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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.

Bridge to nowhere

The tragic collapse of a rusty footbridge in Pune district exposes Maharashtra’s decaying infrastructure, unregulated tourism and political cynicism.

Pune: The recent crumbling of an iron footbridge over the Indrayani River in Kundmala, Maval taluka, killing four and injuring several more, has become yet another symbol of the convergence between state negligence and India’s runaway tourism boom. As monsoon-swollen waters rushed beneath it, the 470-foot-long, 4-foot-wide relic of the past gave way under the weight of more than a hundred tourists and five motorcycles, many of them leaning over to take in the view or a selfie.


That such a structure, known to be corroded and clearly marked as unsafe, was still being used by the public is damning enough. But the bridge’s collapse is merely the latest consequence of a wider malaise in Maharashtra’s governance: a combination of infrastructural decay, political opportunism and a tourism culture that now borders on addiction.


Local authorities have done little to dispel the impression of ineptitude. Deputy Chief Minister Ajit Pawar said the bridge was “old and rusted” while blaming crowding caused its collapse. This was an admission of administrative failure cloaked in bureaucratic vagueness. Even more tellingly, it was revealed that Rs. 8 crore (roughly $1 million) had been sanctioned for a new bridge before the last state elections. Yet, according to local villagers and opposition leaders, not a single pile of concrete was laid. Only survey markings were made.


Mukund Kirdat of the Aam Aadmi Party has accused the ruling BJP of mere tokenism. Sanjay Raut of the Shiv Sena (UBT) demanding both Ajit Pawar and local MLA Sunil Shelke be held directly accountable. Their allegations find ample support in the facts on the ground. In 2022, then Public Works Minister Ravindra Chavan reportedly ordered a proposal for a new bridge. Nothing came of it.


Thus, the public was left with a metal husk, rusting and visibly weakening, despite repeated warnings. A police signboard cautioning against crowding and vehicular use was found buried under the debris. A concerned citizen even tipped off the police hours before the collapse that the bridge was dangerously overcrowded. Officers briefly intervened and left. The crowds, naturally, returned.


That said, the heedlessness of tourists was also evident. Lured by social media reels and the promise of ‘nature escapes,’ many rode two-wheelers onto the narrow bridge or leaned precariously over its edges for photographs. A flimsy bridge can be condemned and roped off, but in the face of viral content and a long weekend, such barriers are easily ignored.


A wider phenomenon

The tragedy at Kundmala is symptomatic of a subtler, wider phenomenon that is the post-pandemic tourism craze that has gripped India’s middle class. Once confined to occasional holidays, urban wanderlust has become compulsive. Every long weekend sees highways out of Pune and Mumbai choked with SUVs heading to forts, dams and nature retreats in the Western Ghats. The once-quiet hill stations of Panchgani, Wai and Lonavala now witness gridlocks every Saturday and Sunday. Local police forces are overwhelmed.


This influx has transformed the rural economy. In districts like Maval, agriculture is increasingly sidelined in favour of roadside dhabas, Airbnb-style farmhouses and ‘eco-resorts’ with little ecological grounding. While a veneer of prosperity has emerged, the primary beneficiaries are often politically connected landowners or local elites. Farmhouses, according to some insiders, double as venues for political hospitality offering entertainment, and occasionally more, to grease the wheels of bureaucratic favour.


The Lavasa and Aamby Valley projects near Pune demonstrated the early convergence of real estate and escapism. Their partial successes have inspired copycats across Maharashtra. Landowners, eager to cash in, plaster the region with hoardings promising “nature with luxury.” Meanwhile, their haphazard development often flouts zoning rules, water limits and safety norms. The authorities either look the other way or are complicit.


Imposed restrictions

District Collector Jitendra Dudi has now imposed restrictions around popular hotspots like Bhushi Dam and Sinhagad, hoping to curb accidents during the rainy season. He has appealed to tourists to stay away from dangerous zones, including Kundmala, where 14 people have died since 2005. But such appeals rarely suffice against a cultural shift that prizes Instagram moments over personal safety.


Tourism, if properly regulated, can indeed benefit rural communities. But the problem in Maharashtra (and India more broadly) is that such regulation is often reactive, not preventive. Safety audits of existing structures are rare. Crowd-control measures are minimal. Warning signs are ignored. Planning is dictated by the electoral calendar, not public need.


The Kundmala bridge collapse was not an act of God. It was an entirely preventable tragedy, made inevitable by indifference. It reveals, in miniature, how India’s obsession with growth and spectacle, whether in infrastructure or leisure, often overlooks the prosaic but essential work of maintenance and regulation.


If the state government is serious about preventing another such disaster, it must do more than sanction funds. It must spend them and then build and it must regulate crowds before they form. Tourism may fuel the local economy, but if left ungoverned, it will continue to erode the very foundations on which it stands.


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