Chetan's Musings

A brick road runs through the center of the village. It had rained heavily the previous evening; we are greeted with the warm smell of fresh earth and cowdung. Chaitasangma is one of numerous villages that dot the landscape of north Bihar, situated around 100 kms to the north of the capital city of Patna. I am there as part of a recce for a forthcoming project for Edulever. The people aren't sure what we are doing here. They look at us with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation. The people are largely the women and the children - the men of Chaita are in far-off Delhi and Punjab, some working as construction labor, others as rickshaw-pullers. The women lament that their children have no option but to grow up without their fathers - who are here only for the festival season. Since Chhath , the largest festival of Bihar, is round the corner, the menfolk's arrival is eagerly awaited in Chaita. It's not 10 am as yet, so the children are not in school. Not yet. So...

"The Poor are the spiritual reserve of the world." I've just spent two illuminating days at an international conference on Migration at Ahmedabad. Titled "Migration Practice - Pushing Borders", the conference had civil society representatives working in the field of migration from China, USA, Germany, and India. It was organized jointly by Transatlantic Forum on Migration & Integration and Aajeevika Bureau . That Migration for the sake of furthering livelihood is a global phenomena is well known; yet getting to know about the issue from an international perspective -- and how different nations are dealing with it -- was enriching, to say the least. Over the two days, I learnt about the challenges the European Union faces in its free-border policy, of how there's talk of Schengen Visa rules being rolled back. I got a glimpse of the massive rural to urban migration happening in China over the last decade and a half, and of the desperation of Centra...

GRANULARITY. It was the first time I had heard this word. And that too from no less than Mr. Mukesh Ambani. In person. This was 2002, Reliance was still one, and the Sensex was touching new highs to reach the 3000 mark! Mr. Ambani was on the board of Pratham India Education Initiative (PIEI), an industry body that - among other things - sponsored professionals to work for Pratham. I happened to be one such professional, and soon after joining, found myself in the board room of Reliance in Mumbai where the AGM of PIEI was being held. Other than Mr. Ambani, Mr. N. Vaghul (the then chairperson of ICICI) and Mr. Ajay Piramal were in attendance. I was, obviously, in awe. My seniors at Pratham made their presentations to the board about the work the NGO had done over the past year. Future plans were presented. Large numbers were bandied. The need to spread Pratham's work in every corner of the country was expressed. While all this was going on, Mr. Ambani appeared preoccupied in run...

A "classroom" in progress at the courtyard of a Masjid in Tonk, Rajasthan. July 2011. The classroom remains one of the most sequestered environments within any institution. What goes on inside this sanctuary is seldom subject to observation, and that which is not observed can scarcely be corrected or improved. This is especially true in the case of a classroom with young learners, who cannot be expected to be discerning about the quality of learning that they receive. Even older learners tend to accept the “service” provided to them in a classroom rather unquestioningly – unlike what happens in any other arrangement between a service provider and the recipient of the service. What goes into the DNA of a classroom? Is it the curriculum? Or the teacher’s ability to transact the curriculum? Why is it that learners’ tend to positively respond to certain stimuli, and remain apathetic to others? What sets apart a high quality classroom process from a poor quality one? ...

This was sometime around the time I turned 30, ten years ago. At this age — all of a sudden, a short poem that I had read as a seventh grader came back to me with a new meaning, a new message. The poem, “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” goes as follows: I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. -William Butler Yeats A bit heavy, yes, but then inspirations don’t have weighing scales. Around this time, I’d decided to firmly move into th...