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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.

Marathwada's Unfulfilled Promise of Progress

On the occasion of Marathwada Liberation Day, the region’s struggle for progress remains an unfinished chapter of India’s development story.

Each year on September 17, Maharashtra marks the Marathwada Mukti Sangram Din or Marathwada Liberation Struggle Day which stands as a solemn reminder of the region’s long and painful battle against the Nizam of Hyderabad’s rule. When India won independence in 1947, Hyderabad remained a princely state under the autocratic rule of the Nizam, who was reluctant to accede to the Indian Union. It was not until late 1948, when the Indian Army launched ‘Operation Polo’ that Hyderabad was annexed, ending the Nizam’s sovereignty and liberating Marathwada.


For the people of Marathwada, liberation was a long struggle against feudal oppression, systemic inequality, and neglect. Under the Nizam, Marathwada’s economy was structured around exploitative landholding patterns, where vast tracts were controlled by a few jagirdars, while the majority remained impoverished peasants. Forced labour, high taxation and poor infrastructure were commonplace, and basic services like education and healthcare were scarce. The region’s development was stifled by a lack of public investment, fuelling resentment and laying the groundwork for mass mobilisations during the liberation struggle.


Even after integration with India, the arc of progress remained elusive. Unlike western Maharashtra, which benefitted from the Green Revolution and industrial investments, Marathwada remained primarily agrarian, plagued by low agricultural productivity, erratic rainfall, and inadequate irrigation facilities. Early hopes that independence would usher in equitable development were quickly dashed as political attention and capital investment bypassed the region. Key industries were concentrated elsewhere, and bureaucratic inefficiencies compounded the sense of abandonment.


Today, the story continues in the form of an ongoing exodus. More than 40 percent of students in Pune hail from Marathwada, driven by the belief that “progress demands education.” In the face of limited local opportunities, young men and women leave their villages to take on urban hardship. Many have succeeded, rising to respectable positions in business, academia and public administration, carrying with them the pride of their region.


Yet their departure underscores a systemic failure. Education, a supposed vehicle for social mobility, is itself in short supply in Marathwada. Reputed universities and technical institutes are few, while the existing ones struggle to maintain quality. Students often journey to Pune or Mumbai merely to secure a basic degree.


Employment opportunities are even scarcer. Despite abundant land, Marathwada lacks industrial hubs and meaningful investment. The economy remains dependent on agriculture, vulnerable to droughts and poor irrigation infrastructure. The absence of industrialisation is not incidental but the result of policy neglect and political inertia.


Healthcare, too, remains grossly inadequate. Local hospitals are ill-equipped, and serious medical cases often require trips to cities such as Pune or Aurangabad. The health infrastructure gap compounds the sense of abandonment and fuels further migration.


In this context, many young people channel their energies into activism, hoping to draw attention to systemic injustices. Yet activism, while vital, offers no clear path toward sustainable livelihoods. Without real structural change, it risks becoming symbolic protest rather than a solution.


Worryingly, forecasts suggest that up to 70 percent of Marathwada’s population could relocate to urban centres within the next decade. Far from exaggerated, this projection reflects a disturbing trajectory. Villages are already emptying, and local economies eroding, threatening the very cultural fabric of the region.


This raises uncomfortable questions about governance and policy priorities. Are political leaders content with symbolic gestures? Is the public resigned to a status quo that consigns Marathwada to perpetual underdevelopment? Or do they cling to the hollow hope that “things will improve someday?” What Marathwada requires is not nostalgia or rhetoric but targeted policy intervention. The state and central governments must invest in quality educational institutions, modern healthcare infrastructure, and industrial development tailored to local needs. Incentivising industry in Marathwada through tax breaks or special economic zones could stem the flow of migrants.


On this Liberation Struggle Day, the challenge is clear. True freedom is not merely the end of colonial oppression; it is the realisation of equitable development and opportunity. The unfinished business of integrating Marathwada into India’s progress story cannot be allowed to linger as a national shame.


Unless addressed, the pain of a migrating Marathwada and the prospect of desolate villages will not remain a distant threat but a grim reality of tomorrow.

(The writer is a lawyer and president, Student Helping Hands. Views personal.)

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