Wired, but disconnected.

 With bag and baggage I had arrived in Khori on October 2nd, 2012. It was the end of one crop season and the beginning of the winter season. The bajra, pearl millet, harvest was bountiful and farmers here seemed a happy lot. Why wouldn't they? It was their source of income, it was the result of 4 months of nurturing and hard work. According to the 2001 national census, India had 127.6 million cultivators and 107.5 million agricultural labourer, which was approximately 57% of the total rural population and 72% of the rural workforce. When talk arises of entrepreneurs and business persons, I often think that the farmers are the largest section of the population that takes high risks, relies heavily on environment and invest heavily on inputs. Does that make them the biggest group of entrepreneurs in the country? Or do they need to be organized under an associative name, a union and have their own "ethics" and "code of conduct"? So when a huge chunk of the country's workforce rejoices a good harvest, how does it affect the other half that is sitting between cubicles in air-conditioned offices miles and stories away from the former's ground reality, literally and figuratively? If our minds immediately connect the food availability and our diets being unhampered, we are thinking only of the obvious. Is there something else that fits in the picture? I was but a naïve consumer of the reports and articles about harvests in the country. That was October. Now it is nearly March, and I know how the rural occupations and the urban lifestyles are intertwined in numerous ways.

This week, I attended a village women's meeting where the majority that had assembled were farmers. Doesn't that very thought create a juxtaposition in our heads? Because farmers were always stereotyped to be male, by our school textbooks, photos and reports in the media and our movies! The meeting was to advocate natural and organic methods of farming. Through the meeting I got to meet some incredible women. And I say this not because these women manage to get their fields tilled, irrigated and crops harvested all by themselves, but because these women do that in Haryana. A state where the patriarchy and chauvinism chains a woman only to domestic chores and familial responsibilities. Apart from the immense physical strength that takes to be a farmer, they were also embodiments of mental strength and grit, in that sense. Sanjogta (from Chandanwas) and Kamlesh Devi (Bairiyawas) were two women from the meeting whom I had met on earlier occasions while advocating women's active participation in the Gram Sabhas. I had the opportunity to visit their fields over the last couple of months, and the bright green of the early winter crops was outshone only by the pride in their eyes. After six months of living in a village I know precisely why they looked at the crops with the same affection and love that a mother showers on her offspring. Beyond the hard work and toil, there is a connect with the nature that is JUST so unique to rural India.

Sanjogtaji proudly exhibiting her growing wheat crop. She got the field tilled, the seeds sown, the crops irrigated and will also harvest and market the produce herself.
A break in the gender stereotype, she is a farmer and takes pride in it!

On the way to the meeting I cautiously plucked out a stalk each from two fields of johu (barley) and genhu (wheat), under the watchful eyes of Mohinder Singh, SCRIA's go-to team member on farmer issues. I had asked him how could he differentiate between the two crops? To me they looked incredibly similar and I had made a fool of myself in the last month while casually commenting about the wheat crop when it actually turned out to be barley. Seeing the stalks clutched in my hand, one of the women asked me why. When I told her the reason, she began to clear my doubt. Holding the stalks in a matter so clinical, she carefully exhibited the two specimens and explained their parts in complete detail. Her brief but astoundingly clear lecture reminded me of the best teachers from my school. The clarity and the passion with which she explained it to me just showed how connected she was to her subject. The sophistication with which she held the stalks made me look like an ogre incapable of such sensitivity. Maybe I was, in retrospect. It all reminded me of those numerous times when I had heard Mohinderji lecturing people on organic farming and the nimble ways of Ramkaran Singh, SCRIA's caretaker, every time he had to procure firewood.  They indulged in these activities with so much passion and sensitivity, respectively, like the trees and crops had come out of their non-existent wombs! Why did they move me so much? Kamleshji, Sanjogtaji, Mohinderji and Ramkaranji- what did they provoke in me that was layered in indifference thus far?

Mohinderji making a point to the ladies gathered at yet another meeting. Again ever so enthusiastic about the environment, about his and the country's jal, jangal, jameen.

It was, I realized, how they associated with all the plants and animals around them. How their lives revolved around the pure well-being of their jal, jangal  and jameen. The water, the forests that represent all the flora & fauna and the land that supported their occupation were all their concerns. And this was precisely the attitude and lifestyle of the traditional Indian. Neem twigs were/are used to brush teeth. Not for them the plastic toothbrush and the chemical-spit infused in their water drains. No Surf, No Ariel, No Vim for them. They cleaned utensils with the coarse earth and fibrous stalks and washed their clothes by beating it against the stones. Not for them the plastic scrubs that refuse to degrade in the soil. They can make effective use of their bio-waste, just as the cities drain all their solid wastes into the blocked lifelines of the country. If the Ganga and Yamuna are dying, the villagers did not kill them. If Orissa and Chattisgarh are losing their forest cover, no Sir, the tribal population did not bring it on themselves. If their air now contains metal oxides and their rain now showers acid, no Ma'am, it was not their wrongdoing. But it is these farmers, the many Kamleshs, Sanjogtas and Mohinders who are bearing the brunt of a cruel, indifferent and unsustainable lifestyle. A lifestyle that was never theirs.

It poses many questions in my head. What made the urban (and slowly, the rural) population so uncaring about the nature around them? Who said it was alright to use some toxic material that would not degenerate into the earth? And why is it alright that the same toxic material be dumped in someone else's courtyard? Then it occurred to me that it was probably because I did not touch the Earth anymore. When I was in the city I could not remember the last time I had felt a plant, its leaves and stalk  with complete attention. Of course, we walk through parks and corridors and mindlessly run our hands through those plants and trees that line them, pluck the grass out of boredom while chatting away with friends. But when was the last time we nurtured anything of the soil? When was the last time we wondered what happens to all the stuff that we use when we throw them away? That chocolate wrapper, that green chilli on our plate and that electronic equipment? When someone else takes care of our essentials- the food, the clothes and the shelter- we fail to ask the basic questions of when, how, why, what, who! Food comes to our plates, clothes come to our wardrobes/shops, a roof is assured at office/home/college. We earn and rightfully pay and procure these products and services, but do we question what before that? Driving to that one ultimate thought- do we analyse the lifecycle of the props of our activities and of the activities themselves? The origin, the process and the end.

The farmers in Haryana made me give it a thought and I am ashamed of the answers that arose from my introspection. It is easy for my to rectify, now, the things/activities that are not sustainable, but what if I am back in a city?! I am yet to answer that question. But I am sure that I would definitely give up that extra hour on the computer to maybe indulge in some gardening or composting. That's a start. A little more of feeling the soil, feeling the water and feeling my food might be daily reminders to modify my activities to form a healthier and natural lifestyle. Maybe if I am not so engrossed in my newspapers, laptop, iPod or TV, I might spend a little more time with the environment around me. However polluted or dirty it is. IF that can provoke me to do something about it, I must certainly indulge in it. For now though, I soak that completeness of walking in a field  with the satisfaction that at least in the last couple of months I have not done it any harm. With the awareness that it is from this very soil that I get my daily nutrients and that I would be an idiot to pollute it myself. With the knowledge that it is this very soil that would absorb the last remains of EVERYTHING, EVERYONE. With the integrity that the farmer did her work and I did mine. With the realization that being wired does not necessarily mean being connected.

A  farmer at his field right outside SCRIA, November 2nd week.

I was really surprised to see how much the crops had grown in 3 months. The same farmer, the same field, February 2nd week.
What surprised me even more was how happy I felt about it. I guess I had been watching them grow for over a 100 days and the field more or less "belongs" to "my" environment, hence my happiness:)

Where's the Panch in Panchayat?!

18th February, Monday. There was an open discussion on Gram Sabha and Panchayati Raj for the villagers of Rewari District, men, women, youth, anybody, everybody. If they were eligible to cast a vote in the Panchayat elections and were interested in becoming active participants of local democracy, the forum was theirs. Women turned up in large numbers, around 100 of them, mostly SCRIA's sangathan members. Men were about 20 in number and youth just 7-8 of them. We were not surprised at all. It reflected the reality of the villages in which SCRIA advocates for effective Panchayati Raj. Women, the most needy and oppressed, always tend to show more eagerness in gaining information about the local self-governance processes. Men, mostly stubborn and unwilling to admit ignorance on such matters, hardly reciprocate with enthusiasm. The youth either "know-it-all" or are simply indifferent to what they think doesn't concern them. And the truth could never be farther!

The weekend saw incessant rainfall and the temperatures were back to levels typical of December mid. Still the energy and the enthusiasm that these women generated inspired me to no end. They kept posing one question after another:

"sarpanch hamare baatein nahi sunta! Kya karein?"

"Agar BPL card banvana hai toh Gram Sabha mein kisse baat karna hai?"

"Hamare gaon mein Panchayat hi nahi hota toh hum kya karein?"

And their queries came like a volley and we were more than happy to help them with the required information. Joining us, with the same spirit of making Panchayats truly the participatory democracy that the constitution promises, was Shri Prem Singh Yadav from the village Karnawas. He was earlier the Personal Assistant to the City Magistrate, Rewari. Though he worked all his life in the Secretariat, he did not have the complete information on the functioning of a Gram Sabha. He had turned up at the discussion on that foggy morning simply with the objective of gaining clarity about the PR Act. Observing the crowd, its part-cynicism part-optimism about the Gram Panchayats, Yadav decided to address the gathering himself. Seeking 2 minutes' time, he gave probably the most energetic and provoking speech I had heard in the last few months.

"Aap kyon sochte hain ki gram sabha kaam nahi karegi? Kyonki Panch or Sarpanch sahi roop se kaam nahi kar rahe hain?! Kiske jimmedari hai unko theek karana? Mere gaon mein bhi kuch nahi hota hai. Par who toh meri galti hai, kyonki main ek sachet nagrik nahi hoon. Abhi desh ko dekho. Kaise log baitthe hain sansad mein? Agar jantantr ke mandiron mein swachtta nahi hai toh desh kaise surakshit hoga?! Krupya main sabse yeh nivedan karta hoon ki jab bhi vote dalte ho, yeh toh dekho ki vyakti kaisa hai. Sarpanch ho ya MLA humme sirf acche aur immaandar logon ko chunna hai. Gram sabha theek tab hi hoga, desh bhi theek tab hi hoga!"

Prem Singh Yadav giving his best to the participants

When he ended, the silence of two minutes culminated in slow-gathering applause from the present crowd. His words bounded of the walls and pierced us sharp. "If the temples of democracy are not clean, how can we expect the country to be safe?!" Yadav had a simple message, to vote for the right candidate! Be it in Gram Panchayats or Lok Sabha that was our prime duty. However, once elected it is the duty of the leaders to be active participants in the proceedings of the Sabha and the House. The regular and efficient functioning of these "temples" is certainly possible and very much the requisite for a Welfare State. Sadly, our leaders are absent or going missing. Here's the story of two states.

 Haryana: It's raining (only) men!

AC Nielsen ORG MARG surveyed nearly 10.4 lakh Panchayat elected representatives in April 2012 across many states including Chattisgarh, Bihar, Andhra Pradesh, etc. They most gleefully inferred that the time for sarpanch-pati was over. Women were slowly, but surely, rising up and assuming their responsibilities, it said. A mahila panch or sarpanch  was no longer a pawn in the Panchayat elections, especially in Bihar, where the women candidates have 50% reservation. Sparing 8 states in India, which have over 40% seats reserved for women candidates, every other state has the original 33% reservation.  During our induction training, the Faculty briefing us on Panchayati Raj Institutions (PRIs) narrated an incident where he was actually given a business-card by a man with "SARPANCH PATI" as his designation! I thought he was definitely kidding. Here in Haryana, I am witness to that malaise, far away from the conclusions of the survey.

An elected member in the PRI is automatically addressed as Panch sa'ab or Sarpanch sa'ab. The idea is so ingrained in the society that posts in the PRIs are simply a man's job and the woman (who is the official signatory) is left to stamping her presence only in the cowshed and kitchen. From kitchen to kids to cattle, an Elected Women Representative (EWR) is burdened with all the domestic chores that she is an endangered species in Haryana. She was elected. She is missing.

November 2012, Dhani Santo's Gram Sabha: Only men

Gram Sabha meetings, if and when they do happen, are presided over by the husband, sons, Father-In-Law & Brother-In-Law of the EWR. Sometimes when I question them why the right representative is not at work, I am challenged by the men to get the EWR working. It's scary, the arrogance with which they know that the EWR will not speak at the Gram Sabha. If such an attitude continues, leaving out the weaker sections of the society in decision-making events, the growth is certainly not inclusive and the grassroots democracy is definitely not progressive! The other village women cite the example of the absentee EWRs as an excuse to not attend the Gram Sabha meetings themselves. Nowhere was the development agenda so skewed, nowhere was democracy more violated. Half the audience and conveners of the meeting are absent in every Gram Sabha, simply for the fact that they are women! What the citizens don't realize is that it is simply not women missing in action, it is an opportunity lost for a leader to emerge from within their ranks. While she was busy clearing the dung, an EWR loses a chance to instill faith in other women about good and inclusive governance at the local level.

After I made an impassioned argument, they finally relented to having the EWRs present at the meeting. The women,  however, sat huddled away from  the discussions nor were they given an opportunity to speak.
The other women in the village refused to even peek outside their homes.

Jammu & Kashmir: Quit before fired.

September 2012 witnessed two fortnights of intense unease in the Panchayats of Kashmir. The state, fraught in its own political tensions, had held Panchayat elections after over three decades in 2011. Approximately 34,500 PRI representatives were elected. It firmly shouted out to the world that the Valley was no longer in limbo. It believed in grassroots democracy, it believed in local self-governance. The elections was a beacon of hope in Kashmir, a signal that the Valley could take charge of its own affairs. It was not to be for long.

Militants identified from Jamat-ud-Dawa, killed two chair-persons in one month. They threatened several others to quit their posts as PRI representatives or face the same fate. What was hope a year ago, was a liability now. Gripped in fear over 300 Panch and Sarpanch resigned from their posts and vowed never to contest local elections again. The Chief Minister, Omar Abdullah, promised to stop these attrocities and provide adequate security for the PRI members. It took him more than a month to recognize the danger these events had posed to village level governance. It was too late. Again in January 2013, when the militants attacked our soldiers at the border, they also shot down a Sarpanch in the Sopore area of Baramulla district, creating fresh fear amongst others. Earlier many of the chair-persons quitting their posts had put up public notices saying that they were "distancing themselves from the Panchayats".

Sadly, when a little light trickled into the Valley, darker elements shut out democracy. 

These two states are just examples of how democracy is being killed at the village level, it would take reams of paper and more time to shift focus to cities and larger political boundaries. The problem over here is not that the wrong leaders were elected (which too exists), but the fact that the elected leaders were/are never given a chance to assume responsibility. When a leader goes missing or is absent or in the worst case, killed, the hope of the citizenry that elects the leader is crushed. A growing cynicism in the process of electing leaders does not augur well for a democracy. If there are a handful of EWRs in Haryana, and over thousands of PRI members in Baramulla, still functioning with their right to do so, that is a sign for resurrection. It takes immense courage and support to break a social order and assert one's presence, especially as a leader. That is possible only with the conviction in a cause. When the cause is democracy, it is only a matter of time for leaders Missing In Action to become leaders missing inaction.

Keep walking, rain or shine.

January 31st went by, and with the morning of February 1st a beam of hope pranced across my room, it will be spring in no time! The many-sweater weather of North India still unsettles me for a hundred days every year. The sun playing hide and seek, and the fog wrapping my world in a cold blanket, winter literally and figuratively sends shivers down my back. Khori too copes no better, I found out. The villagers here shivered just as much as I did and took solace in the unending stream of chai that kept flowing from the kitchen. After back-breaking bus/tempo journeys followed up by an average 5 km walk to reach a village, the exhaustion is writ on the face. Chai, just not for the winter but to refresh too.

Chai.

Born into a Tamil household, tea was never my cup of tea. Nothing beats a filter coffee after meals, before meals and in between meals. Here in the villages that I visit every day, any conversation that extends over two minutes automatically turns into a chat over chai. One can just not refuse!

House 1

"Chai le lo!"

"Nahi ji, abhi khana khaya hai. Thank you."

"Hamare gaon tak aaye ho. Kyon nahi? Idhar le lo!" (A porcelain cup is thrusted in my direction; any indifference or protest would lead to a spill-over. To avoid the mess, I drink)

House 2

"Chai logey?"

"Nahi ji, abhi unke ghar mein piya tha. Bahut chai ho gaye."

"Udhar ka tha unka chai, ab hamara piyo!" (Next I know, I am drinking tea)

House 3

"Accha ji, chai-pani? Roti?"

"Nahi ji, main chai peeti hi nahi." (Tactic changed. So proud)

"Toh dhudh le lo. Ya lassi?" (Couldn't deny. There I went sipping milk or lassi, which is always served in half-litre glasses!!)

House 4

"Aur chai piyoge?" (Frustrated I think, why do they bother asking. Then too I try the last trick-refusal)

"Abhi abhi lassi piya hai. Dahi aur chai, mera paet kharab ho jayega. Nahi ji, thank you."

"Aap aise isliye keh rahe hain, kyonki ham gareeb/Harijan/gaon-wale hain."

I begged for forgiveness and gulped down another cup of tea.

Over tea the camaraderie eases comfortably, no doubt about that, but the interaction before that one cup leaves me reeling. For me it was an effort to leave them unoffended, for them it was a custom to leave their guest fulfilled. The athiti devo bhava culture is soaked in the communities, which makes my refusals so offensive. The worst of course, is the fall-out of them feeling inferior because of their caste, economic status or place of residence. Meaning no offence at all, I make quick apologies to bail me out and accept their cups of chai with utmost gratitude. It hits me how hard these societal dogmas still prevail in the rural areas. Especially the caste difference. chai is just not another drink, not a conversation-enhancer. It is a status-symbol of its own kind. It was a parameter offering to see if a person was willing to interact with the other!! After my talking and more tea-drinking, I again go walking. Walking across the fields, walking across the hills. Walking when it sunned down hard and walking when the cold hung numb on the limbs.

To my disappointment, February was turning no better than January. Forget winter, but messy battles raged Upstairs. Rain and wind, dust and hail, Haryana gave me all its love. Ferocious clouds loomed over my solitary walks, rattling thunderstorms woke me from my sleep. Rain lashed across the nascent crop and over the hardened rocks The sun refused to show face for nearly three days. With rain though, everything changed. My perspectives too.

Rain.

It raged on like a monstrosity for the first two days of the week. There was little road between the puddles. And in all those villages without proper drainage system, the sewer was the canal in the middle of every path. The fields however seemed to glow afresh after the rains. Again, being brought up in Chennai, rain was an odd occurrence, especially only as a spoilsport on Diwali every year. The nightmarish condition of roads in residential areas, water refusing to drain away, Chennai was hardly a place to fall in love with the rains. Delhi was no better. Fussy, I maybe, but rains ultimately ruin daily plans and there is a soggy feeling everywhere. The fields, surprisingly, snapped out that feeling in me.

What I had only seen as a wallpaper on Windows, I now see as the green wheat fields in Rewari. The rains gave the unending acres a refreshing appeal and the clear skies seemed to mock the drab winter of the past few months.

The farmers, when asked if the rains fared well for them, told "bhagwan ne sona barsa hai." If only gold actually fell, I felt, they would indeed be a prosperous lot. The crops would benefit from rains at this time, I was told, not from hail. In few parts of the district hailstones had damaged crops. But the rains did something to the place, or perhaps me, apart from the crops glistening in its aftermath. I realised that without the pollution and concrete gray scale of a city, the rural environment is a wonderful setting to enjoy the rain. There is so much green; once the skies clear one can enjoy that view too. The houses are spaced with aangans and backyard gardens, there are just so many nooks from where the rain could be enjoyed. That is if I were standing and watching the rain from under a tree or at the front of a courtyard. That was not the case. I had to walk.

At the village Bhankli,  right after the rain, I spotted a peacock in a backyard of a house.
Peacocks strut on the roadside, goats meander into unmanned wheat fields and the buffaloes sun all day long. 

The pools that sprung out of nowhere made it harassing to balance on tiptoes and get across the really narrow and winding lanes of the villages. On one such afternoon, I reached Bhankli to speak to a women's group on the necessity of taking a political initiative and participating in the Gram Sabhas. The village was behind a rice and grain godown. The main road leading to the village was cut off by the un-passable puddle. I had no option but to find some other way. The warehouse stared down on me like Goliath on David. I was desperate to get to the other side. I quickly walked through the unused part, and climbed the wall and jumped over to the other side, in a hurry. A sharp yelp rose from behind me. Unknown to me, a group of men were playing cards on the other side of the wall and I had just jumped over their heads and landed just a hair's inch away! It was blasphemy for a young female to do any such stunts in a village. To their oncoming lectures on morals I returned my best smile and walked on.

"How did the villagers, especially the old men and women, manage to get in and out of the village during the rains?!" "What about a pregnant woman?" "How about somebody carrying a load?" These thoughts crept across my mind, wondering if there were actually villages that got cut from the rest during the rains for lack of proper roads? Still reeling from my little thrill of jumping over a wall, probably the first in the last 4 years, I kept walking. Bhankli was nearby, I had to walk only a little. On many days, I have had to walk 8-10 km to reach a village. No tempo, no bus, at times not even people walking on the path for the whole distance. Dogs give company on pleasant days, on other days it is just a never-ending walk between trees, thorns and fields. Haryana's landscape changes so quick. It's green a moment, brown the next and yellow, right after. Soaking in the variety, I keep walking. On another day while walking, a tractor passed me by.

Canine company on a pleasant day in a cleaner village, Aliyawas. I'm not that lucky to find a soul or a clean street on many days.

TRACTOR.

There was a little hesitation that I had to overcome, I was not used to asking for a lift. I got offered many, but I had asked for very few in the last 5 months. Budana, my destination was at least 8 km away from Tatarpur, where I was. The puddles and the rain were no incentive to keep on foot. And I did it; stuck my hand out and meekly asked, "Budana?" The farmer simply pointed to the seat next to him on the tractor.

I shifted to Haryana in October. I saw tractors drive to anaz mandis with sacks of bajra to be sold. I saw tractors tilling the fresh soil from my backyard. I saw tractors leveling the soil in the fields opposite to my campus. I saw a cart attached to a tractor and women singing while travelling in them. It was October, I really wanted to ride on a tractor.

February, I got my chance. The thrill of jumping a wall the previous day had not yet abated and I had hopped on to the tractor already like a child latching on to a candy offered. Navigating through the bumpy road and un-drained water, the tractor got off to a slow start. Still plastered with a grin, I was just planning to get my camera out and click a few pictures. Then the tractor gave a lurch. Gently shaken, I put the camera in my bag. The moment was so unexpected, the jerk first and then the tractor took off at a really good speed. Nearly 80kmph. It was an effort to not squeal like a teenager at the amusement park! What fun and doubly sweetened by the massive wait of 5 months.

A quick shot from the camera on my phone before the tractor sped away!

In no time I was at Budana and the farmer dropped me off with a wave of a hand. I mumbled my thanks, standing rooted to the spot even after the tractor had long gone. It was taking me several moments to register this "first-experience". Then reality dawned, I still had to walk through the crooked, dirty lanes to reach the meeting. So, I went walking.

All the chai, talking and walking were giving me sounds, voices, sights and insights into the rural life here. A glimpse into the people's thoughts, challenges, opinions and occupations. Perhaps, it struck me, only if the leaders and policy-makers took off a little time away from their high-walled rooms in Lutyen's Delhi, to just walk into the villages, the streets of a city and talk to the people in their farms, in their living rooms, we would be having a better government. Perhaps, like a Vinobha Bhave, maybe even a Forrest Gump, all that a person had to do was to get on his feet and keep moving.  Not in air-conditioned cars or scam-tainted helicopters. The voice of a democracy is best felt from the mild tremors in the ground. Keep walking. 

Sofa-set sentimentalists

"Arm-chair critics", "arm-chair experts", these words get thrashed around a lot on people who just sit and speak about issues. Funnily, the only thing true about these terms is the "arm-chair", that too substitutable in many cases with a couch, bean bag or office-chair. Not everybody who complains is an expert or a critic. It is chiefly that they have felt something and they are expressing it. This expression could be critical in nature, suggestive, or simply negative. In essence, however, whatever opinion is voiced, it comes out of an emotion towards that particular topic, and hence the term that I chose, "sentimentalists".

All of us have been in those situations. Cricket matches, sordid cinemas, off-key music shows, and the mother-of-them-all the news debates. We spew commentary and criticism, exasperation and elation with a bleak ray of hope that somewhere, somehow these coaches, directors, artistes and panelists will latch on to our freewheeling thoughts in the same universe! How, don't ask. My specific bone to pick is the high-voltage news time drama. Which leads me to the topic of this post- are we just that in essence? A sofa-set sentimentalist? An individual who too sees a soul-mate in the news anchor screaming that "the nation is outraged. The nation demands an answer"? An everyday person who echoes the make-up adorned self-made anthropologist who calls every third protesting person an extremist?  Just the lay citizen who can't help but get sucked into the news-hour chaos drama that spills into our living rooms?

I strongly believe not. Our daily activities may belittle our involvement in the democracy, but the right we hold to vote, changes the equation on accountability. When there is a sense of outrage or pity or helplessness, all we need to do is clutch this pillar of right and seek to stand upright in immoral times. These drama-debates have played in the background of my dining room at home, in the common room of my hostel and at tea-stalls at remote bus stands. When we are aware that the media binds us and compels us, at least a majority, to take note of an issue, why do we just go on an emotional outpouring? I have been in these situations myself, but when a question repeatedly torments you, you seek an answer for it. With that knowledge we must evolve to do more than "like" a faceboook page; sign an online petition or simply march sloganeering. I do not dismiss these acts of solidarity and opinion-gathering. My suggestion, however, is to act upon the answer. Walk towards a participatory democracy armed with the rights of a citizen.

After much thinking, I found truth and solace in the management principle that every responsibility must be backed by accountability for effective functioning. We know that the Elected are responsible to run the nation, we demand accountability for their actions. However, we choose to ignore the elephant sitting in our living room. US! We too have our responsibilities as Electors, what accountability do we show? Now we need to draw a diagonal in the Elected-Elector relationship. I mulled and chewed and digested the simplest corollary of the situation; if the Elector displays responsibility, the Elected displays accountability. And here is how!

A corrupt official/leader sitting miles away is not going to hear our outcry. They are not going to hear the marching of feet, for most of them do not have their ears to the ground. We can, however, in subtle and most powerful ways remind them that WE ARE WATCHING. All we need to do is simply become aware of what is happening to us on a micro level. Once we are micro-empowered tackling macro issues becomes a collective responsibility. If one belongs to an urban area, find out who the councilor is, attend the ward sabhas regularly, voice you grievance there (not to your relatives at dinner). If the electorate belongs to a Gram Panchayat; meet the ward Panch, Sarpanch or Block Development Officer and register complaints or suggestions at Gram Sabha meetings. It is important that these interactions are in written formats and just not vocal, to prove as evidence for future dealings.

This is the founding level of participatory democracy. Budging one step ahead, find out who the MLA is, what the MLA has done with the MLA Local Area Development Scheme (LADS) funds. These information are easily available on many websites including ones like www.adrindia.org, www.prsindia.org and www.governancenow.com . In absence of satisfying searches online, a Right To Information appeal can always be filed to know these details. How to file an RTI is elucidated here. The same questions and processes can be applied on a macro level for a Member of Parliament, the MPLADS, etc. As an elector demanding accountability, it is however foolish if we stop at this level. The real task comes at the time of voting. It is not an informed decision when you make a choice if you do not have any information about all the candidates in the fray. Go ahead and learn about them.

What is their name? What did they do?

Ensure that criminal records are not even a few.

Bank accounts and assets- how much do they hold?

Understand their manifesto, not what you are told.

These simple processes are way more fulfilling and satisfying than simply adding one's name to a long-list of equally unknown signatories demanding an amendment in the constitution. We, atleast a lot of friends and I, have several times in the past gone clicking one link after another just finding friends on a network. Why is not possible then to spend just the same amount of time and clicks to find out who is running the country, the state, the constituency?! Once the knowledge is acquired, speak to friends, speak to family, speak to neighbours and speak to colleagues, substantiate your opinions, criticisms and complaints with the facts of democracy. If you are a sentimentalist, build a community of near and dear ones, and disseminate the knowledge. You'll know if you share the sentiments of a country soon enough. Let not the media tell you that. We can choose to be proactive than reactive. Responsible and hence, accounted to.  WE can show that we are responsible for the state of our roads, our power supply, our water and our nation. The Elected have no choice but to then follow the voice of the empowered.

IF you are a sentimentalist, be proud of it, but get away from that sofa. Being a sentimentalist is way more constructive than being indifferent, because it shows that you care about the state of affairs. Now, just enable yourself to do something about it. The nation need not be outraged. But the nation can sure demand an answer.

PS: My thoughts on this issue have been greatly shaped by my exposure to democracy and its processes at the Panchayat levels. Many RTIs and Gram Sabhas later, I am beginning to understand how even a city-zen can spruce up the efficiency of an uncaring government.

Knowledge is power indeed. Knowledge is empowered, in deed.

Railway Rhapsody: Jagriti Yatra (Part III & Final)

The funny thing about travel is that you both soak in and move out of an environment very quick. Is it substantial enough to ever leave an impact, but a treasure of memories? And memories, as one wise guy said, is a chameleon. It changes colour and shape with the present environment and the vast tales that you go through between "that" moment and now. However through those quick lessons travel teaches many things. About holding on and letting go; about being cautious and taking risks; about crowds and solitude; about not being stationary. When there are so many other co-travellers, learning becomes an easier process, if learning was found necessary.

A hundred new questions, some of which became nagging doubts, arose in our minds. Just we all wondered about sanitation at Patna’s station, we too were leaving a trail of bio-waste everytime we travelled. What to do about that? Little green (meant-for-recycling) cabins were created in every bogey, where we had to dump the empty plastic bottles of water and juice. We were generating more plastic waste in the 2 weeks than our normal 2 months. What to do about that? Nothing will stop us from volunteering or working with any of the role-model organization, on the other hand a hundred false promises were made on partnering for development. What to do about that?

But I realized that cynicism is the biggest obstacle in our lives and to get over that we need to believe in something, for something. With that belief, I journeyed on…

2nd Jan- Jagriti Rail- Patna was the starting point for the cold wave and it creeped through the train's compartments like a ghostly element with outstretched hands and formless pervasiveness. The garam coffees, chais, halwas and dal were little respite on a day when everybody cowered shivering over their Biz Gyan Tree exercise. The next two days would be spent at Deoria, the birth place of the mother organisation- Jagriti Sewa Sansthan. At Deoria we would first survey a nearby village and come up with a business model suitable for the village, aiming at its development, based on the interest-vertical we chose. The ‘magnanimous’ sponsors of Jagriti Yatra- Google, Dell, Cairn India, Bajaj and CocaCola- were all egging us to come up with such amazing plans which they would support us in realizing.

And so sat the bright minds within those blue berths, cramped but freely discharging ideas (however weird and implausible) with the hope that they (and their friends) would one day be heading a start-up that emanated only scents of development.

3rd & 4th Jan- Deoria, Uttar Pradesh- dhol, genda-phool garlands, teeka and it looked like an entire platoon had turned up on the platform to welcome this group! Deoria, the village, was a two hour drive away. The dipping temperature not acting like a spoilsport, the yatris jumped at every opportunity to shake a leg. So the first once when we stepped out of the station, then once before we split for the nearby villages (market survey), once after we got back (Biz Gyan Tree presentation) and once the next morning (before departing from Deoria). Every knee kicked, every hand simply lashed out, every hip twisted to inhumane extent, but that was simply the youth dancing.

So after unloading our backpacks and filing out of the tent erected, we headed to the nearby villages. The sad images of Patna's railway station was swiftly wiped out by the vast green fields of wheat, paddy and sugarcane. The yellow heads of the mustard fields stood out on that grey evening and the next bleak morning. Nature greeted us at its prime, birds happily chirping and animals happily co-existing with each other and the villagers.

What was intended to be a quick village-study turned out for half the crowd (the other half still dutiful in their venture) to be a facebook experience. Like paparazzi greeting Oscar invitees, shutterbugs went crazy. In the middle of the sarson ka khet a la DDLJ; on the villager's cot biting off a sugarcane, so macho; a friendly hand around four kids giving their best smiles; by the side of the old lady cooking her dal on a chulha- every rural experience was on the camera, on the status update, on the tweet. In a couple of hours, questions still hanging in the air about employment, feasibility, cost and resources, we all trooped back to lay out our amateur biz plans to the panel that would pick the best 7 to return for brainstorming in February.

The presentation done, the local folk group came on stage and displayed their skills. Dancing with daggers, fire, whatnot. The music set the tone for what was to follow. A village-DJ! The temperature was turning a grave 3 degrees, but the crowd danced till 3 am. Those who got selected danced, those who didn't get selected danced even harder.

The next morning, like the devout walking towards the shrine, the team, yatris and JSS members all walked towards the huge-200-year old banyan tree that was the symbol of the Yatra and Sansthan. Photos done with, a quick yoga session and speech on enterprise led development followed. We were to head back, pick our bags and leave to Gorakhpur station where the train would be waiting for us.

5th Jan- IIT Delhi & Goonj, New Delhi- IIT Delhi, the hallowed institution for a lot of engineers on the train, alma mater to some and a destination that was-to-be for many others. The conference hall was gleaming proper, with its stark orange chairs. And then the surprise visitor- Sam Pitroda! He spoke of his role in the National Innovation Council, his personal story from Orissa to the US and back, how youngsters had to try and revolutionize the processes around them. He went out as swiftly as he came in. Post the power-lecture we had a panel discussion on Education and Enterprise. It was already 4 pm by then. We were yet to visit the most-advertised inspirational stop, Goonj.

At Goonj, we didn't see and learn like we did at other NGOs, we were made to feel to learn. Feel angry, as Anshu Gupta provoked, at why there were potholes on the road, at why women are unsafe on the streets, at why hundreds of the homeless succumb to winter! Some questions were so hard-hitting that it left a handful of participants in tears. Some were outraged, some were depressed, some were inspired, some were guilty, but all surely felt something. So moving were the instances when he recounted how Goonj constantly tried to provide basic clothing needs for the rural and urban under-privileged. From urban waste to rural resources, Goonj was the epitome of best economic utilization of resources. (more of which I will write about soon)

We left Goonj by 10pm that night. Exhausted, ashamed, angered and inspired. The train was to be waiting at the Safdarjung station. We reached by 11pm, there was no train in sight. Someone announced that we had to wait another 2 hours and we could make ourselves comfortable (and warm) in the waiting buses. Some chose to stay on the platform. The temperature dangerously dipped. We were trembling beneath our shawls and sweaters. Our bones seemed frozen, faces going pale by the moment and limbs hurting from the severe chill. We wanted to get under our blankets and quick. But that was not to be! The driver of the train had gone for his own picnic, abandoning the train at the dock yard. When the train snuck in at 4am, we were all aware of what Anshu Gupta had spoken for we had experienced the lack of adequate clothing that night.

6th Jan- SWRC, Tilonia, Ajmer, Rajasthan- who is your dentist? Someone with a proper degree from a certified institution? In Tilonia the dentist is an illiterate old woman. Her friend, another old woman is an electrician. She can sort out the technicalities of a solar panel like she was telling you the ingredients of churma. This is what Social Work Regional Centre has been upto. Popularly known as Barefoot College, it equips untrained, illiterate villagers with practical skills to go and practise in their village. It has inculcated ideologies of democracy and parliament in the classrooms of its children. Barefoot college has students from Nigeria and Kenya. Village women, them too, who come asking to set up solar lighting in their villages. This became a touch-and-go destination, with the crowd enthusiastically shopping  the handicraft material on sale more than visiting the model-projects. That was due to our late arrival, early sunset and quick departure. However I urge you to check out this video or read about this organisation whenever time permits.

7th Jan- Sabarmati Ashram & Town Hall, Ahmedabad, Gujarat- this was our last stop before reaching Mumbai on the 8th. In ethnic clothes we all stepped out of the train. Many young ladies in sarees, half-sarees and pretty salwars suits and the men in their dhotis, pajama-kurtas. It was a very pleasing sight. First stop of the day was Sabarmati Ashram. Seeking Gandhian values or not, introspecting as the Sabarmati ran silently or not, cameras triggered galore. One huge group picture too was thrown in for good. Gandhiji were he alive, would have wistfully nodded at the irreverence of his ashram being a stop-point on an inspirational trail.

Quickly we were sent to the Town Hall where members from SEWA (Self-Employed Women's Association, started by Ela Bhat) spoke of how collaborating and working as a collective helped them become empowered- economically, politically and socially. Then there was the last panel discussion on TEAM- finding the right one & working with it to make a start-up successful.

With these destinations and role-models covered, 8000 km and 12 days covered, we were back in Mumbai on the 8th January. Like every journey, this too was one worthy of a graph. High points peaking at Elango's, Goonj, Coast Guard (Vizag) and low points dipping at Patna, Deoria and Sabarmati. Purely personal as these ratings go, I have met and interacted with Yatris whose experience were constantly climbing on a high. Be it as it may, subjectivity of what one finds inspirational or mundane, this Yatra introduced me to 450 other youngsters who travelled with me. It gave me a sneak peak into the worlds of Elango, Anshu Gupta and a SEWA worker. It gave me hot halwas on a cold day and a drizzle in hot Chennai. It gave me the joy of listening to carols on Christmas night and it engulfed me in pathos watching the urchins on New Year's. It gave me a window to see the changing landscapes of the country and it gave me a chance to be at the threshold of social entrepreneurship. It gave me a chance to dance with 500 people and it stole my luxury of sleeping cozy for many nights. It gave me friends, it gave me mentors, it gave me entertainers and it gave me teachers. The Yatra gave me a hundred other Yatris. Yatris and hence, students and teachers them all.