought in the 1962 Sino-Indian War at Rezang La brings both tears and goosebumps. They are stark reminders of the soldiers still on the border, especially the treacherous Siachen Glacier and braveheart drivers and pilots who connect them to the rest of the world. Many of the nameless migrant labourers and engineers who seem to have carved roads out of sheer force of will are immortalised by incongruous-looking memorial stones after every other mile along the Indus trail. Interspersed, of course, with warnings to the living: the stark “Overtaker, beware of Undertaker” and “It’s better to be Mr Late than Late Mr.…”; a flirty “Be gentle on my curves”; the cryptic “Be weatherwise, not otherwise”; and the pithy “Do not gossip, let him drive” or “Drive. Do not fly”. All the while the mountains stand, majestically unaware of their beauty, standing guard over the deafening sounds of silence, twirling prayer wheels, sun-kissed mosques and crinkly-eyed, smiling people. Ladakh might stand witness to a bloody border, but driving along the Indus, one is struck by the sheer inconsequentiality of human life, dwarfed as man is by Nature at its forbidding best.
Chef, author, publisher and restaurateur—meet Nita Mehta, grand lady of the kitchenWhile other children were busy munching on cakes and cookies that their mothers baked during summer holidays, Nita Mehta was busy making them. As she puts it, “I really had it in me to cook and stay in the kitchen.” It is no wonder that the zest paid off and today Mehta is not only one of the most revered cookbook writers of the country, she also has several culinary academies and schools to her credit. Spotting their daughter’s inexhaustible interest, Mehta’s parents enrolled her in a Home Science programme. She did her Bachelor’s from Lady Irwin College, which was in those days “the best in the country”. As a food lover she understood it was not enough to fill the belly, but line the stomach with nutritional items. Thus, she fortified her Bachelor’s course with a Master’s of Science in Food and Nutrition because as she puts it, “By then I had realised the importance of the right kind of food.” Ultimately her times were a different era—as she points out. Conventional strictures demanded that women be married at a “certain age”. So after completing her post graduation Mehta was married off and her passion for food was limited to tending to the nutritional needs of the family. However her passion simmered within her like a nice, hot pot of soup. After a while Mehta decided that she could not be happy just feeding her family and friends. She had to do something extra which did not need her to keep long hours or step out of the comfortable confine of her home. Of course, she could start cookery classes at home! Off she went to advertise her “special ice cream lessons”. The response was nothing if not overwhelming. “On the first day itself I received 200 calls.” For the next four months her calendar was booked. Mehta’s USP lay in her teaching style which made a class more like a picnic. Even today while conducting her classes Mehta talks to every student, samples dishes and has tips for all. Going back to the ice cream classes, apart from Nirula’s, those days there were few ice cream parlours in the country. Mehta herself missed different flavoured ice creams, so the class churned, cooled and froze unusual flavours. And the rest was chilled history. Post ice-cream sessions came lessons in Chinese, Thai, Mughlai and Mexican cuisines and Mehta’s reputation grew. One day she decided to put her experience across to millions who could not access her classes. She wrote her first book Vegetarian Wonders. But a cook proposes and publishers disposes—most scoffed at the idea of a cookbook at a time when there were few Indian authors writing on food. So Mehta did the obvious thing; start her own publishing house. All right that was not so obvious, but she did it! “The move didn’t do all that well,” she admits honestly. But the bug had bitten by then. The moderate success of her book made her revisit the process and see ‘what went wrong’. The answer lay in the fact that unlike her ice cream classes the book was not a “novelty”. That was when she hit on the idea of Paneer All The Way—a one-of-its-kind book that was a one-stop spot for paneer or cottage cheese lovers. No Indian kitchen, especially north Indian kitchen, is complete without this magic ingredient. In the book she asked the magic question: “Who wants kadhai paneer, shahi paneer and mattar paneer all the time?” The answer, of course, is no one. If your palate is tired of the three dishes, this book should be a solution to all your cheesy problems. The book was an instant hit. Overnight Mehta started her journey as India’s most popular cookbook writer. With every new book she got even more famous. The grand lady finally did what her fans were waiting for her to do. She started Kelong, a restaurant in Ludhiana, a year ago. The multi-cuisine eatery offers a variety of dishes cooked in the chef’s unique signature style. It is impossible to talk to a chef and not prod her on you her favourite recipe. So we ask her about her favourite dish. Mehta dotes on the Thai red curry and she loves the lemon grass flavour. And what makes her Thai red curry absolutely delectable? “Lots and lots of basil leaves and that extra something,” she added with a twinkle. Humble and attached to her roots, Mehta inherited her love for cooking from her mother. In her words “My mother was not just a fabulous cook, she was also efficient and creative in the kitchen.” Therefore, we can comfortably assume that her insurmountable zest for cooking, and everything else related to it, starts closer home. So whose cooking would India’s Martha Stewart like to taste? Why Martha Stewart’s of course! Both the women have had similar journeys from being a homemaker to an entrepreneur. All said and done and towards the end of the interview, after so much of dialogue, my throat was a little parched. So I had to ask what was her favourite summer cooler? Well a classic Mojito cools her soul. Before we left her to her dishes every kitchen queen has a pet peeve—a veggie or a fruit so difficult to work around that the very name sends a shudder. But no, Mehta steers clear of hate. As she says “I hate nothing that is edible.” Her favourite vegetable is the bottle gourd—everyone’s nightmare of a vegetable both in childhood and adulthood. She goes on to say that, “If cooked properly, the bottle gourd is the most delicious of all vegetables.” With all the food talk, I was beginning to feel hungry myself. On a bottle gourd note I took her leave, came back to the workstation, opened a pack of Oreos and gobbled something sweet. Because not everyone is as talented as Mehta. And not everyone can bake the perfect cookie. While some like her truly rise and shine, others are happy basking in the reflected glory.
Meet the enfant terrible Anand Patwardhan who lets his camera do the talkingA few days ago, I was narrating the story of Jai Bhim Comrade, Anand Patwardhan’s latest documentary film, to a friend. I told her that on July 11, 1997, 10 Dalits were shot dead during a police firing at Ramabai Colony near Ghatkoper in Mumbai. She interrupted to say, “Did you mean 100 or 10?” I quickly answered before continuing with the story. But, her question made me think; is 10 not a big enough number? Is there a magic digit that transforms an event to a tragedy? The more I thought, it became clearer that when it came to the margins, even thousands sometimes do not suffice. Perhaps it is this significance of a number and our collective conscience that pushed Anand Patwardhan to make Jai Bhim Comrade. Simply, to introduce us to our own selves. Three days after the Mumbai encounter, poetsinger Vilas Ghogre, also a resident of the Ramabai Colony, took his life in protest. Ghogre, who had earlier worked with Patwardhan in another film of his believed that the “World was not a place worth living in anymore.” After Ghogre’s demise, Patwardhan made Jai Bhim Comrade. The documentary offers brutal, visceral moments of ‘complete truth’ in which Patwardhan successfully makes his audience flinch. Take an instance when a woman lectures Patwardhan on Brahmin pride. In another scene, a woman lets Patwardhan know that Dalits “should not be allowed to celebrate the anniversary of Bhim Rao Ambedkar in public places”. Why? Because they are “very dirty people who create a lot of mess on the roads”. So “dirty” that one can tell them apart just by looking at them. While we still hear Patwardhan talking to the woman in mock seriousness and prodding her for more, our minds beg her to stop. And the camera too moves away from her. But India is a strange ambiguous land of contradictions; there are enough poignant moments where Patwardhan underlines this truth clearly. When quizzed about his caste, a sweet-seller on the streets says: “Samosa, jalebi aur mithai yehi humari jaat hai (the sweetmeats that I sell, symbolises my caste).” The man laughs as the camera stays on him for a while before the scene dissolves and transforms into another. Though it is Patwardhan who asks his subjects difficult questions, he lets his camera do most of the ‘directorial’ talking. Though there are moments of inertia and friction in ways scenes are shot, indicating almost Patwardhan’s judgment of his subject, at the same time the director does give his viewers enough credit and breathing space to make up their minds. It is no surprise that Patwardhan shoots and edits his films. While several documentary filmmakers treat their films as reality checks, Patwardhan sees them as art. So, a question begs to be asked, why not make films which are more ‘palatable’? “I am determined to break the documentary taboo.” He proudly lets me know that his films, too, are “in popular demand”. And he has seen thousands turn up for the screenings. “Why would you want me to give up the unparalleled power of documentaries in exchange for the forgettable entertainment that passes off as fiction?” A pertinent point. Possibly India does not have a big market for documentaries like the West, but things are certainly changing here. And Patwardhan has a lot to do with that change. War and Peace— based on the Pokhran nuclear missile tests during the Atal Behari Vajpayee government—was the first Indian documentary to get a multiplex release. It was well-received by the masses and the classes. “I welcome responses as long as the people critiquing are open to my replies,” he says. So even if the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh invites him for a “genuine dialogue” he will be present there. “I would love to be a catalyst for change,” he says. In 1991, a year before the Babri Masjid was demolished, Patwardhan made Ram Ke Naam (In the Name of God) as a warning to a foreseeable storm. The film was based on rising fundamentalism in India. The movie effectively captured on-the-rise militancy in a state that seemed ready to tear down edifices which did not cater to its version of ‘godly’. Having said that, Patwardhan’s films are not lopsided. They are more like open spaces with a scope to explore a topic. If on one hand he focused on the rising fundamentalism in Ram Ke Naam, on the other hand he looked at the secular forces. As is the fate of films that deal with “different” issues—In the Name of God did not pass the censorship scissors. As Patwardhan puts it, “The warning in the film was never heeded.” And Patwardhan often battles to get his films aired on Doordarshan (DD). “DD’s refusal to telecast my films has remained constant. Their stance is broken only when I win court cases against orders.” He is known to court controversies, so I had to ask, how does he choose his subjects? He tells me that he does not choose them. “Left to myself I prefer to relax rather than plunge into one film after the other,” says the man. Then how does he end up making such powerful films? “I make films on stories that need to be told honestly.” Patwardhan’s films are as haunting as the voices within us; the only difference is that he thinks them aloud instead of escaping. Though he has been making films for the past 30 years, he still determinedly funds them because he does not wish to be “influenced” by people who put in their capital. He hates being “pigeon-holed or labelled” as a Gandhian or Marxist. As a young scholarship student in America in the early 1970s, he was inspired by the likes of Martin Luther King and Cesar Chavez and went on to join the American Labour Movement on a wage of $5 per week for six months. A libertarian; Patwardhan is no more just an Indian documentary filmmaker. His films are popular among international critics and he is considered to be one of the foremost filmmakers of our time. His camera and him are travelling across the world asking questions that need to be asked and taking the controversial bull by its horns. When Patwardhan says something, he makes sure that everyone pays attention.
The book is a fierce attempt by a first-time author. A tale of three brothers, this is Torres’ life told anonymouslyTHE ANIMALS in Justin Torres’s gutsy, debut novel We The Animals are three brothers, including the anonymous narrator. Like stray dogs, they roam the streets of Upstate New York, stealing, vandalising and merrily making trouble for each other. The book is a coming-of-age novel of three mixed-race boys whose mother (Ma) is Caucasian and father (Paps) is a Puerto Rican man. This sets them apart from the other purely Caucasian children, but the difference surely does not end there. With the setting sun, while other children return to their homes and families, the three brothers stay back on the streets to have their own adventures—flying kites made from trash, wandering and pelting each other with rotten tomatoes as Ma goes to her graveyard shift at a brewery. Paps also does his two bit; taking up whatever comes his way (legal or not) sometimes tagging the children along, where they camp in abandoned flats sleeping on damp and cold floors. It is a viscerally-charged atmosphere in which the boys grow up, hiding while parents battle it out—both verbally and physically—or tiptoeing around the house as the mother sleeps off her graveyard shift. The novel begins with the unnamed narrator’s seventh birthday. A languishing Ma remembers that it is his birthday, calls him near and asks him to “stay six” forever as growing up means becoming hard: “No softness anywhere, only Paps and boys turning into Paps.” The narrator agrees and kisses his mother’s face, bloated and bruised after severe beatings of days, only to be pushed away. “She cusses me and Jesus, and the tears dropped, and I was seven.” Critics have described the book as an “exquisite, blistering debut novel” of three brothers tearing their way through childhood—following them on the pages as they learn to live on bare minimum, escape the neglect of angry parents. In this universe, familial life is chaos, heartbreaks and also euphoric. In its novel way, the book reinvents the coming-of age story making it more gut-wrenching. Written with images which are harsh, honest and stunning, the book is an exploration of brotherhood. There are wonderful bits where the three boys pretend and role play as the Three Musketeers; the Three Bears; the Three Stooges; Alvin and the Chipmunks; and even as the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
A compilation of articles and short essays by Oscar winning director Satyajit Ray is a serious treat for cinema loversAFTER A RATHER long gap of 35 years here is good news for Satyajit Ray admirers. The filmmaker’s second English book on films—Deep Focus: Reflections on Cinema—is in the press and is slated for a December release. Ray’s first book—Our Films, Their Films—was published in 1976. Deep Focus is a collection of Ray’s writings that have been compiled and will be published by Delhi-based HarperCollins (India) in association with the Kolkata-based Society for the Preservation of Satyajit Ray Films, also known as the Satyajit Ray Society. The term deep focus is a photographic and cinematographic technique using a large depth of field, in which the foreground, middleground and background are all in focus. It is achieved through hyperfocal distance use of the camera lens. Deep focus is achieved with light and small aperture. It is also possible to achieve the illusion of deep focus with optical tricks. Deep focus was frequently used in cinema and filmmaking by Orson Welles and cinematographer Gregg Toland. Their film Citizen Kane (1941) is considered to be a textbook example of possible uses of the technique. Like its name, the book strives to put in focus several aspects of the filmmaker’s life through his writings. For those uninitiated, Satyajit Ray came from a family of litterateurs. His father, Sukumar Ray, was perhaps the most famous Indian practitioner of literary nonsense and has been often compared to Lewis Carroll. His works such as the collection of poems are considered nonsense masterpieces equal in stature to Alice in Wonderland. Sukumar Ray was the son of famous the children’s story writer Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury. Coming from such a grand tradition, Satyajit Ray was a prolific writer in his own right. He wrote on cinema, film scripts and screenplays. Ray was also a children’s author, whose short stories and detective novellas are still a must-read for children in Bengal and Bangladesh. Deep Focus is an outcome of an intensive search conducted by the Ray Society for long-lost articles, which lay scattered in newspapers, magazines, film bulletins and publications. Essays that are to be included have tributes to silent cinema; challenges of adapting literary work to the screen (a topic that Ray has written extensively about); and a look into the experience of being a contestant and a member at film festivals. The book has been edited by Satyajit Ray’s filmmaker son Sandip Ray in association with actor Dhritiman Chaterji who has worked extensively with the senior Ray, Deepak Mukerjee and Debasis Mukhopadhyay. Filmmaker Shyam Benegal has written the foreword. In all probabilities the book will be released in Kolkata. The Ray Society plans to screen Benegal’s two-hour documentary on Ray at the event. All in all the book contains 22 essays and talks, the oldest dating back to 1949, at a time when Ray was still a 28-year-old struggling director, and has been divided into three sections: the filmmaker’s craft, pen portraits and his celebration of cinema. The first section contains essays and talks on cinema, the second his views on other directors as Jean-Luc Godard and Michelangelo Antonioni, Bergman and actor-and-director Charlie Chaplin. An interesting bit is on Bengali actor Uttam Kumar, a Bengali matinee idol who played leads in Ray’s Nayak (The Hero) and Chiriakhana (The Zoo). The third and final section deals with Ray’s experiences of, and views on, film festivals. The book is rich with images like film and production stills, rare portraits of Ray, and sketches and photographs by Ray. In addition, the book will contain 24-page photo-inserts printed in art paper. The cover has been designed by Pinaki De, under the guidance of Sandip Ray. The book also contains a detailed filmography of Satyajit Ray, a short piece on his contributions to films by others, a select list of the honours he received and a note on the Society’s work to restore, preserve and disseminate Ray’s works. The book launch is also a step towards setting up a ‘Ray Heritage Centre’ in the late filmmaker’s hometown.