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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.

Has politics of convenience caused ideology to collapse in Maharashtra?

In the political churn that followed the Emergency (1975–77), one of Maharashtra’s most defining moments came in 1978 when the joint government of the Reddy Congress and the Indira Congress collapsed. A young Sharad Pawar, then just 38, walked out with 40 MLAs and brought down the government. He soon returned to power via the ‘Pulod’ alliance, only to move back into the Congress fold in 1986 — and then break away again in 1999 to float the Nationalist Congress Party (NCP) over the issue of Sonia Gandhi’s foreign origins.

 

Ironically, the same Pawar later partnered with the Congress for a decade at the Centre, switching between Left allies and the erstwhile Jan Sangh with equal ease to retain power. Yet the questions remain: Where were ideology and loyalty in this long trajectory? His admirers and political commentators routinely called it statesmanship, but for Maharashtra, it marked the beginning of a political culture where ideology and party loyalty became dispensable. That seed has now grown into a full-fledged tree: in today’s politics, ideology is optional, loyalty negotiable.

 

Shiv Sena, founded in 1966 by Balasaheb Thackeray to assert Marathi identity, was first split in 1991 — a move widely attributed to Pawar, who backed Chhagan Bhujbal’s exit. Years later, the same Pawar shared power with the Sena in the state and even installed Uddhav Thackeray as Chief Minister. The Sena later splintered again, this time under Narayan Rane, and most dramatically under Eknath Shinde. Meanwhile, Raj Thackeray’s MNS took shape as a revolt against his uncle’s party.

 

More recently, the Baramati family feud saw Ajit Pawar walk into the BJP camp. Now talk of a rapprochement between Uddhav and Raj Thackeray, and between Sharad and Ajit Pawar, is gaining momentum. The churn has spread. Across districts and talukas, defections and homecomings are routine. Ideology and loyalty are honoured more in rhetoric than reality.

 

But it is the workers who bear the brunt. While leaders exchange sweet words and political comfort, it is party cadres who crack heads on the street, face police cases by the hundreds, and wage bitter battles in the name of leaders who may reunite the next day. The real question haunting Maharashtra today is: Who is fighting for whom — and against whom?

 

Power, as they say, is honey on the finger. Compromises existed earlier too, but there was once some hesitation in abandoning ideology and loyalty. Party-switching was an exception; today it is a norm.

 

Kolhapur has witnessed some of the most dramatic political rivalries — none more iconic than the decades-long clash between Sadashivrao Mandlik and Vikramsinh Ghatge. Their workers were so fiercely loyal that even inter-family social ties were avoided. After nearly 30 years of conflict, the two leaders reconciled — leaving party cadres bewildered.

 

The pattern repeats in Kagal today. Hasan Mushrif, once Mandlik’s trusted lieutenant and later his fiercest rival, and Samarsinh Ghatge, son of Vikramsinh, have come together. For years, Mushrif and Samarsinh fought pitched electoral and street battles. The BJP backed Samarsinh to unseat Mushrif. When power equations shifted, the BJP embraced Mushrif, leaving Samarsinh isolated. He crossed over to the NCP but continued to be uneasy under Devendra Fadnavis’s influence. Now rumours of reconciliation are again in the air — and once more, it is the workers who are left directionless.

 

Political battles in Maharashtra have always been fierce. In the 1970s, the Peasants and Workers  Party of India produced workers so committed that some vowed never to remove their red caps even in death. Congress stalwart Shripat Rao Bondre carried a Gandhi cap discreetly in his pocket in ShKP strongholds, but never abandoned the Congress ideology after winning municipal power.

 

Over the decades, thousands of workers have suffered fractured skulls, broken homes, lost generations, children dragged into police cases, and families ruined in local rivalries. Leaders switched parties, but workers continued visiting courts.

 

Which brings us back to the central question: In progressive Maharashtra, who exactly is fighting for whom — and against whom?

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