Schools Of Scandal

IN February 13, when superintendent V.G. Gawli rolled out the customary call of attendance during the first meal break at 10.30 am, 23 children of the Shashkiya Ashramshala (Government Ashram School) at Raite village were found to be missing. By then, the children—13 boys and 10 girls between the ages of 10 and 13—were well into the first leg of an arduous trek to Nasik city, approximately 70 km away. Simmering in their young minds were truant teachers, a principal who used them as beasts of burden while shamelessly siphoning off rations meant for them and an inebriated guard who used them as punching bags.

"The previous night, the chowkidar, B.A. Bedade, beat up the younger children. We had complained about his behaviour to the headmaster several times but nothing ever happened. In the morning, when we were by the riverside, we decided that we had enough of all this. By 8 am, 23 of us set out for the Adivasi Vikas Bhawan in Nasik city," recounts Pandurang Lahare, a seventh standard student. Raite's School For Scandal was about to be dealt with its most effective lesson.

The trek, which began on the morning of February 13 and culminated on the noon of February 16, was punctuated with daredevil stopovers—the first night at Waghere Ghat followed by Kone gaon and, finally, a restless night at a deserted school at Kharpadi. Subsisting on tamarind, bakri and the generosity of sympathetic villagers over three days, the children finally stormed the tribal commissionerate.

The march—partly accomplished by hitch-hiking—opened up a veritable Pandora's box. Out emerged eight errant teachers, an unscrupulous principal and a despotic chowkidar. Further prodding revealed that the children had not received their uniforms for two years and that their diet prescriptions were flouted with impunity. Vegetables compulsory with the evening meal were arbitrarily struck off the menu; shira scheduled for Sundays was last served at Diwali; and the once-a-month mutton had become an annual feature. Their two-year-old tubewells had fallen into disuse as officials from the Tribal Development Council opined that the requisite voltage was unavailable to draw water from the wells. A classroom wall which had fallen last monsoon—while class was in progress—was still a pile of rubble. The heap of corruption and callousness was growing.

"Nine years ago in Dindori taluka, villagers caught a headmaster taking a grainfilled bullockcart in the dead of night to the neighbouring village," says an angry villager. "He wanted to sell it there. Commissions for stitching of school uniforms, tenders for vegetables accorded on the basis of kickbacks, sending off children five days before a public holiday and asking them to return five days after it so that their stipulated rations for those days can be siphoned off...these are common happenings and nobody can question the school authorities. The children don't know what they are entitled to and their parents are too poor and too far away to care."

Horror stories trickling out of Raite's ashramshala are indicative of the situation that prevails in the neighbouring residential schools situated in Peth taluka. The government ashramshala at Boripada has its fair share of grisly tales. Two students bitten by snakes on February 11 and 12 and the toilet which collapsed last monsoon lies a ruin. For the past two years, the school's 350 students have been compelled to make do with half the uniform: the boys have been given pants but no shirts and the girls have been given skirts but no blouses. The post-basic school has had no windows for the past six years, now only half the school has been fitted with new ones. And besides shortage of oil and grain, the school is abysmally short-staffed. "Thirty-five students appeared for the SSC examination last year—only one passed," rues headmaster S.K. Kale.

MEANWHILE Kharpadi's 17-year-old ashramshala, situated way off the beaten track and housing 293 students, has amenities—which can't be used. "Large toilets have been built but they are useless because there is no water. The nearest spring is half-a-kilometre away," points out primary teacher S.P. Kanuj. That is not all. "The nearest hospital at Harsul is two hours away by foot. There is no bus service throughout the year and during monsoon, when the river Raas overflows, a sick child has to be slung in a blanket and carried across. Government officials have told us that since the traffic is low in these parts, no grant is possible for the building of a bridge."

 Lack of transport and communication has recreated a Raite-like scenario here: teachers who get 'punishment postings' to these parts use political clout to cancel their transfers, as a result of which the school has just three teachers for the lower classes. One teacher handles the eighth and ninth standards and he is not qualified to teach them English and Mathematics. Kharpadi's students are reminiscent of Raite's runaway children. Of Kusum Pawar fishing out a class seven English textbook and pleading: "We cannot read anything in this because we had no English teachers in fifth and sixth."

The Maharashtra government runs 410 out of 734 such residential schools, most of which are ramshackle sheds. The Nasik project alone comprises 32 ashram schools—17 of them post-basic (up to 10th standard). A.N. Chandratre, project officer, tribal welfare, complains of staff shortage: "We have three assistant project officers and three inspectors to monitor the schools in four talukas. This means that one inspector supervises around 200 villages. The field machinery is just not enough. Besides, the ashramshalas at Raite and Kharpadi are inaccessible during the monsoon. Raite is cut from all contact during monsoon because the river Val crisscrosses the approach path thrice. We want to relocate the school but the villagers in Raite and Kharpadi won't allow it."

Villagers in both areas are vociferous in opposing any such move. "All the development that has taken place here has been only because of the school," says Budha Table, village patil of Raite. "If the school is shifted, no government officer will bother to even look in our direction again."

Statements like this have now led to speculation at the commissionerate. Political manipulation and local instigation are being cited as two probable causes for the children's action. "It is not possible that they could have accomplished this on their own. Yes, their grievances are genuine but their approach was all wrong," says R.B. Kulkarni, additional commissioner for tribal development. But the fact remains that unlike the other schools, Raite's tribal students have managed a considerable twist in their tale. In the week since their trek, government officers have worn out the Raite dirt-track and a state transport bus facility, suspended three years ago, has renewed its ties with Raite. Though none among the 23 wants to take up teaching as a profession, a sense of optimism has descended on the ashramshala ever since "the big officers" have evinced an interest in the school.

"The classroom wall will be rebuilt soon and the tubewell shall start functioning too," promises Kulkarni. "A departmental inquiry has been instituted to look into the charges of misconduct levelled at the other staff though they will be taken to task only after the annual examinations are over." Senior teacher-cum-headmaster S.L. More has been replaced with headmaster Shirsat, who had been ducking the posting for the past six months. Bedade has been suspended—and to combat the staff crunch, one of the kamathis (cooks) has doubled up as the new chowkidar. The dust arising out of 23 pairs of bare beleaguered feet has settled down. The heat, however, is another matter.