Over the last few days there’s been an auto strike and it has been impossible to find a rickshaw anywhere. I have had to walk into work in the morning sun and navigate the fumey rush-hour chaos on my way home in the evening. The drivers are protesting a CNG petroleum gas price rise of 10 Rupees a litre, a mark up which nevertheless leaves heavily subsidized fuel costs a long way from their actual market price. It was a relief to find autos back on the road by this morning, when I accompanied a visiting teacher from Bombay on a trip to some of Pratham’s ‘Democratic Learning Centres’ in Ahmedabad’s slums.
After breakfast at DJ Rocks (or Deepak’s as Dani and I know it), a small and grubby but friendly and very cheap ‘restaurant’ on Vejalpur road, we rode in an auto for half an hour, ending up far into the old half of the city. All three DLCs were essentially the same: a classroom with one shuttered window, one fan and one tube light. In the first session were twenty or so 6 to 8 year olds, of varying ability and cleanliness, a division repeated across all three groups. Most had exercise books and pens, though one or two were using slates and chalk. In the second centre a young teacher supervised ten listless 3 to 5 year olds who stared at me but didn’t return my smiles. My companion thought they were too young to be there and certainly they looked doleful, although the coal which some Indian parents apply like mascara to their children’s eyes perhaps exaggerated this look beyond reality. The most fun were the 11 to 14 year olds, all of whom were boys, studying in a small room at the top of a very steep flight of metal stairs. They were learning and practicing Maths problems, directed by a Pratham trained teacher from the local area who firmly reined in their messing around. All the classess took place in the morning, with the kids going to their municipal schools at midday. My presence caused something of a stir amongst the kids and in the immediate surrounding area of slum housing, an old women taking the effort to climb the stairs just to get a look at the foreigner sitting in the classroom. None of the slums were really desperate; residency was obviously well established, with houses made of concrete and rigged up with electricity. But the absence of money was visible.
After breakfast at DJ Rocks (or Deepak’s as Dani and I know it), a small and grubby but friendly and very cheap ‘restaurant’ on Vejalpur road, we rode in an auto for half an hour, ending up far into the old half of the city. All three DLCs were essentially the same: a classroom with one shuttered window, one fan and one tube light. In the first session were twenty or so 6 to 8 year olds, of varying ability and cleanliness, a division repeated across all three groups. Most had exercise books and pens, though one or two were using slates and chalk. In the second centre a young teacher supervised ten listless 3 to 5 year olds who stared at me but didn’t return my smiles. My companion thought they were too young to be there and certainly they looked doleful, although the coal which some Indian parents apply like mascara to their children’s eyes perhaps exaggerated this look beyond reality. The most fun were the 11 to 14 year olds, all of whom were boys, studying in a small room at the top of a very steep flight of metal stairs. They were learning and practicing Maths problems, directed by a Pratham trained teacher from the local area who firmly reined in their messing around. All the classess took place in the morning, with the kids going to their municipal schools at midday. My presence caused something of a stir amongst the kids and in the immediate surrounding area of slum housing, an old women taking the effort to climb the stairs just to get a look at the foreigner sitting in the classroom. None of the slums were really desperate; residency was obviously well established, with houses made of concrete and rigged up with electricity. But the absence of money was visible.
No comments:
Post a Comment