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By:

Shoumojit Banerjee

27 August 2024 at 9:57:52 am

Classroom of Courage

In drought-scarred Maharashtra, a couple’s experiment in democratic schooling is turning child beggars into model citizens In the parched stretches of Maharashtra, from Solapur to the drought-hit villages of Marathwada, a modest social experiment has quietly unfolded for nearly two decades. It is neither a grand government scheme nor a corporate-backed charity. Since 2007, the Ajit Foundation, founded by Mahesh and Vinaya Nimbalkar, has worked with children living at the sharpest edges of...

Classroom of Courage

In drought-scarred Maharashtra, a couple’s experiment in democratic schooling is turning child beggars into model citizens In the parched stretches of Maharashtra, from Solapur to the drought-hit villages of Marathwada, a modest social experiment has quietly unfolded for nearly two decades. It is neither a grand government scheme nor a corporate-backed charity. Since 2007, the Ajit Foundation, founded by Mahesh and Vinaya Nimbalkar, has worked with children living at the sharpest edges of society in Maharashtra. The foundation has become a home for out-of-school children, those who have never enrolled, the children of migrant labourers and single parents, and those who scavenge at garbage dumps or drift between odd jobs. To call their foundation an “NGO” is to miss the point. Vinaya Nimbalkar describes it as a “democratic laboratory”, where education is not merely instruction but an initiation into citizenship. The couple were once government schoolteachers with the Solapur Zilla Parishad, leading stable lives. Yet what they witnessed unsettled them: children who had never held a pencil, begging at traffic signals or sorting refuse for a living. Prompted by this reality, the Nimbalkars resigned their jobs to work full-time for the education of such children. Leap of Faith They began modestly, teaching children in migrant settlements in Solapur and using their own salaries to pay small honorariums to activists. Funds soon ran dry, and volunteers drifted away. Forced out of their home because of their commitment to the cause, they started a one-room school where Vinaya, Mahesh, their infant son Srijan and forty children aged six to fourteen lived together as an unlikely family. The experiment later moved to Barshi in the Solapur district with support from Anandvan. Rural hardship, financial uncertainty and the pandemic repeatedly tested their resolve. At one stage, they assumed educational guardianship of nearly 200 children from families that survived by collecting scrap on the village outskirts. Eventually, the foundation relocated to Talegaon Dabhade near Pune, where it now runs a residential hostel. Twenty-five children currently live and study there. The numbers may seem modest, but the ambition is not. Democracy in Practice What distinguishes the Ajit Foundation is not only who it serves but also how it operates. Within its walls, democracy is practised through a Children’s Gram Panchayat and a miniature Municipal Council elected by the children themselves. Young candidates canvass, hold meetings and present their budgets. Children maintain accounts and share decisions about chores, activities and certain disciplinary matters. In a country where democratic culture is often reduced to voting, the foundation’s approach is quietly radical. It treats children from marginalised backgrounds as citizens in formation. The right to choose — whether to focus on sport, cooking, mathematics or cultural activities — is respected. “We try never to take away what is their own,” says Vinaya Nimbalkar. Rather than forcing every child into a uniform academic mould, individual abilities are encouraged. A boy skilled in daily calculations may not be pushed into hours of bookish study; a girl who excels in cooking may lead the kitchen team. For children who have known only precarity, standing for election, managing a budget or speaking at a meeting can be transformative. On International Women’s Day, the foundation seeks visibility not just for praise but for partnership. If you are inspired by their mission, consider supporting or collaborating—your involvement can help extend opportunities to more children in need.

A Kafkaesque exit from Pakistan

Sometime in the early 1990s, our vessel was loading oil in Jeddah, bound ostensibly for a port in Sudan. The cargo, we were told, was a donation from Saudi Arabia to Sudan. While the bill of lading listed a Sudanese port as the destination, the shipper’s representative in Saudi Arabia quietly informed us that we were, in fact, to proceed to Karachi. We were thus asked to prepare for the voyage accordingly.


It was reasonably presumed that, once the vessel had departed Jeddah, the oil would be sold mid-sea by the consignee (ostensibly Sudan) to a Pakistani entity or business, likely at a price far below market value. Once the transaction was completed, a revised bill of lading naming Karachi as the discharge port would arrive via email. One could reasonably infer that this post-departure transaction was, if not overtly fraudulent, certainly irregular and very likely approved or at least tacitly sanctioned by the vessel’s owner.


Though the ship did not fly an Indian flag, its officers and crew were Indian. The legality of the paperwork meant little in practice for the Indian crew, given that the bill of lading had been formally processed. As my leave was due and the vessel was set to embark on a Europe–US run, I requested to be signed off in Karachi. I was fully aware, however, that for an Indian seafarer, disembarking in a Pakistani port could be a bureaucratic nightmare.


At the time, Karachi imposed stringent requirements for crew sign-off, especially for nationals of India, Israel, and Taiwan. Such crew members were required to hold a confirmed flight ticket departing within 24 hours of setting foot ashore. They had to be accompanied at all times by both an immigration officer and a policeman until clearing immigration at the airport. If an overnight hotel stay was required, then these two officials were to be lodged in the adjoining room, ensuring the crew member did not step outside.


Fortunately, I was spared the indignity of hotel surveillance. After completing inward immigration formalities which took nearly four hours and involved considerable effort by our ship’s local agent, I proceeded straight to the airport.


This local agent was a warm and friendly man. His ancestors, he told me, had migrated from Bihar to Pakistan during the Partition of 1947. Over the course of our four-hour wait, this Pakistani, a Mohajir as such migrants are known, shared two insights into the country’s politics.


The first concerned the status of Mohajirs in Pakistan. Although they had migrated on religious grounds, they had never been fully accepted as equals in Pakistani society. It was a bitter irony that many had come seeking belonging, only to be treated as outsiders. This sense of exclusion, he suggested, had sown the seeds of the MohajirQaumi Movement.


The second insight came during the drive to the airport. I sat in the vehicle with the immigration officer and policeman, chatting freely. At one point, traffic came to a halt due to VIP movement, an experience familiar to anyone who has lived in New Delhi. After a long wait, a convoy of motorcycles, official cars and eventually the VIP passed by. I asked who it was. “Sir ji, it is my baap, General saab,” replied the Pakistani official, half-jokingly. I remarked that in India, even a high-ranking army officer travels with just a pilot jeep and a couple of motorcycles.


It was then that I realised what many in Pakistan already knew: the army is not just an institution but the master of politics. And while the army is traditionally meant to instil fear in a country’s enemies, in Pakistan, it is the citizens who appear more terrified. I observed this first-hand: ordinary Pakistanis seemed genuinely scared of their military.


After finally clearing immigration at Karachi airport, I thanked my escorts and bid farewell to the ex-Bihari shipping agent, a Mohajir for whom I still feel a pang of sympathy. Perhaps one day, Sunny Deol - India’s celluloid patriot - will cross the border again to uproot another water pump. If so, he might find a willing helper in this former Bihari, now a Mohajir.


As for neighbours, one cannot choose them. But like many Indians, I continue to wonder: who will change Pakistan, and how and when for the better?


(The author, a former merchant navy sailor, is presently a shipping and marine consultant and member, Singapore Shipping Association)

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