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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.

Dead Reckoning

The Charlie Kirk killing underscores America’s uneasy balance of free expression, political violence and identity.

The murder of firebrand Conservative activist Charlie Kirk during a speaking event at a Utah college was much more than just a tragic episode in America’s long saga of gun violence. While Kirk’s audiences consisted of those who largely those who shared his outlook, the suddenness and brutality of his killing jolted even the indifferent.


Violence, it must be said, is indefensible. That point is not up for debate. But neither can Kirk’s ideology be separated from the response to his death.


Kirk founded Turning Point USA in 2012, when he was barely out of his teens. Within a decade it had become a juggernaut of campus conservatism, bankrolled by wealthy donors and amplified by Fox News. His message was tailored to a generation disillusioned with liberal shibboleths, railing against ‘woke culture,’ denouncing immigration as an “invasion” and dismissing LGBTQ+ rights as a threat to the republic. To admirers, he was a fresh-faced tribune of unapologetic conservatism while to his critics, he was a provocateur trafficking in bigotry.


American politics has long produced firebrands whose words divide more than they unify. In the 1960s George Wallace galvanised white resentment with talk of segregation. In the 1990s, Pat Buchanan (Nixon’s speechwriter) had railed against multiculturalism. Kirk’s genius was to package similar sentiments for a social-media age, combining meme-worthy provocation with a relentless denunciation of liberal elites.


The reactions to Kirk’s death illustrated the difficulty of separating man from message. Barack Obama called the killing “horrific” while pointedly defending the right to challenge Kirk’s ideas. Hollywood actress Amanda Seyfried posted condolences but reminded her followers of the “hateful” impact of his rhetoric on immigrants and LGBTQ+ people.


Such responses highlight a moral balancing act: it is possible to mourn a life lost without airbrushing the harm of words once spoken.


Marginalised groups, long the targets of Kirk’s fire, voiced a similar duality. GLAAD, an LGBTQ+ advocacy group, condemned the shooting but noted that Kirk “spread infinite amounts of disinformation about LGBTQ people.” The Human Rights Campaign insisted that “political violence has no place in this country,” while reminding the public that rhetoric has consequences.


Black church leaders in Houston issued carefully nuanced statements. Bishop James Dixon II stressed that every life matters, yet Reverend Frederick Haynes III observed that Kirk’s dismissive comments about Black Americans could not simply be erased in the wash of mourning.


In South Texas, an artist painted a mural of Kirk as a gesture of unity. Within days, it was vandalised with one of Kirk’s own quotes: “We made a huge mistake when we passed the Civil Rights Act.” The defacement sparked debate - was it sacrilege, or an uncomfortable act of historical memory?


The shooting has since acquired a second life in the culture wars. Universities and media figures came under fire for posts deemed too critical of Kirk in the hours after his death. A handful of employees lost jobs over celebratory remarks online. America’s vice president, J.D. Vance, urged citizens to report such expressions to authorities.


The deaths of polarising figures, whether George Floyd in 2020 or Ashli Babbitt during the January 6th riot, have repeatedly become contested symbols, claimed by rival camps to reinforce their narratives. Kirk’s fate seems destined for similar treatment: martyr to some, menace to others.


Underlying the wrangling is a profound question: how does a democracy uphold free speech while also recognising when speech marginalises? For those on the receiving end of Kirk’s words, the stakes are hardly ‘academic.’ When immigrants are portrayed as ‘invaders’ or gay Americans as a social contagion, the line between rhetoric and policy can blur.


Yet acknowledging the danger of words does not justify violence. That distinction is crucial. America’s liberal tradition depends on resisting the idea that bullets can resolve arguments. But it also demands honesty about the climate created by inflammatory speech.


The temptation in moments like these is to reach for easy binaries: Kirk as martyr or villain, his killing either proof of left-wing intolerance or a tragic inevitability of polarised politics. The truth, however, is untidier. It is possible to hold two truths in tandem: that violence is wrong, and that rhetoric matters.


How America remembers Charlie Kirk will shape more than his legacy. If grief slides into sanctification, exclusionary ideologies may gain fresh legitimacy. If his death is dismissed as simply another casualty of gun violence, the human tragedy is lost. The wiser path lies in resisting both amnesia and absolutism.


(The author is an Indian origin US citizen, residing in Washington Dc. Views personal)

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