I went to three different shops with my mutilated Motorola phone, hoping that someone would repair it. The price they quoted to replace the broken touchpad and the display was high enough to buy me two basic Nokia phones. Eventually, I decided to stop calculating, to just go ahead and buy an iBall Andi that would serve me well. Thankfully, I had a helpful salesperson named Tawheed to take me through the alien universe of specifications, features and functionalities. Buying vegetables and books is so much easier for me!
“What does your name mean?” I asked.
“The oneness of God,” he said. “That’s beautiful. Since there’s a God association here, I hope this phone lasts much longer,” I added. He looked quite young. I assumed that he probably went to college in the daytime, and worked at the shop in the evening. “No, I stopped going to school after Class 9. I like working,” he said. Though I was curious to know if he had dropped out of personal choice or parental compulsion, I realized that it would be unfair to waste his time when the shop was filled with prospective customers. Also, I was not sure if he was comfortable with my asking.
Tawheed was exceptionally good at his job. He had a friendly way of speaking. He was able to answer a variety of questions. He knew enough about the products he was selling. He made me think of the young boys who work at Mumbai’s tea stalls, deliver newspapers to our doorsteps, and give haircuts at roadside salons.
Donor reports, financial statements and on-field documentation rarely feature the raw, unfiltered utterances of children
I do not know if there are studies documenting how many of them were able to complete their formal education. A more fundamental question: How many of them care about what is taught in the classroom? Sometimes, I think that we forget to talk about the nature and quality of education because we are too consumed by the discussion around increasing access to education in the first place. What is the kind of education we want to increase access to? If we do not give this enough thought, the only thing we might end up increasing is enrolment figures and attendance.
Every year, I hear of newer organizations (cl)aiming to serve the education needs of the ‘urban poor’ - in Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, Chennai, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Pune, everywhere! I am sure this is the case with Islamabad, Peshawar, Lahore, Karachi, Faisalabad, Multan, Quetta, Bahawalpur and Sukkur as well. It is evident that a lot of jobs are being created for adults. I hope that children too are benefitting. And in a way that they see as valuable. Not parents. Not teachers. Not do-gooders.
Pakistani activist Diep Saeeda treated the author to halwa-puri
Unfortunately, donor reports, financial statements, and on-field documentation rarely feature the raw, unfiltered utterances of children. That is why it was a pleasure to find in my mail a copy of ‘My Voice, My Verse’, a collaborative publication by FunOKPlease and Vidya, an NGO with several centres in Indian cities. This book features poems written by children and adolescents who are part of Vidya’s educational programmes for communities they define as “less privileged.”
I learnt of them last year when they approached me for their poetry festival. My task was simple: to introduce young men and women from their youth programme in Mumbai to the verse of Kabir, the 15th century poet, a powerful voice speaking up against sectarian hatred and divisive politics. We had two sessions together, cooped up in a ramshackle municipal school, hidden amidst narrow lanes that are so close to the posh IIT Bombay that I was shocked by the visual markers of difference.
To me, the value of this publication lies not in the poems themselves but in the fact that they were published. It is rare for children’s work in the classroom to find an audience beyond the teacher it is meant to please. Imagine how edifying it must be for the children to see their words in a book!
Out of the 200 poems that were written, only 30 made it to this book. I would have loved to know what criteria were applied during the process of selection. Were there poems on menstruation, bullying, first crushes, sexual attraction, jealousy that did not make the cut because they did not appear sweet, cute, or childlike? Most of the poems I see on these pages conjure up images of English teachers who are overzealous about the use of rhyme and the need to disseminate social messages through every piece of creative writing.
Sample this: “Reshma is my name/ I’m a pretty dame/ Engineering will bring the fame/ But I know it’s a difficult game.” And this too: “Plant trees, plant trees,/ Make your life fresh and green./ Trees, they give us plenty of shade,/ Protection from floods is another gain.” Yes, that’s exactly how you and I used to write.
The one-line introductions accompanying the poems give me a better glimpse of the children’s personalities, interests, and aspirations. Yasmeen enjoys playing kho-kho. Kusum wants to “make people aware of superstition.” Neha does not like “doing housework”. Sunny writes, “I wish I was taller.” Sonal, who wants to “become a businesswoman,” says that she likes “to gossip and argue with friends.” Aarti hopes to “help make changes in community toilets and gutters.”
The two poems from this collection, which did speak to me, are titled ‘Come Back Again’ and ‘My Dear Granny’. They sound more authentic to me, and closer to the children’s felt experiences. The first one has a wistful tone. It speaks in the voice of a lonely child waiting for the return of a long-lost friend. The second one is more effective in the original than in the English translation. One of the stanzas says, “Naani ke bina jeena bekaar hai/ Mujhe unse pyaar hai/ Apne paas bithaati hai/ Halwa puri khilaati hai.” (Life without granny is worthless/ My love for her is endless/ Beside her does she seat me/ Halwa puri does she feed me.)
Does that remind you of your naani? It reminds me of Diep Apa in Lahore, who once took me out for a sumptuous breakfast of halwa puri and chanay. That’s the sort of thing a sedentary lifestyle-wallah like me can have only once a year. Lahoris, I am told, have healthier appetites.
Chintan Girish Modi is a Mumbai-based writer. That he shares his last name with a Prime Minister is purely a matter of coincidence. He tweets at @chintan_connect
