Independence from Intellectuals

Yes, this title is definitely inspired from Sen’s ‘Development as freedom’. And I vehemently agree with this definition of ‘development’. I have known Sen as a writer, researcher, and thinker – par excellence. His contribution to the body of knowledge on development, poverty, injustice, etc. has helped many. That is beyond doubt.

But at the same time, we must not forget that there has been a never-ending theorisation of poverty and development. Anyone who has tried to understand the ‘Sustainable Livelihood Framework’ developed by DFID and IDS would agree with me. I tried – and failed – many times over. It is incomprehensible.

However, every discussion to comprehend ‘poverty’ begins with a definition. To a poor it has no meaning – absolutely none. Over the years I have grown to understand that the definition of poverty or of the poverty line is an exercise in futility. I have somehow grown up to feel that poverty is subjective and its closest approximation can be done only by the ‘community’ itself. And any effort to understand poverty without doing something to reduce it- is just what it is – an increase in understanding. 

This increase in understanding might have not helped the ‘community’. But there have definitely been beneficiaries. Phds and MPhils have helped people gain employment at leading universities and organisation to theorise further on development and poverty – and to guide more Phds and MPhils. By that time, the poor might have not even got the privileged BPL Card that is needed to prove that one is poor.

How many of these pursuing studies in poverty and development has actually experienced poverty in their lives? And since they haven’t, what right do they have to burden the poor with more studies on poverty and more definitions of the same? Is it ethical to do research all life without wondering if those researches are helping? Will we accept if a farmer lets his produce go waste, and yet uses scarce resources of land and water to produce more – that will ultimately go waste? So, why this privilege to a researcher, a thinker, a philosopher?

Let us stop a bit, and think. Contemplate. We don’t need to increase the volume of literature on poverty any further. It would be better if we took small steps to ameliorate the condition of the poor – in whatever ways we can. We can’t be waiting for some benevolent ‘somebody’ to come and use our research/literature for the betterment of the society. It has to be us. You. Me.

Let us put an end to the ever increasing trend of conferences, seminars and workshops which has just become a platform to ‘meet, greet and eat’. Instead, can we go to the villages, to our people, and ‘meet, greet and eat’ with them and understand the futility of what we are doing now. 

Only then can Independence Day have a meaning. Only then can people have freedom from poverty, want and exploitation – and useless intellectual debates.

Jai Hind.

NB: I wrote this on the night of 14th. But I didn't have internet connectivity. Forgive me for uploading it from the office.

R-R (Local), A-A (Local), U-U (Local) and EPABX.

Back in 2006, many didn't have access to mobile phones. I didn't. So there were these landlines in our hostels. Those were EPABX ones, and you could make free calls within the campus. Of course, we didn't call our teachers. There were more useful things to do.

I, being without a girlfriend, never got an opportunity to use it. And practically none of my friends did either. More eligible ones were allowed. And they were seniors. They had a right to it.

However, all the calls were directed to only one and only one number: the Girl Hostel's. And since there were six Boys' hostel and only one Girls' Hostel, it was apparent that the number of EPABX phones in these hostels were six and one respectively. It was, therefore, hard to get a connection to the girl's hostel at first trial. Hence, if luck favoured a connection, it was seldom disconnected without seeking the permission of interested parties.

And there was always someone who was interested. A person wanting to talk to his girl friend: sweet and soft murmurings that would go on for hours and hours. More so, after 7 pm. It was the deadline for girls to enter their hostels. 

And so there were fixed routines. X and Y are talking for half an hour, then it will be the turn of A to talk wit B. And so on. So on. Till the morning hours. And I never understood what they talked for hours...until I became a victim of the same disease!

That didn't last for long: thanks to the telecom revolution. Reliance offered cheap calls, dirt cheap. You could call Reliance - Reliance (local) for Rs. 299/- only for one full month. Of course, it was very widely accepted. I know of a certain friend, who had a girlfriend in the campus. Well, they shared the cost very professionally: 50:50.

And there was this other plan: the night-plan. You get to call from your Reliance number to another Reliance number between 11 pm - 6 am, at a monthly cost of Rs. 69 only. I have to admit that I too used it once. But it was for STD call, between 11 pm -6 am. I remember sleeping once at 6 am. Of course, I ended this headache within one month. I could bear it no longer because I began missing classes. There were others however, who loved to walk and talk. They would walk around the corridor of the hostel, circling and circling, until the early hours of the morning. Sleep of hostellers, be damned!

However, there was this one problem. Reliance didn't have a good network. Of course, it didn't allow you to talk in your bed: Network problem. And so, they would revert back to their normal plans. I remember a great personalities paying Rs. 4000/- as their Airtel post paid bill for two months. I'm not gonna reveal the name.

However, things are different here in Ranchi. Here toh we have the 'Sabse Sasta...Uninor'. So you get a whole month of Uninor to Uninor calling (24*7)  free for only Rs. 89 only. Aircel also offered almost identical rates. So, you had a whole bunch of people with dual sim phones, talking and talking...endlessly. They kept two number: one for their parents, and for…you know whom. Of course, they missed their assignments. I too am guilty of this crime.

But it was not always negative. I have examples of people taking academics especially during the exams. You would hear people reading aloud, so that the one on the other end would study. This was the only positive thing that can be attributed to such plans.

And as I depart from Ranchi, moving into my new life of being away from the dear one, I have started searching for a similar roaming plan!

On Marks, Engineering, Depression, Unrequited Love, Destiny and Career...

When I was a kid, I seldom understood what 'Career' was all about. I used to hear people say, "Don't waste your time. Focus on your career". Then came another phase, when I heard, "Chose your career wisely". This was the part I never understood. And that is what, I'm gonna write about today.

At school, there were only two vacations. Summer and Winter. On both, I would go to my village and live there amidst paddy field, cows and goats. Summer vacation was always better. It had a reason. It didn't have a progress card.  It was in June-July, and hence I never had to worry about my vacation being spoilt by an 'interfering progress report' that the end of winter vacation was known for.

The only career-like-thought at that time was to pass in all the subjects. Well yes, I seldom did! Atleast not until my high school. I didn't fail in the conventional subjects, of course. But Hindi and Assamese gave me nightmares. So getting a decent 30 in both was the only thought throughout the year. But I failed - most of the time. My performance in the other subjects were also, at best, below average. Life was good then - however. Abba would never scold me for low marks. He would bring sweets and chicken to home, without an consideration of my progress report.

But gradually things began to change. Infact, I began to change. I started studying a bit, stopped failing and started getting average marks. And that is when everything bad started. My parents began to expect better marks. Now a pass-or-fail was not the discussion at all. A below-60 was a failure. A mid-40 began to be seen as a disaster.

However, that was all manageable until I got to the 8th standard. Now began the big expectations of doing well. I was expected to get beyond 80.5 percent in my 10th. Why 80.5 %? It's is my brother's score in the same examination. I was atleast expected to equalise it, if not better it.

I did try. I must admit. But on the day the results were declared, I almost fainted. There was this confusion regarding the percentage. It was sure that I had got Star marks (well, it is 75 %). On the next day, disaster struck. I went to school, and saw the marksheet. I got only 80 %. I had 480 marks, while my brother had 483. And this three marks, made me suffer a lot. A lot.

Then off I went to North Eastern Regional Institute of Science and Technology (NERIST), Itanagar. I was all of 15 years. But the only thing I was aware about engineers was that they build bridges, roads, etc. But weren't they built by construction workers? I had never ever seen a "real engineer" near these sites. The only thing I knew about engineering was that if you had good marks in Mathematics and Science, you would make a good engineer. I had 93 and 86 respectively. So, on these parameters, I was expected to be a good engineering student. My parents told me that I had to be the first engineer of the village. My village didn't have an engineer yet. Neither did the neighbouring villages. But well, that was not important. I was destined to suffer.

The good thing about the beginning was that I was able to chose any of the branches because of my good score in the entrance test. So, I chose Electronics and Communication Engineering, without knowing anything about it. And, that was a big mistake.

On the first few weeks, I understood that I wasn't made for it. Who the hell has seen an electron? How can anyone understand things without being able to visualise them? Now see, here was this electron who obeys so many rules. And I had to remember all these laws. I don't even remember the traffic rules, that makes so great sense. Also, these electrons would not violate the rules by moving out of its expected trajectory, direction and node. They were obedient, unlike us - mortals. And surprise of surprises, every great scientist seem to be their best friends. All of them proposed models and laws. I don't remember any of them now. Except of course, V = IR , i.e., Ohms law. But that is school standard, isn't it?

I conveyed to my parents, that I would rather go back home, and study in a local college than be at NERIST where I understood nothing. One of my greatest weakness it that I never liked reading books, atleast academic ones. You give me a fiction, I would gulp it down. Give me Sigmund Freud, I would suffer it till the last page, without a break. But don't give me B. L. Theraja (if you do not understand what it is you, are lucky. It is actually a standard electrical engineering book). I wouldn't go beyond the acknowledgements. I don't know if it was destined or just another personal demerit.

But my parents felt that returning back would be a disgrace to the family - an insult. And this was something I couldn't do. I couldn't attack my families' reputation. I had to stay. I failed in Chemistry and Mathematics. And subsequently in Physics too. I had to limp along - alone. Of course, I must accept that I had very good company. There were a few great people around me, who understood my predicament. I won't hesitate to take their names. Ekta's notes helped me on my one-night-stands with engineering. Bishwajeet Sah (Bisu) and Bharat Chandra would make me study. Bharat would come every evening before the exams, to teach me. Bisu was my room-mate and he would study a topic, and then demystify it for me and Prateek. Of course, I didn't feel ashamed of it. He was my best friend. Infact, I haven't seen anyone more hardworking than him. Truly. And Bharat was born intelligent. Didn't labour much, but always got the short cut to success. My greatest desire was not to understand the subject, but somehow get acceptable grades so that I get promoted to the next module. That was my only concern. One concern.

However, everything wasn't so bad there. There were a few occasions when I was fortunate to be hyper-active. There were various competitions, speeches, debates, etc. that I so gleefully participated in. I won quite a few too. And once, when our college had to send a team for the Chief Minister's Debate trophy, they included me in the team. I didn't win but my fellow team-mate, Mishya Joshi, did. Then there were various technical competitions, like future ideas, proto-type modelling, etc. Prateek, Bharat, Bisu and I would team together. Prateek was good at laptop-works. I mean, drawing diagrams in paint. I did the language part. Bharat and  Bisu would look after the technical part. And we did win a couple of prizes. A lot, in fact. I became an intrinsic part of the elocution community at NERIST. I still stay connected with many of them. Recently, I received a call from Rohit Rai Bhaiya, and I felt blessed.

And when I had to work on my CV recently, I had a hard time remembering all the prizes I had won at NERIST.

I was certain that there was no engineering career for me. And that is what frightened me. I knew that it would be impossible for me to get placed. Of course, I didn't want a technical job. But to go out of campus, unplaced, was a dishonour, a rejection and a disappointment. More so, for my parents. I needed something - a way out. And gradually realised that since getting a job was an impossibility, why not opt for higher studies. M. Tech was, obviously, out of the question. It had to be an MBA. But I had no love for business, finance or economics. I couldn't relate to them to. Nevertheless, since there weren't any other options I started preparing for my CAT, XAT, MAT, etc.

Being in Itanagar didn't help either. There was no coaching centres for MBA, and it was so very difficult to do it all alone. So, we formed a team for MBA. Ankita, Ekta, Pushpa, Tushar and me. We surfed the internet and got as much information we could. In fits and starts, we started preparing from Arun Sharma. Well he writes the best preparatory books for MBA tests. We ended up in Raushan Bhaiya's chamber in the Durga Puja. He was a Guest Lecturer then. And when class started, I ended up sitting on the last benches to prepare for the tests. I literally, dumped my forced marriage, with engineering.

And about that time, I fell in love with a girl. Well yes, for the second time in my life. The first was at school. But it didn't work out the way I wanted. And consequently, my behaviour caused agony to a few peoples, including her. I went into depression. Consulted two psychiatrist. And somehow managed to come back and face life again. I knew I was wrong to have caused so much of hurt. But as someone puts it, "Love is irrational". Looking back today, I would wish to change many of the things I said or did. Also a few of the SMSes I sent. 

After a few of the consultations, I was told to do certain things and most importantly, an appraisal of myself and a SWOT analysis. This, I was told, would help me plan my life better. I obeyed. And what came out of that process was that I began to realise what I really wanted to do in life. My de-facto career. I wanted to go back to my village, and aid it's progress. But then, that was simply not possible. Atleast for then.

A bit of research later, I knew what I had to do. I applied to PRADAN. I wanted to be part of the development story in rural areas. But, they gave me a cold-shoulder saying that I didn't fit into their scheme of things. So, the next choice was do a course in 'Rural Development' or 'Social Work'. I applied to IIRM (Jaipur) XISS (Ranchi) and XIM (Bhubaneswar). IRMA and TISS had already completed their process. 

XISS and IIRM had shortlisted me. I sent the cheque to IIRM. It was 1.6 lakh for the first trimester. Only my Abba knows how he arranged for that amount. I stopped asking him. I felt guilty.Then came the results of XISS. I had made to the top of the merit list. I was about to come to XISS, when SRIJAN came to the campus. I felt that  it was a God-sent opportunity. So, I purposely let the admission date of XISS to expire. I knew I would get selected at SRIJAN. But something bad happened. I wasn't selected. 

So, I made an telephonic appeal to the Asst. Director, XISS to consider my case. Of course, I lied that I had suddenly fallen sick and that's why I couldn't complete the admission procedure. And to my surprise - he agreed. My Abba came with the cash, and paid the fees at around 2.30 pm on one particular day in May, 2012. I got an phone call at 3 pm saying that I have been selected by SRIJAN as a Project Executive (Trainee). I searched for my mobile.

I called Abba to cancel my admission and take a refund of the money. But he, for once, did the right thing for me. He refused. He just had a few words to say, "Destiny has brought you to XISS, who are we to question it?".

And today, this destiny has led me to my 'supposed career' - the one I wanted to go for after NERIST. Today I'm going to a village to aid it's development. Though I will not be able to go to my village yet it hardly matters. Someone else will go to mine.

But in this journey, I still have not been able to define or understand with what I began. What is a career all about? I have never been able to understand. I still don't. And it doesn't matter. It never did!

Why I hated my parents?

I am from Axom (not many know that it has been renamed!). 

I was born to a lower-middle class family of a teacher-homemaker combine. My Amma was an eighth-passed while my Abba was a teacher in the nearby high school. The worst thing about being born to a teacher, is the hyper-attention that is given to one's education.

Education was so central to my life that when I was just four, I was sent to Don Bosco High School, Mangaldai - a Catholic Missionary Residential School - about 36 kilometres away from my village. Back then, I always thought that my parents didn't want me to be with them, and so they sent me away. I literally believed that they hated me. And I considered it my religious duty to hate them back. The bad food in the hostel only convinced me that my parents were hell bent upon torturing me in that jail-cum-hostel. My brother was my companion in the hostel, but back then I didn't have very good words to say about anyone!

My revolt against such an imposition manifested in me running away from the hostel. Not once, but twice. Once when I was only eight years old. And the other, when I was nine years old. I had an accomplice in the second attempt.

I had discovered that the best time to escape from the torturous hostel was during the morning mass. Since we all were marched into the church, and no one stood guard anywhere, I came out of the church pretending that I had to go to the loo. I didn't just go to the loo but went behind it and escaped the high walls that protected that hostel, my de facto jail. Out in the open, I hoped that there would be buses plying from Tezpur to Guwahati and I would get on one of them. And since I was a kid, I didn't have to carry any money too. I didn't have any. However, to my utter surprise the outside world had a surprise for me: 'Bharat Bandh'. I don't know the reason. So, my plan of escaping and getting to home came to nought. There was no vehicle at all. There was, of course, a continuous plying of army vehicles. But back in the late 1990s we, the Assamese, didn't have a favourable opinion of the Army. So, I planned something that I had never done. Walk 36 kilometres to home. In hindsight, I should have waved to one of our Army man. I'm sure they would have left me at Dumuni Chowki, which was in the route they would have to go anyway. Unfortunately, I wasn't an Einstein then...!

I did walk around 10 kilometres when one school-mate saw me. He was cycling from home to school. He was a friend of my brother and I called him Chanda Da ('Da' is a shortened version of 'Dada' meaning elder brother). Chandan Da took me to his uncle who had a bicycle. However, the bicycle was loaded with potatoes, so I had to literally walk for another fiver kilometres. Chandan da, in all seriousness, went to school. He was late by two hours. He informed everyone at school. I came to know later that Father Mashidas Munda, the principal of my school, was hugely relieved. They had obviously been searching for me. And during those 'phone-less times' there was no way of informing anyone from my family. My brother knew one friend of my Abba who stayed near our school. We called him Nizam Dada (Dada is a term used for 'uncle' in lower Assam). He was informed, and off he went to bring me from Chandan Da's house.

I had a wonderful meal of soyabean and potatoes. That was a feast to me after the miserable food in the hostel. Villagers from Chandan Da's village stared at through the window. I was feeling like an escaped convict. The pity on their face only worsened my condition. I was a volcano about to erupt. The lava flowed uncontrollably when I saw my Nizam Dada reach Chandan Da's place.

I still remember the long bicycle ride that I had at Nizam Dada's bicycle. He literally rode the bicycle pillion for 15 kilometres. After a few moments at his home, I was taken back to the hostel. Aunty has applied 'talcum powder' on my dark face. I looked more like a criminal.

I didn't of course get a hero's welcome at the hostel. The younger lot looked at me with envy. While the older guys, simply scoffed at me. I felt insulted, degraded and I have still not be able to get over that sentiment today. That was hell.

The next day my Amma and Abba came to see me. I don't recalled what really happened that day. I just remember my Amma weeping inconsolably, and looking me with a look that I remember to this day. I felt guilty and ashamed.

But it was not for long. The next year one distant-cousin Asif Rahman joined us in the hostel. He was one class senior to me. We planned another escape after being brutally assaulted by our seniors - all for not washing their clothes. I will write about that experience in another blog. 

This time we planned in advance. I had experience. He had cash. About 20 rupees. The modus operandi was changed. We didn't escape from the church. We actually ran away in the lunch break. Walked down to the bus stand, hiding ourselves whenever we say a school mate. Got into a bus. The bus was to take us to Dumuni Chowki, which was about five kilometres from my village.

I seldom speak to strangers on the bus. But that day we did. There was this gentleman who seemed anxious at seeing two kids traveling all alone in a crowded bus. He enquired about me, and finally ended up as another of my Abba's friend. Had it not been for him, we would have definitely lost our way. He put us on a 407 (that is the name of a TATA mini-bus in Assam), that took me to my village.

We didn't get down at the Chowk. Of course not. People would recognise me. So, we got a little way after the Chowk, and we didn't take the road too. We took the fields, and reached home. From the distance, I saw my mother closing the kitchen's door (Assamese people tend to have separate kitchens, a little away from their living quarters). She had obviously had lunch - alone. Abba must be away at school. I called out "Amma" and she was startled. She came running towards me. I was a small kid, so she sat stooped low and I burst out crying.

After the story of the mid-night assault was narrated and the marks of injury shown my Abba was a restless man. He immediately left for Mangaldai to confront Fr. Munda. However, I was relieved, he didn't take us with him.

When he came back, he sent my cousin to his home. Abba scolded me for bringing my cousin with me. I should have come along, he reasoned. That way, he could have kept the whole incident under wraps. I had obviously brought dis-repute to my family. I was ten, but I could see that he was pained - deeply. And I was hurt more. I wanted him to be concerned for me, and not his reputation. He promised me that he would bring me out of the hostel at the beginning of the next academic year. I didn't really believe him. I always thought that my suffering was intentionally inflicted. 

Next sunday, Abba and Amma took me to Mangaldai. They talked with Fr. Munda and told him that I was to stay there till next December.

And my Abba and Amma kept their promise. My brother and I came out of that hostel and stayed with my Uncle who was doing his graduation in Mangaldai College. I never returned back to the hostel.

Once out of the hostel, and fast becoming a teenager, I could go to my home and interact with my Abba and Amma. Gradually I began to understand why they had sent me away from home - for an English education. This was the nearest English medium school.

Today, as I complete 20 years of education, after appearing for my final exams at XISS, I sincerely understand my parents. Had I been in their place, I would not have been sanguine enough to do what they did. That was the best decision they had every taken for me!