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Showing posts with label institutions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label institutions. Show all posts

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Fizzed-out futures

Initiatives are arising to plug holes in the Indian education system, or so they claim. Many are ambitious, some even overreaching, but they also exist in the company of those that are honest. However, the cause for concern is that such projects are being viewed as extracurricular to the prevailing education system-even by those who have founded the initiatives. Thoughtful engagement is sought after, an awareness of the "outside world"–a summation of the realities extraneous to the student's chosen field–is deemed lacking and designated a goal.

Most such initiatives are by students, or recent graduates, and with them, they carry fresh memories of incomplete lessons and half-mentored theses. As their activities grow in scope–which they surely do–there is an attrition between a tendency to remain experimentalist and the certainty provided by going commercial through installing a secure source of support and a fundamental incentive. The last is necessary even though many students remain in denial of it: one man's idea cannot be shared with the same intensity throughout unless there is a need to depend on it. Money, many fail to realize, maintains currency, too.

The prevalent belief is that the Indian way of learning sidelines the humanities: if a job doesn't fetch a fat cheque, it concludes there is no point in studying for it. Unfortunately, however, such a view also degrades the pros of technical learning. Subsequently, the responses are disappointingly reactionary. If a student has found it difficult to inculcate a skill, he simply participates in the overarching institution of frustration and dissatisfaction, and assumes the problem is faced by everyone. That is never true, has never been. However, it finds enough purchase to surface as fixes.



In many parts of the country, young graduates and final-year students gather in small rooms on terraces and in garages. For the most part, they discuss the different activities they could perform to compensate for what they think they ought to have learned in the classroom but didn’t. They quickly conclude that original thought is missing-which is very true-and proceed to talk about what they’d need to inculcate it. These are, obviously, surface-level problems. As time passes, the incentive to meet each subsequent week and debate and act or whatever peters out. Essentially, such students’ and graduates’ concerns have been for the short-term.

The long-term concern, it seems, can be addressed more effectively at the individual level than at the systemic level. The institution can encourage extracurricular tasks, point at the dearth of invention and abundance of innovation, and build up an army of youngsters to fix the nation’s most pressing problems. However, the only solution that can pluck India out of this moshpit of unoriginality is to do what is required of all youngsters no matter where they are these days: ideate. Ideas, whether original or otherwise, are necessary; even better when they are distilled out from a knowledge pool that is vast.

Whatever the most dollar-guzzling problems are, the ones that are solved by continuous ideation are what will keep the machine from descending into a standstill. May the humanities be sidelined, may the rote-learner be celebrated, may technical learning signify the staple diet that deprives most Indian students’ of the indulgence of the arts-we are not in need of a paradigm shift to rectify matters. What we need most is to build ourselves to achieve even in the absence of expectations. What we need most is to transcend our cubicles and classrooms and disintegrate the institutionalized frustration. By not doing so, we are letting our communal objectives be defined by a chance mistake.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

A tribute to family

My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.

My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.

The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.

As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.

What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.

Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!

100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."

Michael Corleone

A tribute to family

My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.

My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.

The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.

As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.

What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.

Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!

100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.
"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."

Michael Corleone