Experiment #9: Fences

I have two stories I'd like to tell. The first is a story of ignorance.

Yesterday, Bharatbhai, one of the staff members at Manav Sadhna, invited thirty pregnant women to his home for lunch, in honor of his father's death anniversary. Bharatbhai's wife, mother and sister-in-law spent all morning in the kitchen, frying puris, chopping vegetables, and chilling water bottles for the guests.

When I arrived at their home shortly before the guests, I was pleasantly surprised. The home was small, but beautiful. It was crowded, nestled in a small corner of the tekra, but it was clean. The walls were decorated with posters of Hindu deities, much like the streets of Ahmedabad are plastered with Bollywood film posters. The amenities were simple - a small fridge, a fan, a television all stocked in one room, but the porch and window sills were covered with lush, green potted plants. The house felt rich.

When the pregnant women arrived, I flocked to give them attention. For the past month I have been visiting each of them at their home to check in on their health, diet, and general well-being. They were all radiant - dressed in their finest sarees for the occasion and drenched in the maternal glow of their last few months of pregnancy. Bharatbhai and I guided them into the house and distributed dishes and spoons.

As I was busy doling out spoonfuls of sabji, I noticed a couple of women standing by the entrance of the courtyard. Their faces were tense. Whispers were passing through the rest of the women and the atmosphere was growing more heated. I continued my duty of serving the seated guests, hoping someone would clue me in to the disruption.

Later, after the soon-to-be-mothers were contently fed, I asked Shitalben, the Anganwadi lady who had brought over a group of the pregnant women, about the fuss. She looked around nervously.

It's because of caste. At first I didn't understand. Cast? I asked.

They won't eat in Bharatbhai's home because they come from a different caste, she explained. Their Mataji (God) will not allow them to eat their food.

Then it clicked. The realization felt like a bright light had been shined in my eyes; I wanted to squint and look away but the thought paralyzed my train of thought for a moment. It was an uncomfortable thought to digest. Here, Bharatbhai and his family had invested so much time, effort and compassion into creating this meal, and the women were refusing because of caste differences? This was my first direct exposure to any reference of castes in India, and I was shocked. I looked at Bharatbhai. I'm not sure if his eyes were watering, or just reflecting in the bright sunlight, but he shook his head dismissively and said, Don't worry about it.

The second story is about teaching.

Every day I go to a newly formed street school in the area by Gandhi Ashram known as Sabarmati. While the living conditions in Ramapir no Tekro are not great, they cannot be compared to the poverty in Sabarmati. Few homes have real walls, even less have electricity. The children who come to the school are dirty, with uncombed hair and a severe lack of discipline.

On Monday, when Kiranbhai, the street school teacher, and I showed up at Sabarmati, we were surprised to find a metal fence erected around the people's homes. Kiranbhai explained to me that the land is owned by the Ahmedabad Railroad Company, and they have put up fences to discourage people from squatting on their land.

To make our way to the meeting place for the school, we had to crawl through a ditch dug under the fence. Only three children were to be found around the meeting area. They explained that because of the fences, the path from the other children's homes was blocked, and they could not make it to the afternoon lesson.

Kiranbhai and I crawled back through the ditch to the other side of the fence, and followed the kids who ran in front of us to lead us to the other homes. After a short walk, we were faced by another fence.

I will never forget the sight of the tiny boys and girls standing on the other side of the fence. They were holding their notebooks and pencil boxes, ready to come to school, but trapped by the railroad company's blockade. In order to make it around the fence, they would have to walk around the entire squatter's area, nearly a 20 minute walk.

Kiranbhai looked at me and stroked his beard. We have a problem... he said. I felt hopeless. It was hard enough to tame the kids when they did come to the school. They were talkative and easily distracted, and lacking respect for the teacher. But now the struggle is actually finding them a way to get to the school's meeting area. I suggested that we take out one of the metal planks in the fence, allowing the skinny children to wiggle their way through, but that idea was vetoed quickly by the neighbors.

The railroad company has their pets living among us. They'll find out in one day, and have the plank replaced in no time. That will just cause more problems for us.

Yesterday the attendance at the school was low again, but I was hopeful to see more than three children. Kiranbhai and I are still plotting a way to find the children an easy path to the school, but only time will tell if our ideas are implementable and sustainable.

While I feel so strongly that these kids need attention and education and discipline to succeed, I am only now realizing the cultural implications that will result if they are deprived. Kids have no prejudice - they only want to learn and play and grow. But when their role models, their parents and their playmates teach them that they cannot learn beside, eat beside or walk beside their companions of a different caste, how will they grow up to be intelligent citizens?

We have to start early. We have to find a way for the Sabarmati children to bypass the fences erected around their homes. We have to teach them that invisible fences of untouchability and cast separation have no place when it comes to education and compassion.