I recently submitted this story for Times Of India's 'Write India' Campaign. Although it is a competition, I'm really writing for myself. Feeling excited about it.
Here is the story... (Some hindi words have been explained after the story)
That was unmistakably the shuffle of Kumar’s walk, I paused mid-sentence and turned my head towards the door. Unhurried, the footsteps drew closer and his silhouette appeared through the background of the mid-day sun. Every eye in the classroom was transfixed on Kumar, and he just stood there, stoic, staring at the floor. Arun was the first to move, slowly towards Kumar and wrapped his arms around him for a hug. The room quite except for a few silent sobs as the boys walked in and sat down on the mat. Karuna’s forehead was resting in her hands, the steady stream of tears, pain too fresh from her own father surrendering his life a week ago. The enormity of the defeat and yet the futility of it all.
Fifth time this year and I still have no words to comfort the grieving children. Awkwardly I searched for words, all out of courage to complete the class. Farmer suicides in our tehsil was national news but in this classroom, it was a personal tragedy. Overcome by helplessness and anger, I slammed the book shut and thumped it on the table. “I feel the same way, madamji” said Shankar. “This can’t go on. Else we will lose our fathers, our land, be forced to work as laborers in the city, lose our families, our future….and….is that what we are going to do for the rest of our lives?” Shankar’s voice raising in desperation. The students, just numb, resigned to their fate.
Panchayat meeting with Sharda Ram, the local money lender had not gone well. Pleading for loan forgiveness, begging for reduction of interest, extension of time had fallen on deaf ears. Farmers, with their families, social workers, representatives of 12 neighbouring villages at the gram panchayat, failed miserably in trying to convince the vain and selfish Sharda Ram that livelihood of dozens of families hangs by a thread.
“Madamji, I am ready to fight and I will not let another farmer from our village be driven to suicide.” Arun’s voiced sliced through the room as he stood and held my gaze. I knew that it was a call for everyone who heard him, to stop being helpless and to save lives.
Over the next few days, the classroom turned into a war zone. We knew time was limited before another tragedy struck. We had to act decisively and did not have the luxury of a do-over. Teenagers - thirteen boys and seven girls, came together for four days and nights; the classroom became a place for constant discussion, controlled emotions, engaged energies and finally a plan was put in motion where everyone had a role to play.
On Sunday, I visited Sharda Ram to sweet talk him to make Rupees ten thousand donation for our crumbling school. After much flattery, he agreed. It was decided that he would present this money in cash to the school amidst ceremonial fanfare the following Friday. As soon as I returned to the school, the students got busy calling the local and national media hailing Sharda Ram for being the hero who would sponsor scholarship worth Lakhs of rupees for the village students. The amount remained undisclosed and Chinese whisper gained momentum.
Hours turned into days and the media started to descend in our village in anticipation of the Friday ceremony. At first, Sharda Ram basked in the adulation and showed off his presence. Spoke about tradition, his grandeur and power. The students, as planned, engaged some key villagers to talk about the zamindaar’s wealth and generosity, and slipped some fiction into grapevine, including a sham congress election ticket.
The Wednesday press conference was being held at the gram panchayat baithak and the attendance was tremendous. Sharda Ram was momentarily confused and then furious when he heard a reporter ask what made him commit Rs.10 Lakh toward scholarship. “Sharda Ramji, how often you provide support to the local children towards building their future?” “Can you tell us more about your other charitable acts in the village?” “Sharda Ramji, both your sons study at a leading boarding school in Lucknow. What is your view about the education in the village?” “When this village proudly welcomes back its student as the first doctor or engineer, do you think the credit will go to you for supporting this vision?” “Once Congress gives you the election ticket for this constituency, what other development agenda would you take on?”
The barrage of questions and the limelight, while he was trying to grasp the horror of the donation amount, was too much to handle. Fumbling for words and sweating in the balmy morning, Sharda Ram felt cornered. There was no time to explain or clarify and no place to run. All eyes were on Sharda Ram and all mics were tuned in to catch his every breath and spoken syllable. At that moment he locked his eyes with mine. Seething with anger and a sense of betrayal, his eyes bore into mine, making me uncomfortable. “Madamji!” he bellowed. “You must be leader of all this commotion. Now I understand. Will you explain to these people what’s going on after all you keep preaching that education is every child’s right”. “Yes, but in this village, Sharda Ramji, it seems like a privilege. And thank you for being so generous towards our village students” my voice was surprisingly calm, cloaking the storm inside.
“Is this what you teach the students? That they are backward or underprivileged? That they are not capable of standing on their own feet without getting charity from other people?” he mocked. “I teach everyone the same thing – that status and success are both a state of mind. That each person’s ability is unique, immense and unstoppable. What each child learns from this teaching, is different.” I spoke with clarity and full belief.
“Madamji, those who can’t do, teach. It’s very easy to lecture and give baseless hope to poor kids. What is the guarantee you are willing to give for the future of these children?” “These kids take their future very seriously, Sharda Ramji. And I believe that each child in our school is capable of building a prosperous future for themselves as well as enable development in this very village. They have seen enough hardships to know that it does not get any worse than this. Question is, are powerful citizens like you willing to believe in their abilities too? So, with your commitment of Rupees ten lakh for the scholarship, I have no doubt that you’re setting a remarkable example of community leadership.”
Suddenly the crowd burst into a long applause. I wasn’t sure what they were supporting but it sure gave me a moment to catch my breath in this conversation with heated underpinnings. Undeterred, Sharda Ram moved to his next blow, this time knocking the wind out of me –“You are right, Madamji. These are very capable young minds. You would know, since you are their teacher. Also this scholarship is no small amount. After all, if we had agreed on Rupees ten thousand that would’ve been an easy thing; a small amount when compared to the big ideas that you and these kids have. So let the school prove that it deserves this scholarship. A test, to validate that every penny of Rupees ten lakh is an investment into their capable future. Let the students demonstrate their worthiness like their life depends on it.” Sharda Ram spoke as a final declaration, emphasizing each word of his last sentence.
Not a soul stirred in the crowd and all the students held their breath. For five long seconds I stared back at Sharda Ram. This was not a moment for weakness. This rink needed a fighter that would fall and stand up again. “We accept” was my ultimatum.
Just as unexpectedly I was pulled into the arena, I was suddenly pushed to the background as the Sarpanch pulled the focus of the crowd. “Friday is the day that our village school is expected to receive the biggest scholarship in the history of our tehsil. Before Shri Sharda Ram delivers the amount, students shall participate in a quiz. The students will need to score 60% correct answers in order to earn the said scholarship. If the students succeed, Shri Sharda Ram’s name will go down in history as a generous, well respected Zamindaar vested in the bright future of the next generation. But if the students fail to score 60%, then Shri Sharda Ram will be given an option to decide the fate of the scholarship.” Murmurs of discussion swept through the crowd.
“I do not agree Sarpanchji” barked Sharda Ram. “If I am the only one giving the scholarship,” he emphasized on scholarship with sarcasm, “then I am the one to decide the merit. To decide the level of challenge. My sons will prepare the questions for the quiz. Madamji, you can choose your team.” I was shocked and disturbed. “Sharda Ramji, half my students don’t have a parent, 80% of the parents are illiterate and cannot participate in their child’s education, in the current situation students are unable to even come to school every day, we have acute shortage of educational facilities and aide, very limited access to information, and under these difficult conditions you want to test the students against national level curriculum?”
“You seem to be losing the confidence you displayed just five min ago, madamji. Are you not ready for the challenge because perhaps what your students have is a sense of entitlement, not merit? Take it or leave it, your choice” He smirked. My face was red with anger and my head ready to explode listening to this despicable man talk about entitlement? It was a stare down. Out of nowhere Arun appeared and said “We accept Sharda Ramji. You and your family are cordially invited to host the quiz at our school on Friday at 11am. Our team will be ready.”
Two hours, three cups of tea and four Disprins later I was pacing up and down the classroom. Switching between anger and anxiety, I didn’t know how to begin the preparation for quiz. The group had ballooned from nineteen students to over fifty students, parents, members of press and NGO. This challenge had caught everyone’s attention and people were now picking sides. Brainstorming ideas, what-ifs and hope-nots was taking the noise level higher by the hour. We have one and a half day to prepare and this was going to be a long night.
Gradually, we started to bring some order to this chaos. Groups were formed, discussions ensued and lists were made for everything – subjects, challenges, strengths, risks, reading inventory, styles of questions, common quiz shows and techniques, preparation strategies…everything. Students dived in taking up one subject after another, assessing what they knew and how much they needed to learn or rote. Afternoon turned into night, modest food was brought in for the swelling group, oil lanterns were lit, some mats were added too for those who had been on the floor all evening. Looking out of the class window I noticed the local chaiwala serving tea to the small crowd outside. Nobody got much sleep and the preparation was on non-stop, in shifts.
Thursday was slow and intense. Nobody left the school and I think more people joined in. By dusk, the students were getting tired but I could see a calm determination on their faces. Mood was somber and despite the crowd, it was getting quieter. Late night, I urged the students to sleep. With bodies at rest and minds turbulent, one could only pray.
Friday morning started before dawn and every minute leading up to 11am was painful. People poured in through the morning and the crowd was bigger that it had been all week. By 11am, the whole school was seated and our handpicked group of 7 students were in the front row. The hall was humid with anticipation. Sharda Ram and his family kept us all waiting for almost an hour and when they arrived, he started without a greeting or introduction.
“In 10 minutes we shall know the result. There is potential to play 5 rounds but if you fail in a round, game is over. Each round is 90 seconds of quick questions and you must score 80% in each round to move to the next round. Ready?”
God help us, I prayed silently. Sharda Ram wanted no team work and tested confidence before competence. Round 1 was arithmetic and students aced it. The soundless crowd burst into ear shattering applause. Round 2 was history. The students felt the pressure as the questions fired like bullets. More intense, hesitant but successful.
Thoughts evoked overwhelming emotions as I realize how each child here is a hero. Learning everyday despite challenges that can break a spirit, with responsibilities that ruin a childhood. Here they are, trying to save their families and the village. Despite their devotion to this quiz, I was scared for them. Confidence was a luxury.
Round 3 sports. The first answer, wrong. Next three were correct. Fifth incorrect. The next four correct. 15 seconds to go and the team was stuck. Which year did India first participate in the Olympics? This question could break us.
Sharda Ram stood up. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
“1900” shouted a student from the audience and the buzzer rang. Like a flash of lightening, the message drove home that the entire school was part of the team. Children squealed with joy and the crowd erupted in a minute long applause. People were visibly on the edge, some crying and other praying.
But the challenge was far from over.
Round 4 science. Exerting highest caution, only the students with strongest confidence about their answer, spoke. With one wrong answer, we moved to the final round.
Round 5 current affairs. My students’ Achilles heel. The first question knocked them out. Five excruciating seconds later, “Spain” shouted a journalist. “I’m in this team”. Almost instantly 5 villagers rose to display allegiance, then 15 and many more. Sharda Ram could not argue with what he saw. Students fielded questions and community helped once more during the round. The buzzer rang and the room erupted in a joyful uproar at the perilous victory.
Rupees ten lakh were won as scholarship and the school announced that this money will be used to pay off the farmer debts in the village because no student can afford the loss of a parent. The cost of education for my students is very high and today, these children won hearts and earned a future.
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Panchayat - Village local self-governance body comprising of 5 officials elected by the participating villages
Sarpanch - The Chief among Panchayat
Sarpanch - The Chief among Panchayat
Zamindar - A local lord or barron who owns most land and often becomes a money lender
Baithak - A place for gathering of people for leisure or meetings
Madamji or Sharda Ramji - 'Ji' is a term of respect used in Hindi, usually added after a noun
Chaiwala - tea seller
Lakh - One hundred thousand
Tehsil - District or county
Neighbouring - English version of Neighboring
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Farmer suicides in India is a very tragic phenomenon. Being a food surplus nation and also a country with starvation deaths, Indian agriculture is full of dichotomies. On one hand the government gives large subsidies to the farmers and on the other hand the small farmer is always impoverished and in debt. When one farmer commits suicide, with him dies the spirit of the whole family, lost is the future of his children...but remains intact the debt. I cannot say anything that has not already been said about this tragedy. Here are some links to know more about Farmer Suicides in India:
1. Wikipedia
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