The much maligned Indian education system-Silver lining in dark cloud discussions


As someone who has been part of the education system, observing, interacting and teaching students, the engagement with the system has often lead to a questioning of practices and discussions with students ,teachers and parents have more often than not reflected a sense of frustration,despair,anger and in some cases a cultivated indifference. Stories of unrealistic academic pressure, draconian methodologies, long working hour’s coupled with low salaries…these normally form the framework of the system we engage with on a daily basis. In such a scenario, sometimes you come across a story with a silver lining and komala’s story gives us an insight into the inherent strengths in our system.

When I first met Komala , she was a bright eyed shy young girl. She had just moved to Bangalore from her village in Andhra Pradesh. Having studied in a Telegu medium government school, she was now being admitted to a corporation school in Bangalore and had been given admission into the eighth standard. To say that the journey ahead of her was herculean would be an understatement-she had to learn two new languages, adjust to a new cultural environment and had been told by her father that if she did not “pass” she would have to go back to the village. Susheela ,her mother worked as a maid in our apartment and I would often enquire about her daughter’s progress. “I really don’t know what she was doing but she is studying all the time”. Once in a while Komala would come home and I was amazed at how quickly she grasped concepts and progressed. By the end of the year, she could write paragraphs in both kanada and English and was reading at level. A few months ago ,she appeared for her tenth standard public exams. When the results came she was devastated. She had failed in kananda and science by a few marks. With some help from her teachers, she sat for the re-examinations and passed.

The whole process had given her tremendous confidence. Realising her potential , Komala was sent to meet a principal of a private college. During the interview, he was so impressed with her ability to communicate and her determination to further her education, he offered her a place in his institution to study Commerce. Encouraged by the faith shown in her, she has decided to stay in the college hostel so that she can attend extra classes in the evening and the principal has insisted that she attend either a sport/dance/theatre as part of their extracurricular program. The day she came to say goodbye, I saw a young lady in front of me-excited, nervous and with stars in her eyes. The shay young girl was a distant memory.
What interested me about Komala’s journey was besides witnessing the metamorphosis of potential was the inherent strengths in our education system that allowed such a transformation.
1.Komala’s potential could not have been realised without the support and guidance of her teachers at the government school. She speaks about teachers who stayed back afterhours to help her in her initial period of transition, which motivated her when things were down and who always told her to continue despite failure.
2.The rote learning helped a student like koala who could use her skill of retention to initiate her into the system. Especially as the medium of instruction was now in an alien tongue. What I realised was that the rote system did not exclude her from grasping the concepts and further questioning the content. Most teachers she said answered her “extra” questions and others directed her to Google!-Also many of the teachers had taught the subject in a manner that had helped her grasp the essence and her inability to articulate clearly was more a language barrier rather than a lack of understanding.

3.Failing a public exam was not the end of the journey. The system gave someone like Komala a chance to try again.
4.For someone like Komala, the chance to experience a holistic education would have been a remote possibility. That there are institutions who give students from lower economic groups the opportunity to work on their other intelligences is reassuring.

Komala’s story is not unique-She is a representative of a growing percentage of our country’s population who are breaking down barriers within the framework of our current system. For these young people, the main drive is an economic one and the elitist aims of education as a tool for personal exploration does not exist.
No system is utopian in its implementation. There is much that needs to be reworked in our current scenario. However, there are also strengths and possibilities-perhaps viewing our system in a more positive light will help students, teachers, policymakers and parents build upon the strengths that we sometimes ignore. That should be fodder for discussion.

Johnny gone down…
The latest offering by Karan Bajaj leaves you a tad breathless…well almost!


If you love a sense of madness grounded in some moments of lucidity, with just enough life lessons thrown in (no not another self help book, we the masses scream) then this one’s for you. Within a span of three hundred pages, Karan Bajaj takes us on a trip on the wild side- We travel continents, meet monks and drug lords, indulge in spiritual orgies and through it all cannot help but think how it would be to life in bite size chewable tablets of utter delightful madness. This lasts long enough till we realize we need to pay the bills on Monday morning…



Johnny Gone down traces the story of life of Nikhil who through a series of adventures, or rather misadventures, dons various avatars of life. From the hallowed halls of academia, Nikhil ends up as a genocide survivor in Cambodia and is witness to the depravity and senseless violence that humanity is capable of. Through a series of twists and turns the narrative then moves on to our protagonist experiencing monkshood followed by the most bizarre series of life events, none of which one would wish to delve into. That would take away the sheer joy of just watching our hero navigate through life and all its eccentricities.



Johnny gone down is reminiscent of part motorcycle diaries, part Indiana Jones, part Bollywood like coincidences (Think Kites!) and part love story. It screams, whispers, shouts and in a rather sneaky way asks us to look at our own lives…nicely!-Highbrow literature it is not…what Karan Bajaj has given us is an honest, unpretentious and a rollicking adventure – a perfect antidote for a sunny Sunday afternoon.



And at the end of it all, you just want to whistle, clap and cheer for our hero. Its not every day, that you read a book that makes you want to do that-and you just want to shout, hey Johnny don’t be good!

Living in a fish bowl

“Living in a fishbowl…”, Random thoughts.


It is a picture that went beyond a thousand words. A house drawn from the mind of a child. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other picture of a seven year old’s vision of a house except that, in this particular drawing the house was covered with eyes. Eyes of different shapes and sizes, in different colours sketched all over in a random manner. .Afterwards, while talking about the picture with him, I asked him about this house and his reply still resonates within me “My house is always watching me….”
In the course of the next few sessions with both the parent and child, it came to light that the parents literally monitored every move of this young child; they had hidden cameras in the rooms.

While scenario is extreme, as a parent bringing up a child in these times, I often wonder the pressure we place on our children by constantly watching them. With my own son, I find myself many times having to hold back from over directing and over correcting him. To allow him that space and time to explore, make mistakes and find his own solutions. It is ironical; the more “informed” we are the more, we live in an atmosphere of fear and suspicion. The onslaught of information telling us how many things can go wrong puts such a pressure on the parent to do things “right” Slowly we lose the confidence to listen to our own inner voice, because our own inner voice is swamped and hidden under a barrage of theories and concepts. And our children bear the brunt of our anxieties and insecurities. Constantly being directed and told what they should do and rarely valued for their individuality must be a strain. Recently, a class teacher asked for the child’s parents to be brought in-the reason- he threw a paper rocket at her in class. The whole issue snowballed from something which is an age old tradition for all students to do, to sending the child to a counselor. Everything needs to be talked about, discussed until it is thread bare and in the process ,we don’t allow ourselves the freedom to reflect and realize that all problems need not have a soluition.That sometimes we need to leave it to time and the mysteries of the universe to unravel…


On trips outside the frenzy of the city, it is a pleasure to observe the dynamics between parents and children. The first thing that one observes is that the faces radiate a certain sense of calm and openness. Children are not given too much attention…they seem more confident as they are brought up a part of a whole community. There were more open to sharing and there was an absence of that urban whine and demand. Our poor children are swamped by so much choice and attention that the stress shows in this symptomatic behavior- To always be in the spotlight, most often in a negative light, must be very disturbing. In my own experience, I find that my son is happiest when he is playing a game of hide and seek or tossing the ball with other kids. Recently, a whole group of them went “dragon” hunting in the building, their imagination trying to capture the dragon in the most interesting way- it was a pleasure to watch them, living in the moment and exuding a sense of joy in their play. The fancy gadgets and toys remained untouched in the toy cupboard.


Allowing children to interact with nature is a natural way for children to learn so much. Observing and following a trail of ants, watching crows and squirrels battle for that piece of bread and observing the lifecycles in nature keeps they connected. It engages them for hours and often will lead to a barrage of questions which will really confound you. (Help-google!!)Most importantly, it will lead to an understanding that we are part of the web of life.


How do we give our children the freedom to explore, in these times when open spaces to play are vanishing and communities are breaking down, resulting in an atmosphere of distrust and fear? When every morning the newspapers tell a hundred stories that compound our fears? How do we give them the experiences in life, without constantly watching them?

There are no easy answers. Perhaps, we can, in the little fishbowls they live in give them just an illusory sense of freedom…

History on a "sole"ful Sunday morning!

A Sunday morning rendezvous with Bangalore Walkers is a date with Serendipity-You discover that amidst the chaos of concrete and rubble,lies a plethora of stories waiting to be discovered...


On a frosty Sunday morning, I find myself on the steps of a church, in the company of two mongrels and a flight of pigeons.The church is bathed in a hue of pink and ahead I can see an almost deserted road stretch far into the horizon.In my mind's eye, I could be anywhere...On the sets of some European film or in some quaint city in a far corner of the world.But here I am...right in the heart of Bengalooru-M.G Road and making my first discovery that yes, there is a time in the day where M.G road exists sans people,sans four plus two wheelers,sans all!- Out of nowhere materialises a Khadi clad gentleman who as I soon discover would be our sutradhaar (storyteller) navigating us on a "Victorian walk" through the annals of M.G road.Come on, surprise me, the cynic in me seems to say.We are soon joined by a diverse group of both home grown natives and visitors who have made it on time, adhering to a plea of punctuality(after all this is a Victorian walk!!) made by Bangalore Walkers.

From the moment, Arun begins with the introductions, we know that we are going to be under the expert care of a thorough professional.Starting with an exercise that sets the tone for the rest of the three hours,the walk begins by an exploration of history behind,inside and on top of the church.The group is slowly warming up and we are soon like a bunch of excited schoolchildren on a trip.From here, the walk is so well mapped out , that it takes you down M.G road and shows you landmarks and signposts which you would have probably whizzed by a hundred times.After this walk, I am sure to look at these with a new sign of respect, seeing the story behind the scenes.Arun dons various avatars-quizmaster, Hercule poirot doling out clues,teacher,guide and at each point we are all taken in by how history is brought alive.Often, it is only when crossing the road or sidestepping rubble and touts that you realise the present.Arun manages to even make the horrendous violations of the metro construction disappear...weaving his tales and peppering it with dollops of wit and anecdotes.Besides, learning facts about old monuments, the delight is in discovering history that is very much alive behind pop-colored glitzy hoardings.It is also a chance to see many hallmarks that will soon give way to newer structures.The walk also throws up questions about development and makes you wonder if development can weave itself around the stories of the past.Many times, you felt a lingering sense of nostalgia and sadness among the group at how much we are losing in the race for accelerated growth

I would not like to play spoilsport and reveal where the walks take you and what you will discover.But, it is something that would be a wonderful experience for bangaloreans and visitors alike.And yes, the "High" light of the trip is incentive enough for a three hour trek- A breakfast at a surprise location.And as you exchange notes with new found friends and give recopies for idli and sambhar,you realise that with all the technology around, life and history will always be about the human interaction.

Someone once said, "History is Bunk!"-Maybe, but at least on this Sunday morning, I walked away with a sense that history will stubbornly persist and that the past will always be there to discover.

Bangalore walks conducts many other interesting weekend walks.For more information ,log onto their website: www.bangalorewalks.com

The tyranny of choice

It is a common, mainly urban ,well rehearsed scenario. The anxious parent and the child swamped by the prospect of choice...

“Do you want noodles, with sauce\without sauce\with bamboo shoots\without shoots
Do you want cola,juice,juice with ice,juice without ice
“Do you want chocolate ,strawberry,blueberry,raspberry..
“Do you want..
“Do you

The child goes through the motions. A few well rehearsed tantrums, a refusal to have what is on offer and finally, much to the relief of the parent , an agreement is reached.Meanwhile the queue behind them is getting longer and stronger in voice.

Today’s generation is born into a world where choice has become a habit. The cash registers are ringing and crass consumerism is the order of the day. The relentless pursuit of “wants” is mostly confined to the material-gizmos, gadget and garments. The shelf life of the bought items gets shorter and shorter, the list of new wants longer. As parents, we feel that we don’t want to short change our children and in our desire to provide everything, we are unknowingly creating personalities built on the foundation of insatiability-resulting in children who have lost their sense of wonder, innocence and contentment.

There are parents who are trying to maintain a sense of balance and who are making a success of negotiating this difficult terrain. One family has used mealtimes to illustrate the point. At home, children are brought up to eat whatever is on the family table at mealtimes. There is no separate cooking done to cater to individual tastes. Once a week while dining out, the children have a choice. The bonus of this system being that their grocery bill has come down!-A trip to the shopping mall becomes a seldom affair for some and is replaced by the family doing something creative together. Some parents insist that birthday parties are celebrated with those who are less fortunate. Just knowing and interacting with those who have less is a lesson that no textbook can emulate

The tragedy, is the translation of this disease of “want” ,to the way lives are lead. As an educator, I see the slow erosion of contentment. Levels of dissatisfaction are high and there is a constant search for a new high. Engaging with material that requires attention, focus and thought becomes increasingly difficult. While there are children who have inherent difficulties with attention, studies have shown that children generally show shorter attention spans in the classroom due to a combination of toxic lifestyle choices. Keeping late nights, being bombarded with visual and auditory noise(in the form of video games and television),high levels of junk food becoming main meals and so on. What used to be seeing as recreation has now become an everyday norm.

One of the best ways to work around this is to introduce children to the intangible gifts of three worlds-the world of sport, the world of performing arts and the world of nature. Each of these worlds teaches the child the value of teamwork, healthy competition and instills in them a curiosity to explore worlds which may be alien to them. It is a gift that will last them a lifetime and empowers them to face the world and its challenges in a more holistic fashion.

In the last decade, we have created an unhealthy obsession of focusing on our children too much. They are not allowed to experience life in all its shades-and driven by a media that generates paranoia, we reflect global anxieties on our children. Everything is seen as an issue or problem waiting to be solved, without the realization that sometimes life is a process of learning, failing and succeeding.

The paradox is that perhaps we need to “give” our children less and let them start living more.

midweek musings-sipping the world through stainless steel glasses

Sipping the world through stainless steel glasses




I remember I was almost seven and she was eight. We had just finished playing five rounds of seven stones-(it almost seems prehistoric now but seven stones was a neighborhood classic).It was the peak of summer with its blessings of mangoes, orange colored pop-icicles and the never ending trips to the clay madaka in our kitchen.
I remember running with her into the kitchen. Two purple mugs complete with a grinning Mickey and Minnie mouse, a gift from an aunt abroad stood on the dining table. I handed her one…

“Ayo..athu nimithilla….” ,Rakhamma’s hand snatched the purple glass from her daughter’s hand “Alli steel glass thokko….”.Rakhamma was the maid and through her I learnt my first lesson in how glass divisions work. Purple mugs for some, steel for others.

Almost in every household in India, ubiquitously tucked away in the kitchen, is a steel tumbler and plate. Through an unwritten code passed down through generations, these utensils become the “servant’s glass and plate”. It becomes so much a part of the domestic rhythm , one rarely questions it in the light of a larger socio-political context. And so, like my childhood friend, we learn early in life , that some things are exclusively out of one’s domain. And as we grew up, we learn that the list of things forbidden include- sitting on sofas , eating on tables and so on....Ironically, over cups of tea, sitting on our tables we continuously debate and toss around issues such as inequality, human rights. We see only what we want to see.

Education plays a very small part in shattering our own personal prejudices.Something as “small” as a servant glass exists and bears testimony to the fact it takes a whole paradigm shift to alter the way we think. It is uncomfortable for us to even cross that barrier. A hundred arguments shield us from acknowledging our own nature of bias-“but we don’t know what infections they will bring, they will stop respecting us, they are used to it…”these thoughts shield us from our own fears. The fear of probably relinquishing our own perceived sense of superiority. Somewhere, like the many who we deal with it on a daily basis, they become invisible. It makes it easier.

Nothing brought this home to me like this incident that happened a few months ago.I was visiting a friend of mine with my one year old son and Allamelluamma, who helped look after our son. My friend, during the course of conversation, excused herself and brought out orange juice in tall crystal glasses. She offered it to Allmellu who for a moment was completely caught offguard. She looked at me before hesitantly taking the glass. I was embarrassed by my own sense of discomfort stemming from so many voices running through my head-My friend remained totally oblivious to the entire hidden exchange. There was something definitely different about allamellu on the drive home. A certain sense of lightness of being. “They are very good people….”, was her way of paying tribute. For that one afternoon, she felt like a person, that she too was worthy of a glass.

Our country is an amalgam of contradictions,paradoxes,conventions and histories constantly colliding with each other. And sometimes, it takes a deep sense of personal courage to face these. Perhaps , it is too much of a rose tinted view to expect prejudices to disappear overnight. But perhaps, all it takes is an idea. A tiny train of thought that can steam engine a revolution.

Maybe it can start with a change of glass..

katha corner-Garuda

The highlighted section was given and the challenge was to complete the story...read on!


I looked at my watch again. She had said 9.45. She was late. I looked around me. The mall wore a strange forlorn look. A cleaning woman mopped the floor. Her mouth drooped and her eyes stared at the floor as her hands moved pushing the mop this way and that.
What did she think of that entire she saw here? I wondered. The abundance. The greed. Hungry mouths. Grasping hands… I shuddered. Malls frightened me.
"Are you out of your mind?" I had said when she suggested we meet at Garuda Mall.
"At that hour, you don't have to worry about the crowds," she had said with a laugh. "Think of it as a social experiment. A mall at an unmall-like hour.What happens there? Bring your notebook..You can make notes..(anita nair)


(my insertion)
When you are thirteen going on seventeen and the most prominent feature on the landscape is an oversized bobbing apple a la adams, you do not think about blinking twice- you just accept your fate, roll on that underarm deodorant, splash on some aftershave you have carefully hidden among the Amarchitra katha edition of the “Vishnu’s Vahanas “and head for the door before the brat (otherwise known sister) and Chief (otherwise known as amma) begin their third degree interrogation.
After all, it is not every day that a slightly breathless voice (and female to add) calls you at midnight with an invitation to meet (with notebook in hand) at the Garuda mall. The mall at an unmall hour / social experiment angle gave the whole meeting a mysteriously intellectual dimension which suited my current state of sensibilities. Lately, my current sense of sensibilities to say the least has completely alienated me from my class mates, my family and even my pet tortoise-I find myself worrying about where the planet is headed to on the highway of disaster it cruises on-pollution, poverty , crass consumerism -and suddenly school, exams and algebra class just does not make sense. Externally, this manifests as a potent combination of indifference, glazed eyes and monosyllabic utterances. The chief thinks it is growing pains , the brat sniggers that it is a girl, or rather the lack of it.

I dread the nightmares-when I close my eyes, I see humming malls , headless torsos, neon lights and soda machines shriek.. Set us free ,, set us free…
The mall at 9:45 am is deathly quiet. The calm before the crowds storm. It is almost spiritual. The eerie glow of neon, the mannequins conversing in muted gestures and the swish of the cleaning lady’s mop.
It is 10:00a.m. A cruel joke. I close my eyes ,surprised to feel the first sting of saltiness..

“Yenn beku?” , a breathlessly raspy voice interrupts. I find myself staring into the eyes of the cleaning woman.
“Yennilla…” I tried to piece together my thoughts in chaste kanada.

It begins with a tinkle and then gurgles into the most delicious laughter I have ever heard. The mop falls to the floor shattering into a million crystal pieces. Tiny white pearls of wisdom. Dark brown tresses sweep the floor. Skin the colour of bittersweet chocolate clothed in layers of cloth of many colours. I cannot bring myself to look at her. Beauty can be frightening.
Relax…I normally don’t do the cleaning lady routine. Just a little fun..friends..?..Her fingers touch mine lightly
What am ..Who are …?..The thoughts speed ahead of my guttural utterances..
She smiles. Did you bring the notebook.? Good, record everything. You are going to make history. you are the chosen one.
And then she disappears.

I feel my palms perspire and my Adam’s apple bobs overtime. This must be the mother of all my nightmares. You meet a cleaning woman who turns into a diva in a mall in the heart of a city and names you,” chosen one”. Not you’re average Sunday morning.
And then the humming begins. Slowly it builds into a crescendo. one by one, the lights come on. Each store vying with each other .The escalators growl, the soda machines gurgle ,and trapped mannequins shatter glass. Transfixed, I watch as the headless torsos circle me, swaying their hands wildly-a primitive dance spelling liberation. And then the chanting begins…
Set us free…set us free…no more humans buying…no more. take us away…
I feel powerless. Why me? - And then I see her.
You care. You feel. You are real. That is your power. Use it, damn it. Her eyes radiate liquid fire
I close my eyes. I feel their pain.
I grow lighter .. The ground slips beneath my feet. Then I see the wings.
I am the protector.
You are Garuda, she says

I head towards the ground again. In one sweep of my talons, I carry a trail of swinging torsos, soda machines, neon lights but something is missing.
She looks tiny. I am coming back for you, I say.
“No. You and I have work to do. There are so many malls out there…”
Across the distance our eyes meet .And as I fly higher and higher , my wings breaking the multicolored glass ceiling, I look down again .I learn my lesson of a lifetime .
Two people can kiss without touching.

And I fly , past city scapes,hills ,mountains, until we reach the blue green ocean. As each mannequin dives into the water, my load becomes ligtehter.I feel their joy . and sing…

Monday morning and I am thirteen again. Headlines scream of an empty mall and sightings of an unusual bird. I turn to my notebook. It is blank. I feel small again. May be it was just a dream. A school boy fantasy. And then, I see it. A feather on my table. I hear the laughter of fallen mannequins. I close my eyes. I feel it. The kiss.
Like any other Monday, I head for school. Still the same but so different. I look at the mass of humanity and smile.

I am your protector, I whisper. I am Garuda.