Corporates coming into education is a welcome. As Government's resources are limited, let the capable pay and study.
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സ്വതന്ത്ര വിജ്ഞാന ജനാധിപത്യ സഖ്യം (സ്വവിജസ)
(Democratic Alliance for Knowledge Freedom)
പിരിഞ്ഞുപോകാന് അറിയിക്കേണ്ടുന്ന വിലാസം dakf+uns...@googlegroups.com
സന്ദര്ശിക്കുക : http://groups.google.com/group/dakf?hl=en
Politicizing everything is part & parcel of malayalees. Rather than taking this as an LDF vs UDF issue, focus on what is good for our children. Focus on what is fair and what is practical.
പക്ഷെ, വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ ഗുണനിലവാരത്തേക്കാള്, പഠിക്കുന്ന സ്ഥാപനത്തിന്റേയും, പാഠ്യപദ്ധതിയുടേയും പൊലിപ്പിച്ചെടുത്ത സാമൂഹ്യമാനത്തിനാണു് രക്ഷിതാക്കള് മുന്ഗണന നല്കുന്നതു് എന്നതു് നമ്മുടെ ഒരു ദുരവസ്ഥയാണു്.. ഈ അവസ്ഥയെ കൂടുതല് രൂക്ഷമാക്കാനാണു് കേരളാസര്ക്കാരിന്റെ ഇപ്പോഴത്തെ നടപടി കാരണമാകുക,
:Give parents what they want. Denying more options to parents/children -- by restricting CBSC/ICSE schools -- is unfair. കേരളത്തില്ലെ പിള്ളര് സര്ക്കാര് സ്കൂളുകളുടെ കുത്തക അല്ല!
All who are against having more private schools in the state are indirectly accepting that govt schools are less competent than private ones.
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സ്വതന്ത്ര വിജ്ഞാന ജനാധിപത്യ സഖ്യം (സ്വവിജസ)
(Democratic Alliance for Knowledge Freedom)
പിരിഞ്ഞുപോകാന് അറിയിക്കേണ്ടുന്ന വിലാസം dakf+uns...@googlegroups.com
സന്ദര്ശിക്കുക : http://groups.google.com/group/dakf?hl=en
അധ്യാപകരെ മാത്രം കുറ്റം പറയണ്ട.....
മാതാ പിതാക്കളുടെ മനോഭാവം എന്താന്ന് ???
മകന് /മകള് ഇംഗ്ലീഷ് മീഡിയം സ്കൂളില് പോയ്യലെ നല്ല വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം വരൂ എന്നാ മനോഭാവം മാറ്റാതെ കേരളം രക്ഷ്പെടതില്ല
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Also,
in private schools, children study what they are expected to study.
In government schools, they study both what they are expected to study, and what they are not expected to study. [usually]
Also,
in private schools, children study what they are expected to study.
In government schools, they study both what they are expected to study, and what they are not expected to study. [usually]
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Yes, true, the discussion is not about English or Malayalam medium nor is it of the right of any body to send their ward to any type of institution.
The point of discussion is the policy of the new instituted Govt in granting hundreds of private, unaided schools of a different pattern than that of the public education system of the state.
The entities that apply for the license/permission to run the schools under CBSE scheme etc also are not worried about the right of the parents to send their wards to any particular institution. What they are aiming at is to make profit out of school education.
The profit is generated out of the huge fees from the students and through denying even a subsistence wage for the teachers.
Naturally, the teachers employed in such schools are under qualified, often, affecting the quality of teaching.
The Govt is allowing different systems to be established parallel to its own system. Ofcourse, Govt has got no liability for the new system, as it self financing. But, Govt is bound to maintain its system. Public money is being spent for it. Rather leads to wastage of resources. This is quite unbecoming of a Govt committed to the welfare of the people.
If there is any deficiency or defect in the present public education system run by the Govt, it has to be got remedied or corrected.
That means, the Govt is shirking off its responsibilities by blaming its own system and allowing parallel systems to be run on different pretexts.
This is the issue under discussion.
Yes, the contentious issue that is raised is, whether the minority sections consisting of parents, teachers and the public who favour public education system has got the right to oppose the sanction of private schools granted by a Govt instituted with majority votes.
This thread begins with a call for "Protecting the Public Education System".
The threat to it is said to be granting of hundreds of schools following different system.
Public education system as on date is sufficient to accommodate 50 lakh students while there are only 43 students seeking admission to schools. Number of students have fallen over the years.
The relevant questions are :
Why new establishments while those available now are under utilised ? (New establishments allowing existing ones to be underutilised is a clear wastage of resources that could be utilised otherwise to the advantage of the society)
If the answer is that the present system is inefficient or do not cater to the needs of the society, then it is upto the Govt to reform the system in whatever way the society wants.
If the answer is that they are unable to change the present education system for better, then they lapse their right to govern.
The LDF govt has proved itself capable. They tried to correct the system, change the system for better.
Why UDF cant adopt same strategy to implement its priorities, even if they are different from that of LDF.
Instead, wastage of resources, creation of unwanted establishments whether private or public, etc are quite illogical.
It is far better to convert the present Govt schools to CBSE etc if that is found demanding by the parents are arged by some.
ഒരു മേഖലയിലും സ്വകാര്യ സംരംഭങ്ങൾ ആരംഭിക്കുന്നതിനെ നിലവിലുള്ള ഭരണവ്യസ്ഥക്കുള്ളിൽ നിന്നും നമുക്ക് തടയാനാവില്ല. പ്രത്യേകിച്ചും ന്യൂനപക്ഷ അവകാശങ്ങൾ തുടങ്ങിയ പ്രശ്നങ്ങൾ പരിഹരിക്കപ്പെടാതെ കിടക്കുന്ന സാഹചര്യത്തിൽ. സർക്കാർ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയിൽ കൂടുതൽ തുക മുടക്കുകു, കൂടുതൽ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങൾ ആരംഭിക്കുക, അവയുടെ നിലവാരം മെച്ചപ്പെടുത്തുക, അധ്യാപകരും മാതാപിതാക്കളും, വിദ്യാർത്ഥികളും പൊതുസ്ഥാപനങ്ങളുടെ സാമൂഹ്യ പ്രാധാന്യം മനസ്സിലാക്കി അവ മെച്ചപ്പെടുത്താൻ യജ്ഞിക്കുക, സ്വകാര്യ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളെ കർശനമായ സമൂഹ്യ നിയന്ത്രണത്തിൽ കൊണ്ടുവരിക (ഫീസ്, അഡ്മിഷൻ നിയമങ്ങൾ, കോഴ്സ് ഉള്ളടക്കം, ഭാഷാ പഠനം) എന്നിങ്ങനെ നിലപാടുകൾ സ്വീകരിക്കേണ്ടിവരും,
ഇക്ബാൽ
2011/6/15 Joseph Thomas <thoma...@gmail.com>Yes, true, the discussion is not about English or Malayalam medium nor is it of the right of any body to send their ward to any type of institution.
The point of discussion is the policy of the new instituted Govt in granting hundreds of private, unaided schools of a different pattern than that of the public education system of the state.
The entities that apply for the license/permission to run the schools under CBSE scheme etc also are not worried about the right of the p
Right to learn or teach is different from the Govt giving sanction for the schools.
Any religious institution can have their own education institution. That shall be part of their right. But, they cannot have a right to run public education system.
Any body shall have right to attend the school of his/her choice. That shall be his individual right. But, he may not get a certificate from the public education system untill and unless he go through the process of its exam.
That shall be sufficient to meet the citizens' right and minority community right.
What is happening in Kerala and now throughout the country is an aberration took place in connection with the "Education bill" of the First ministry of Kerala lead by the Communis party, the subsequent liberation struggle launched by the vested interests and the corrections made in that bill through Court interventions and subsequent govt policies.
The Original bill stiputed Direct payment to the teachers and Selection of teachers by the govt.
What was implemented was direct payment to the teachers by the govt and selection and appointment by the management. That means in Kerala Govt pays the teacher who are selected and appointed by the management even by taking huge commission running to tens of lakhs.
This has become a burden for the govt.
But subsequent UDF govts too found it difficult to manage the education system with the above condtions.
They mooted the idea of autonomous institution to escape from such responsibility of Govt payment for teachers appointed by the management.
In the neo-liberal economic frame work followed by the Congress and the UDF they are shirking off social responsibility altogether.
This is the background in which the recognised education institutions and private institutions are being encouraged by the UDF.
Right to education of choice and right to education shall not be equated.
Same way, right to run education institution and Private (also religious) management of public education institution shall not be equated.
The above duo are different altogether.
Coming to the point of running the public education system efficiently, the teaching community has got the responsibility. It is true that the responsibility was not met by them adequately.
Every body want teaching job in Govt/Aided institutions.
They send their wards to private schools.
This attitude of the teachers (Only few, but that was sufficient to poison the system) caused much misunderstanding among the parents. Naturally, they took it as an indication that the private schools are better than the govt/aided schools.
Dear friends,Here the issue is not whether to give freedom to start or not private schools or schools of ones choice. The issue is Government giving licenses to the schools already started and run by some persons or groups. There are schools that follow their own curriculum and never bothers to get a license from any government. Some famous ones too, you might have heard of 'Sarang' in Agali (Palakkad dt.) and 'Kanav' in Wayanad.
What you mean by "license from the government" and why do these schools need it? Only to abide by the exam and certification system! It is required only for the purpose that the children they admitted to their schools be enrolled to appear for the public examinations conducted by the Government for the students of 10th and +2 of the Government curriculum, and get the certificates that the Government students get!So that they could prove their EQUIVALENCE to the students who were taught the Government curriculum!
Now, by giving the license the Government is undertaking a lot of responsibilities. They have to make all the arrangements for each and every student with respect to these examinations. The increased quantity of question papers, invigilators, valuation, tabulation etc. etc. Too much resources, manpower and money are spent in each of these steps to ensure credibility, secracy and impartiality. Therefore the Government has to ensure so many things corresponding to the infrastructure, set-up and running of these institutions. That also involve public resourses being spent. Here the government machinery is used to safeguard the interests of a person or a group of persons who on their own have decided to start a school or whatever.
Why can't they think like Sarang and Kanav and ease the Government of this burden?I request Mr. Kenny explain his arguments based on these facts.Kenny says, "We should not be worried about the profit they make, if they provide the quality which is affordable to parents they will send their children there."This is a dangerous argument: education that is affordable to parents! Affluent parents get affordable education for their wards and others watch this drama from outside! Then nobody shall try to regulating the self-financing colleges. Let them admit anyone and charge anything. "Those who may afford the rates would send their children there!"
Curious enough, the Government is fixing an MRP to every good that are manufactured in the country, with or without their help, and make sure that those who labour to manufacture it gets at least minimum wages. Based on the above argument what the government is doing is nothing but interfering ones freedom! Grave injustice! Alas!
The subject of discussion here is the State Government's policy of giving licenses indiscriminately to "all" CBSE/ICSC schools.
It would be nice if you could speak about it. Let the parents be brave enough, I would also pray with you.
>> Its not to prove any equivalence. They are forced to comply because you will not be eligible for many exams,>> job opportunities etc which again is controlled by the government.Equivalence or forced to comply or whatever, the result is same. They get a certificate issued by government based on government's norm of eligibility, isn't it? The crux is that the many exams and job opportunities that you mention recognize the standard of the Government curriculum. The many exams and job opportunities are not controlled by the government. For example there are institutions like Manipal foundation, ICFAI and many others, and only 9% of the jobs is offerd by the government. The private schools may present their positives before these institutions and get their recognition directly.What I wrote in the earlier mail the portions up to "Why can't they think like Sarang and Kanav and ease the Government of this burden? I request Mr. Kenny explain his arguments based on these facts." refers to the licensing issue. Please respond to that part separately.
-----------------Now, coming to the "affluent parent's deeds", my statements were limited to primary and secondary education and yours are unlimited. They don't match. Within the secondary education too there are strata (Like Doons and Lovedales), I know, but the education the majority receives from the Government is sufficient for them to achieve in life according to his ability and aptitude. But there should not be a scnario where less affluent will not get that opportunity at all and will be robbed off their genuine aspirations in life.
Say, the future APJ Abdulkalams shall not be denied the right to educate.>> Do you think government is deciding the price for the soap which you use ?In the practical sense the price may be decided by the companies. But there is an unseen validation by the government mechanism. If the government gets a complaint about pricing of any produce, they may inquire into it and prevent the manufacturer from taking excessive profit.http://www.indianchild.com/indian_economic_policies.htm :Controls over prices, production, and the use of foreign exchange, which were imposed by the British during World War II, were reinstated soon after independence. The Industries (Development and Regulation) Act of 1951 and the Essential Commodities Act of 1955 (with subsequent additions) provided the legal framework for the government to extend price controls that eventually included steel, cement, drugs, nonferrous metals, chemicals, fertilizer, coal, automobiles, tires and tubes, cotton textiles, food grains, bread, butter, vegetable oils, and other commoditiesPrices of many items are examined like that. I remember some instances in the prices of medicines in India in the recent past. So technically it is the government that decides "the price for the soap" which you use.
Parents want a better life for their children and they think a private/English school education will provide a better chance over a government/Malayalam school. Can we blame them for that thinking ?
Can we blame the capitalists ?
Is there any truth in the thinking process ?
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Thanks
കേരളത്തിലെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ പ്രശസ്തിക്കും ഔന്നത്യത്തിനും അടിസ്ഥാനം പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ വളര്ച്ചയാണ്. സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ മുന്കൈയില് , സേവനതല്പ്പരതയോടെ സ്വകാര്യ ഏജന്സികളും ഇടപെട്ടതോടെ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസഘടന ശക്തിപ്പെട്ടു. ഇതിലൂടെ ഇന്ത്യയിലെ ഏറ്റവും സാക്ഷരതയുള്ള സംസ്ഥാനങ്ങളില് ഒന്നായി കേരളം മാറി. ഏത് പാവപ്പെട്ടവനും ഏത് തലംവരെയും പഠിച്ച് വളരാന്പറ്റുന്ന ഒന്നായി കേരളത്തിന്റെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയെ രൂപപ്പെടുത്തിയത് ഈ സമീപനമാണ്. ഇത്തരത്തില് വികസിച്ച നമ്മുടെ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ത്ത് സ്വകാര്യ കച്ചവടതാല്പ്പര്യങ്ങള്ക്ക് മേധാവിത്വം നല്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നീക്കങ്ങളാണ് ഇപ്പോള് നടക്കുന്നത്. അതിന്റെ ഭാഗമാണ് അറുനൂറോളം അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകള്ക്ക് അംഗീകാരം നല്കാനുള്ള യുഡിഎഫ് സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ തീരുമാനം. ഈ തീരുമാനത്തിന്റെ ഭവിഷ്യത്തുകള് അറിയണമെങ്കില് കേരളത്തിലെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ നിലവിലുള്ള അവസ്ഥയും അത് രൂപപ്പെട്ടുവന്ന രീതിയും മനസ്സിലാക്കണം.
2009-10 ലെ കണക്ക് പ്രകാരം 12,642 സ്കൂളുകളാണ് കേരളത്തില് . അതില് 4501 സര്ക്കാര് സ്കൂളുകള് . 7278 എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകളും 863 അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകളും. അതായത് 57.57 ശതമാനം എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകളും 35.60 ശതമാനം സര്ക്കാര് സ്കൂളുകളും 6.83 ശതമാനം അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകളും. സര്ക്കാര് സ്കൂളുകളും എയ്ഡഡ് സ്കൂളുകളും വിദ്യാര്ഥികള്ക്ക് സൗജന്യമായി പഠിക്കാവുന്ന സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളാണ്. കേരളത്തിലെ മൊത്തം വിദ്യാഭ്യാസ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളുടെ 93 ശതമാനവും സൗജന്യമായി പഠിക്കാവുന്ന സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളാണെന്നര്ഥം. ഇതാണ് നമ്മുടെ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ കരുത്ത്. പാവപ്പെട്ടവര്ക്ക് പഠനാവസരം നല്കുന്നത് ഇത്തരം സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളാണ്. അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് സ്ഥാപനങ്ങള് പില്ക്കാലത്ത് രൂപപ്പെട്ടതാണ്. വലതുപക്ഷ സര്ക്കാരുകള് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ത്ത് അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളെ പ്രോത്സാഹിപ്പിക്കുന്ന സമീപനമാണ് സ്വീകരിക്കുന്നത്.
ഇതില് ഏറെയും വലിയ ലാഭക്കൊതിയോടെയാണ് ഇന്ന് പ്രവര്ത്തിക്കുന്നത്. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസാവസരം പൊതുജനങ്ങള്ക്ക് ആകമാനം ലഭ്യമാക്കുന്നതില് സേവനതല്പ്പരതയോടെ ഇടപെട്ട മിഷണറിമാരുടെ പങ്ക് പ്രധാനമാണ്. ഈ ഇടപെടല് പിന്നോക്കം കിടക്കുന്ന ജനങ്ങള്ക്ക് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം നല്കുന്നതിന് തുടക്കം കുറിച്ചു. പുതിയ ചിന്തയുടെയും ആശയങ്ങളുടെയും കടന്നുവരവ് നവോത്ഥാനപ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങളുടെ രൂപീകരണത്തിനും ഇടയാക്കി. ഈ ഇടപെടല് അടിസ്ഥാന ജനവിഭാഗങ്ങളുടെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തില് വലിയ പുരോഗതിയുണ്ടാക്കി. മിഷണറിമാരുടെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസപ്രവര്ത്തനത്തെ സഹായിക്കുന്നതിന് അന്നത്തെ സര്ക്കാര് ഇടപെടലും ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു- പ്രത്യേകിച്ചും തിരുവിതാംകൂറില് . കേരളത്തിന്റെ സവിശേഷമായ സാമൂഹ്യരീതിയും മിഷണറി വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ശക്തിപ്പെടുത്തുന്നതിന് ഇടയാക്കി. കേരളത്തിന്റെ ജന്മിത്വഘടനയില് ജന്മിക്കും കുടിയാനുമിടയില് നില്ക്കുന്ന വിഭാഗങ്ങളുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. ആദ്യഘട്ടത്തില് ഈ വിഭാഗമാണ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിലേക്ക് ആകര്ഷിക്കപ്പെട്ടത്. അടിസ്ഥാന ജനവിഭാഗത്തില് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസപ്രവര്ത്തനം കൂടുതല് ശക്തിപ്പെടുത്തിയത് നവോത്ഥാനപ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങളുടെ ഇടപെടലാണ്. നവോത്ഥാനപ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങള് പ്രവര്ത്തനം ആരംഭിച്ചശേഷം തിരുവിതാംകൂറില് ഉണ്ടായ മാറ്റം ഇത് വ്യക്തമാക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
1914ല് തിരുവിതാംകൂറില് മൊത്തം ഈഴവ വിദ്യാര്ഥികള് 23,893 ആയിരുന്നെങ്കില് 1918ല് അത് 51,114 ആയി ഉയര്ന്നു. അതായത് നാലുവര്ഷം കൊണ്ട് 114 ശതമാനം വര്ധന. ദളിത് ജനവിഭാഗത്തിന്റെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസരീതിയിലും ഈ മാറ്റം കാണാം. 1914 ല് 2000 പുലയക്കുട്ടികള് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ചെയ്തിരുന്ന സ്ഥാനത്ത് 1918ല് 17,753 ആയി വര്ധിച്ചു. നാലുവര്ഷം കൊണ്ട് 850 ശതമാനത്തിന്റെ വളര്ച്ച. ഇത് കാണിക്കുന്നത് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസപുരോഗതിക്ക് അടിത്തറയിട്ടത് മിഷണറിമാരും അതിനെ വളര്ത്തി വികസിപ്പിച്ചത് സാമൂഹ്യപരിഷ്കരണ പ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങളുമാണെന്നാണ്. തുടര്ന്ന് ഈ പ്രവര്ത്തനം മുന്നോട്ടുകൊണ്ടുപോയത് ഇടതുപക്ഷ സര്ക്കാരുകളാണ്. 1951ല് 47 ശതമാനമായിരുന്നു കേരളത്തിലെ സാക്ഷരതാനിരക്ക്. ഇക്കാര്യത്തില് വന്കുതിച്ചുകയറ്റമുണ്ടായത് 1951 നും 1971 നും ഇടയിലുള്ള കാലത്തായിരുന്നു. സാക്ഷരതാനിരക്ക് ഈ കാലയളവില് 70 ശതമാനത്തോളം എത്തി. സ്ത്രീവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിലും ഈ വര്ധന കാണാം. 1951ല് 36.43 ശതമാനമായിരുന്ന സ്ത്രീവിദ്യാഭ്യാസ നിരക്ക് 1971 ആകുമ്പോഴേക്കും 62.53 ആയി വര്ധിച്ചു. ഇങ്ങനെയുള്ള വളര്ച്ചനിരക്ക് കൈവരിക്കുന്നതിന് ഇടയാക്കിയത് 1957ലെ സര്ക്കാര് അടിത്തറയിട്ട വിദ്യാഭ്യാസപരിഷ്കാരങ്ങളാണ്.
ആവശ്യമുള്ള ഇടങ്ങളില് സര്ക്കാര് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസ്ഥാപനങ്ങളും എയ്ഡഡ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസ്ഥാപനങ്ങളും ആരംഭിക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നടപടികള് ആ സര്ക്കാര് സ്വീകരിച്ചു. കുട്ടികള്ക്ക് ഉച്ചക്കഞ്ഞി ഉള്പ്പെടെയുള്ള സൗകര്യങ്ങള് ഏര്പ്പെടുത്തി. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം സൗജന്യമാക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള പ്രവര്ത്തനങ്ങളും ഈ കാലയളവില് നടന്നു. അധ്യാപകര്ക്ക് ശമ്പള സ്കെയില് നടപ്പാക്കി പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ ആകര്ഷകമാക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നടപടികളും സമാന്തരമായി നടന്നു. 1967ലെ സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ കാലത്ത് മുന്നോട്ടുവച്ച ഭൂപരിഷ്കരണനടപടികളുടെ തുടര്ച്ചയും ഈ ദിശയിലുള്ള മുന്നേറ്റത്തിന് സഹായകമായി. സേവനതല്പ്പരരായ മിഷണറിമാരുടെയും നവോത്ഥാനപ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങളുടെയും കമ്യൂണിസ്റ്റ് പ്രസ്ഥാനത്തിന്റെയും ഇടപെടലിലൂടെ ശക്തിപ്പെട്ട് വികസിച്ച പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസഘടനയെ തകര്ക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നടപടികളാണ് വലതുപക്ഷശക്തികള് സ്വീകരിച്ചത്. 1982 മുതല് 1987 വരെ കേരളം ഭരിച്ച യുഡിഎഫ് സര്ക്കാര് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ത്ത് പണമുള്ളവന് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം നല്കുന്ന തരത്തില് അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയെ പരിപോഷിപ്പിക്കുക എന്ന നയം മുന്നോട്ടുവച്ചു. ഇതിനെതിരെയുള്ള ശക്തമായ ചെറുത്തുനില്പ്പ് ഇവിടെ ഉയര്ന്നുവന്നു. പിന്നീട് അധികാരത്തില് വന്ന എല്ഡിഎഫ് സര്ക്കാര് ഈ നയങ്ങള് തിരുത്തി.
1996ല് അധികാരത്തിലെത്തിയ എല്ഡിഎഫ് സര്ക്കാരാകട്ടെ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ കൂടുതല് കരുത്തോടെ മുന്നോട്ടുനയിക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നടപടികള് സ്വീകരിച്ചു. സര്ക്കാര് വിദ്യാലയങ്ങള്ക്ക് മുന്തൂക്കം നല്കിയും എയ്ഡഡ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസ്ഥാപനങ്ങളെ പരിഗണിച്ചും പ്ലസ്ടു അനുവദിച്ച സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ നയം ഇക്കാര്യത്തിലുള്ള പ്രതിബദ്ധത വ്യക്തമാക്കുന്നതാണ്. 2001 മുതല് 2006 വരെയുള്ള കാലഘട്ടത്തില് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ക്കുക എന്നത് യുഡിഎഫിന്റെ അജന്ഡയായിരുന്നു. കേരളത്തിലെ വിദ്യാലയങ്ങള് അണ് -ഇക്കണോമിക് ആണ് എന്ന് പ്രഖ്യാപിച്ച് അവ അടച്ചുപൂട്ടാനുള്ള പദ്ധതികള്ക്ക് ഈ കാലയളവില് അവര് നേതൃത്വം നല്കി. എസ്എസ്എല്സി പരീക്ഷയും എന്ട്രന്സ് പരീക്ഷയുമടക്കം അട്ടിമറിക്കപ്പെട്ടു. എട്ടാം ക്ലാസുവരെ സ്വകാര്യപഠനം അനുവദിച്ചും പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയെ തകര്ക്കാന് ശ്രമിച്ചു. 322 അണ്എയ്ഡഡ് ഹയര് സെക്കന്ഡറി സ്കൂളുകള്ക്ക് അംഗീകാരം നല്കി. ഇന്ത്യന് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ ആഗോളകുത്തകകള്ക്ക് കാഴ്ചവയ്ക്കാനുള്ള പദ്ധതി തയ്യാറാക്കുന്നതിന് ആഗോള വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസംഗമം കൊണ്ടുവന്നു. സാക്ഷരത പോലുള്ള ബഹുജനവിദ്യാഭ്യാസ പ്രവര്ത്തനങ്ങള് നടപ്പാക്കുന്ന കാര്യത്തില് ഒരു ശുഷ്കാന്തിയും കാണിച്ചില്ല. ഈ നയങ്ങള് തിരുത്തി പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയെ ശക്തിപ്പെടുത്തുന്ന നയം എല്ഡിഎഫ് സ്വീകരിച്ചു. എല്ലാ പഞ്ചായത്തിലും ഹൈസ്കൂളുകള് ഉറപ്പാക്കി. സര്ക്കാര് മേഖലയില് 16 വൊക്കേഷണല് ഹയര്സെക്കന്ഡറി സ്കൂളുകള് പുതുതായി തുടങ്ങി. പഠനത്തില് പിന്നോക്കംനില്ക്കുന്ന 104 സ്കൂളുകളുടെ പഠനനിലവാരം ഉയര്ത്തുന്ന പദ്ധതി നടപ്പാക്കി. അംഗീകാരം ഇല്ലാത്ത വിദ്യാലയങ്ങളില് പഠിച്ചിരുന്ന വിദ്യാര്ഥികളെ പൊതുസംവിധാനത്തിന്റെകീഴില് കൊണ്ടുവന്ന് പഠനം ഉറപ്പുവരുത്തുന്ന നിലപാട് സ്വീകരിച്ചു.
പഠനസൗകര്യം ഇല്ലാത്ത പിന്നോക്കജില്ലകളില് പ്ലസ്ടുവിന് കൂടുതല് സൗകര്യം ഏര്പ്പെടുത്തി. എല്ലാവര്ക്കും വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം പ്രാപ്യമായതോടെ ജനങ്ങളാകെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന് വലിയ പ്രാധാന്യം കൊടുക്കുന്ന നിലയുണ്ടായി. അതുകൊണ്ട് തന്നെ മികച്ച വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം എന്നത് സാധാരണ കേരളീയന്റെ പ്രധാനപ്പെട്ട ലക്ഷ്യമായി ഇന്ന് മാറിയിട്ടുണ്ട്. ആഗോളവല്ക്കരണനയം പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ക്കുന്നതാണ്. അടിസ്ഥാന ജനവിഭാഗത്തിന്റെ താല്പ്പര്യം സംരക്ഷിക്കുന്ന ഇടതുപക്ഷപ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങള് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസം സംരക്ഷിക്കുക എന്നതിന് കൂടുതല് പ്രാധാന്യം നല്കി. നിലവാരം ഉയര്ത്താനുള്ള ഫലപ്രദമായ ഇടപെടലുമുണ്ടായി. ജനങ്ങള് ഇതുമായി നല്ല നിലയില് സഹകരിച്ചു. പിടിഎ കമ്മിറ്റികളുടെയും അധികാരവികേന്ദ്രീകരണപ്രക്രിയയോടെ പ്രാദേശിക സര്ക്കാരായി വളര്ന്ന തദ്ദേശസ്വയംഭരണ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളുടേയും ഇടപെടല് ഈ രംഗത്ത് വമ്പിച്ച മുന്നേറ്റം ഉണ്ടാക്കുന്നതിന് സഹായിച്ചു. യുഡിഎഫിന്റെ കാലത്ത് എസ്എസ്എല്സി വിജയശതമാനം 42.89 ആയിരുന്നെങ്കില് എല്ഡിഎഫിന്റെ കാലത്ത് 90.72 ആയി ഉയര്ന്നത് ഈ മാറ്റത്തിന്റെകൂടി ഫലമാണ്.
പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസരംഗത്ത് ഇപ്പോള് മാതൃകാപരമായ സിലബസും പഠനരീതികളും നിലവിലുണ്ട്. മാത്രമല്ല പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയില് വിശിഷ്യാ സര്ക്കാര് സ്കൂളുകളില് ഏറ്റവും മികച്ചതും പരിചയസമ്പന്നരുമായ അധ്യാപകരാണ് പ്രവര്ത്തിക്കുന്നത്. അതുകൊണ്ടുതന്നെ മികച്ച അക്കാദമിക് അന്തരീക്ഷം പുലര്ത്താന്പറ്റുന്ന സ്ഥിതി നിലവിലുണ്ട്. ഈ മേഖലയില് ന്യൂനത അനുഭവപ്പെടുന്നത് പ്രധാനമായും ഭൗതികപശ്ചാത്തലത്തിലാണ്. ഭൗതികപശ്ചാത്തലം മെച്ചപ്പെട്ടാല് പഠനനിലവാരവും ഉയരും. വിദ്യാര്ഥികളുടെ വലിയ തോതിലുള്ള തള്ളിക്കയറ്റം ഈ മേഖലയില് ഉണ്ടാകും. കഴിഞ്ഞ സര്ക്കാര് നടപ്പാക്കിയ ചില ഇടപെടലുകള് ഇക്കാര്യം വ്യക്തമാക്കുന്നു. സര്ക്കാരും തദ്ദേശസ്വയംഭരണ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളും ഇടപെട്ട് കോഴിക്കോട് ആഴ്ചവട്ടം ഗവ. എല്പി സ്കൂളില് കൂടുതല് ഭൗതിക പശ്ചാത്തലമുണ്ടാക്കിയപ്പോള് അത്ഭുതകരമായ ഫലമാണ് ഉണ്ടായത്-അതുപോലെ നിരവധി ഉദാഹരണങ്ങള് ചൂണ്ടിക്കാട്ടാനാകും. ഇത് കാണിക്കുന്നത് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ നിലവാരം ഉയര്ത്തിയെടുക്കുന്നതിന് കൂടുതല് സര്ക്കാര് പങ്കാളിത്തവും ജനപങ്കാളിത്തവും ഉണ്ടാക്കുകയാണ് വേണ്ടത് എന്നാണ്. അതിനുപകരം അത്തരം സ്ഥാപനങ്ങള്ക്ക് നിലവാരം കുറവാണെന്ന് സ്ഥാപിച്ച് പണം കൊടുത്ത് പഠിക്കേണ്ട സ്വാശ്രയ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസ്ഥാപനങ്ങള് ആരംഭിച്ചാല് പണം ഉള്ളവര്ക്ക് അതിലൂടെ അതിജീവിക്കാന് കഴിഞ്ഞേക്കാം. എന്നാല് , പാവപ്പെട്ടവന് പഠനം മരീചികയായിത്തീരും. കേരളത്തില് ജോലിയില് പ്രവേശിച്ച അധ്യാപകര്തന്നെ പുറത്തുനില്ക്കുന്ന സാഹചര്യവും വിദ്യാര്ഥികളുടെ എണ്ണക്കുറവും കണക്കിലെടുത്താല് പുതിയ വിദ്യാലയങ്ങള് അനിവാര്യമാണോ എന്ന കാര്യം പരിശോധിക്കുകയാണ് ആദ്യം ചെയ്യേണ്ടത്. ഇന്നത്തെ സാഹചര്യത്തില് പുതിയവയുടെ ആവശ്യം ഉണ്ട് എന്ന് തോന്നുന്നില്ല. പകരം നിലവിലുള്ള വിദ്യാലയങ്ങളുടെ ഭൗതികപശ്ചാത്തലം മെച്ചപ്പെടുത്തി നിലവാരം ഉയര്ത്തുന്നതിനുള്ള ഇടപെടലാണ് ഉണ്ടാകേണ്ടത്. എന്നാല് , അണ് -എയ്ഡഡ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസസ്ഥാപനങ്ങള്ക്ക് അംഗീകാരം നല്കി വിദ്യാഭ്യാസ കുത്തകകളെ ഈ രംഗത്ത് കൊണ്ടുവന്ന് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസം തകര്ക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള നീക്കം തലവേദനവന്നാല് തല വെട്ടിക്കളയുന്ന ശൈലിയാണ്. യുഡിഎഫിന്റെ ഈ ജനവിരുദ്ധനയത്തിനെതിരായാണ് പുരോഗമനവാദികള് ഇപ്പോള് നിലപാടെടുക്കുന്നത്.
1957ല്ത്തന്നെ ഇത്തരത്തിലുള്ള നയപരമായ ഏറ്റുമുട്ടല് ആരംഭിച്ചിരുന്നുവെന്നതാണ് വസ്തുത. എല്ലാ ജാതിയിലും മതത്തിലുംപെട്ട പാവപ്പെട്ടവന്റെ പഠനാവകാശം സംരക്ഷിക്കാനുള്ള നിലപാട് ഇടതുപക്ഷം സ്വീകരിച്ചു. എന്നാല് , ഇത്തരത്തിലുള്ള എല്ലാ വിഭാഗത്തിലെയും സമ്പന്നര്ക്ക് കൂടുതല് സൗകര്യം ചെയ്തു കൊടുക്കാനാണ് യുഡിഎഫ് പരിശ്രമിച്ചത്. ഒരുകാലത്ത് ജാതീയമായ വിവേചനത്തിന്റെ അടിസ്ഥാനത്തിലാണ് വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ ഗുണങ്ങള് ലഭിച്ചതെങ്കില് ഇപ്പോള് പണത്തിന്റെ അടിസ്ഥാനത്തിലുള്ള വിവേചനത്തിലേക്ക് നമ്മുടെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയെ കൊണ്ടുപോകാനുള്ള ശ്രമമാണ് നടക്കുന്നത്. ഇതിനെതിരായി കേരളത്തെ സ്നേഹിക്കുന്ന മുഴുവന് ജനങ്ങളും പ്രസ്ഥാനങ്ങളും അണിനിരക്കേണ്ടതുണ്ട്. പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകര്ക്കാനുള്ള ഏത് നീക്കത്തെയും എതിര്ക്കുന്നതിനുള്ള പോരാട്ടം കേരളത്തിന്റെ മുഴുവന് നേട്ടങ്ങളും സംരക്ഷിക്കാനുള്ള സമരമായി കാണേണ്ടതുണ്ട്. ഈ പോരാട്ടം വിദ്യാഭ്യാസമേഖലയില് പ്രവര്ത്തിക്കുന്നവര്മാത്രം ഏറ്റെടുക്കേണ്ട ഒന്നല്ല. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ സ്നേഹിക്കുന്നവരുടെ മുഴുവന് കൂട്ടായ്മയായിരിക്കണം അത്.
"Do not judge me by my actions;
Do not judge me from man's point of view"
"Judge me from God's - by the hidden purpose behind my actions.
Regi George wishing you Good Luck.
Thanks
സ്കൂൾ ടാക്സ് ഏർപ്പെടുത്തുന്നതിനെപറ്റി എന്താണഭിപ്രായം?
Response to Mr. Kenny's mail:>> I am yet to figure out why we are objecting it. The arguments that the state schools have enough seats is not valid.>> Again I did not understand how private schools take away anyones right to a "good enough" education at a government school.When there are more schools than needed none would perform satisfactorily. It is true for every institution or enterprize. Every year there are between 4,20,000 and 4,50,000 children to join the first standard in our state. That means for every 2.5x2.5 sq.km area there will be around 70 students, which is just right for 2 divisions. When you have 3 or 4 schools in that area, they get divided into all of these. The 'unaccountable' schools may survive with less number of students because they can hike the fees to their convenience and give meagre salary to their staff.
When people are stuck to believe that these kind of schools may give the child better education they will force themselves to carry the burden.
The public schools suffer because of this and they become "uneconomical", as per the jargon of the Central government. That would stop any chance of their improving standards and would lead to their closure. And this would affect the economically backward sections of the society. Because they cannot afford to pay the fee and other expenses. Those who are always thinking of themselves may not feel pained about it, but...
Here our discussion is not the merits and demerits of public and private schools. Or the folly of the decisions of our parents. But a Government which is entrusted to look after and improve the educational conditions of the state's public schools paving way for the destruction of that. Clear?
---------------Rajesh sends a mail from his blackberry to conduct survey among teachers. You can arrange a survey for that too. But that is another issue. Don't mix it with this. This is another issue with long-term implications. When the last school with less fee is closed, the less privileged might rush to your office and house and snatch you of all your luxuries.
സ്കൂള് ടാക്സ് ഏര്പ്പെടുത്തുന്നതിനെപറ്റി എന്താണഭിപ്രായം?
കേരളത്തിന്റെ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസസമ്പ്രദായത്തെകുറിച്ച് അറിവില്ലാത്തതിനാൽ ആണ് ഇങ്ങനെ എഴുതേണ്ടി വരുന്നത്! ഇവിടെ 93% ശതമാനം സ്കൂളുകളും സർക്കാർ ശമ്പളം പറ്റുന്ന അദ്ധ്യാപകരുള്ളതാണ്! ഇതിനു മുമ്പ് കേരളത്തിൽ അധികാരത്തിൽ വന്ന യൂഡീഎഫ് സർക്കാർ ആണ് പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസ സമ്പ്രദായത്തെ അട്ടിമറിക്കുന്ന രീതിയിലേക്ക് കാര്യങ്ങൾ എത്തിച്ചത്! അന്ന് ആന്റണിയുടെ നേതൃത്വത്തിൽ അധികാരത്തിൽ വന്ന സമ്പൂർണ്ണ ലിബറലൈസേഷനെ പിന്തുണയ്ക്കുന്ന സർക്കാർ പൊതുവിദ്യാലയങ്ങളൾ അടച്ചുപൂട്ടുവാനും അദ്ധ്യാപകരെ തൊഴിൽ രഹിതരാക്കുവാനും നടപടി എടുത്തു അതിന്റെ പിന്തുടർച്ചയായി ആണ് ഇന്ന് കാശുവാങ്ങി വിദ്യാർഥികളെ പഠിപ്പിക്കുന്ന പുതിയ സ്കൂളുകൾ കേരളത്തിൽ അനുവദിക്കുവാൻ യൂഡീഎഫ് സർക്കാർ ഒരുങ്ങുന്നത്! സർക്കാരിന്റെ നിയന്ത്രണത്തിലുള്ള പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസ സമ്പ്രദായമാണ് സാമൂഹികമായി പിന്നോക്കം നില്ക്കുന്ന ദളിത് ആദിവാസി കളെ ഒക്കെ സാക്ഷരരാക്കിയത്! ആ വിദ്യാലയങ്ങൾ ഇല്ലാതായി അതിന്റെ സ്ഥാനത്ത് പുതിയ കാശുവാങ്ങി പഠിപ്പിക്കുന്ന സ്കൂളൂകൾ വരുന്നത് കേരളത്തെ തകർക്കും!
അതുമാത്രമല്ല ഇന്ന് കേരളത്തിലെ പബ്ലിക് സ്കൂളൂകൾ കൂടൂതൽ നവീകരിക്കപ്പെടുകയും, പഠനനിലവാരം ഉയരുകയുമാണ് ചെയ്തുകൊണ്ടിരിക്കുന്നത്! ഇങ്ങനെയുള്ള ഒരു സാഹചര്യത്തിൽ പൊതുവിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തെ തകർക്കുന്ന രീതിയിൽ പുതിയ സ്കൂളൂകൾ കാശുവാങ്ങി പഠിപ്പിക്കുവാൻ ഒരുങ്ങുന്നത് ആപല്ക്കരമാണ്!
സ്വകാര്യവത്കരണം കേരളത്തിലെ എത്ര സ്കൂളുകളെയാണ് പഠന നിലവാരത്തിന്റെ കാര്യത്തിൽ മെച്ചപ്പെടുത്തിയത്? എന്തെങ്കിലും കണക്കുകൾ ഉണ്ടോ?
എഡുജുക്കേഷണൽ ഹബ് എന്നൊക്കെ പറഞ്ഞാൽ എന്താണ്? ലോകത്ത് എവിടെ എങ്കിലും ഇങ്ങനെ ഒരു സമ്പ്രദായം ഉണ്ടോ?
ഗ്ലോബലൈസേഷന്റെ തലതൊട്ടപ്പന്മാരായ അമേരിക്കപോലും പബ്ലിക്ക് സ്കൂളുകൾ ആണ് പഠിക്കുവാൻ കുട്ടികൾക്ക് ഒരുക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നത്! ഒരു സ്കൂൾ ഡിസ്ട്രിക്ടിൽ കഷ്ടിച്ച് ഒരു സ്വകാര്യ സ്കൂളാണ് കാണുവാൻ കഴിയുക!
പ്രാഥമിക വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം എങ്ങനെയാണ് ഒരു കച്ചവടമാക്കിമാറ്റുവാൻ കഴിയുന്നത്? കുട്ടികൾ കഴിയാവുന്നതും മാതാപിതാക്കളോടോപ്പം ജീവിച്ച് പഠിക്കുക എന്നതാണ് അമേരിക്ക അടക്കം ലോകത്തെ ഒട്ടുമുക്കാലും മുതലാളീത്ത രാജ്യങ്ങളിലും പതിവ്! എഡ്യുക്കേഷണൽ ഹബ് സൃഷ്ടിച്ച് (ഫ്രീസോൺ പോലെ അല്ലെ?) അവിടെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസ ഫാക്ടറികൾ തുറക്കുക എന്നു പറയുന്നതുതന്നെ ഞെട്ടിക്കുന്നതാണ്!
"Do not judge me by my actions;
Do not judge me from man's point of view"
"Judge me from God's - by the hidden purpose behind my actions.
Regi George wishing you Good Luck.
Thanks
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Currently, there are enough schools to satisfy Kerala's needs. So lets stop having more. - Such a stand gives undue advantage to existing schools. It guaranties existing schools profit even without performing well. It denies opportunity for new managements who could have run schools better. Unfair!
Currently, there are enough schools to satisfy Kerala's needs. So lets stop having more. - Such a stand gives undue advantage to existing schools. It guaranties existing schools profit even without performing well. It denies opportunity for new managements who could have run schools better. Unfair!
This is not true. Considering that even pre-schools charge a lot of money in Bangalore. Costs around 1 Lakh on an average from what I heard from friends. Such huge fees doesn't make any sense and since there is no regulation from the government they are exploiting parents. Most parents don't have much option other than paying huge fees. One of the reason for the huge cost is a lack of good public education system in Banglaore . In Kerala even if there are issues with the public education system there is an option. Here simply it doesn't exist or pathetic even if it is available.
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സ്വതന്ത്ര വിജ്ഞാന ജനാധിപത്യ സഖ്യം (സ്വവിജസ)
(Democratic Alliance for Knowledge Freedom)
പിരിഞ്ഞുപോകാന് അറിയിക്കേണ്ടുന്ന വിലാസം dakf+uns...@googlegroups.com
സന്ദര്ശിക്കുക : http://groups.google.com/group/dakf?hl=en
After Shanghai and Shenzhen, it is the Northern Chinese city of Xuzhou that is wooing the Indian information technology and BPO industry to set up shop in the Xuzhou High-speed International Business Outsourcing District especially created for the IT-BPO sector.
“India is known for its IT and BPO industry globally …we want Indian IT and software majors to come to Xuzhou and take advantage of the infrastructure that we have created, besides financial aid that the government is offering for setting up establishments,” Vice-President of Xuzhou High-speed International Business Outsourcing District Liu Shuang told this correspondent.
Xuzhou that falls in the Jiangsu province and is in the middle between Beijing and Shanghai is known as a major transportation hub due to expressways and high-speed railway links.
“Xuzhou is the key stop of the high-speed railway connecting Beijing and Shanghai and country's East to West. Xuzhou as a transportation hub is of great advantage to every industry,” she added.
Ms. Liu, who was recently in India meeting all potential investors for the specialised IT-BPO park at Xuzhou, said: “Though Xuzhou is mainly known for the production of world-class machinery, we are now focussing on developing the IT-BPO sector. “We have already developed two world-class IT parks and are now looking at MNCs for its occupancy. Companies are being offered government subsidy, tax exemption and deduction on expenditure incurred on training of employees, besides relaxation in payment of rent. Based on the size of investment, the business characteristics and project scope, the government will also offer special benefits to the companies.”
Human resource
Ms. Liu pointed out that trained human resource, which includes over 1.6-lakh English-speaking IT talent pool from over 12 universities and 340 institutes, would help bridge the language barrier. “India's core competency lies in the BPO industry. Last year China came in second in the worldwide market share of the BPO industry, just behind India which was ranked first. China aims to expand this combined market share with a view to complementing India and together raising the market share of India and China as BPO destinations,” she said.
Stating that they were looking at establishing good trade and working relationship, she said: “While India can get some of its expertise in terms of IT-BPO practices, China can provide a good infrastructure to the business thus improving the overall efficiency of both countries. Many Indian big companies like TCS and Infosys have already made their presence felt in Shanghai, Beijing and Hangzhou…now Xuzhou can be support in many ways to these cities with the distance advantages. We are sure Indian companies would leverage these and grow exponentially,” Mr. Liu added.
Friends,The real issue in this discussion is the reluctance of Kenny and Vivek to discuss the real issue which is the recent state Government decision to give license to all schools who have applied for license. It is not difficult to smell a conspiracy.
But my friends here are more interested to discuss whether the pubic schools or the private schools are better. They have a prejudice that private schools are better. I beg to differ. You cannot say it in general. There are good private schools as well as good public schools. There are bad public schools too. But there are atrocious private schools as well, worse than the bad public schools. First admit this. There are "Apple-a-day"s also among them. Those have played with the future of children. It is also notable that 8 out of 10 children still goes to government schools.
It certainly involves liberalization policies but first of all this is a politician-educational businessmen nexus. So again if you ask in your next reply, not reply, the little blue 'comments' to compare the standards of private and public schools I may resort to sanyas.
Now some comments in the latest mails, the statistics seems as conspiracy, then the conspiracy is by our census and government dept. It is based on the population by age from Kerala census data. You may cross-check it.And Vivek had commented that "if we have too many schools, only the best will have takers, and the rest will die.In such an environment, the effort that government will have to put in to ensure quality will be minimum; as competition will force schools to either perform or shut down. Good for Children."It is the most irresponsible comment in the whole discussion. You cannot say something about education so casually without considering the future of the students involved in it. If the "rest is allowed to die", what will be the fate of the children studying in those schools? What will happen if they were forced to discontinue? So it may not be "Good for Children" but disaster for them. Hence you cannot take a relapse and look for firefighters after the fire has started. The destruction may be much more grave than you could think of.
"Do not judge me by my actions;
Do not judge me from man's point of view"
"Judge me from God's - by the hidden purpose behind my actions.
Regi George wishing you Good Luck.
Thanks
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Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone
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That is a very very biased view. Private players are proactive and seek profit and of course there will be corruption, favoritism, bullying etc.Public sector is lazy, is not supposed to seek profit, still they are also corrupt, there is favoritism and bullying.
Private players try to minimize cost, managers think about ways to reduce the expenses. Government officers sit on a budget and think about ways on how to spend it all.
I have a vodafone mobile connection, I am planning to change the operator. I can change it any day I want. My home has a BSNL connection which went out of order a week ago and is yet to be repaired. I have no option to change it.BSNL got 3g services an year ahead of everyone else. Did they make use of it properly ? You can blame the nexus between BSNL management and private players. Air India is also in a similar situation. But who is to blame for weeks delay in repairing ? the so called nexus ?
Can we bring accountability in the public sector ? Can we fire the inefficient ones ?
Is it possible in a land where we pay "Nokkukoli" ?
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| In KSEB when we have loaded computers in Our departmental vehicle ( our employees even in officer cadre done the physical work) these Chetans came and asked rs 100 per box finally SETTLED for Rs-50. It is there hobby. They will keep mom till the consignment is tied. They are trained or educated for that ??? Now you will ask for the evidence???? K.Rajesh --- On Tue, 21/6/11, Sarath Chander <chander...@gmail.com> wrote: |
2011/6/21 Kenney Jacob <kenney...@gmail.com>
That is a very very biased view. Private players are proactive and seek profit and of course there will be corruption, favoritism, bullying etc.Public sector is lazy, is not supposed to seek profit, still they are also corrupt, there is favoritism and bullying.
ലാഭം ഉണ്ടാക്കുന്നത് മാത്രമാണോ ഒരു സമൂഹത്തെ മുന്നോട്ട് നയിക്കുന്നത്, അല്ലെങ്കില് സാമൂഹിക വികസനം ലാഭാധിഷ്ഠിതം മാത്രമാണോ? പ്രൈവറ്റ് പ്ലെയേഴ്സ് മാത്രമുള്ള ഒരു വ്യവസ്ഥതിയില്, ഇന്ന് കേരളം നേടിയിട്ടുള്ള പോലെ നൂറ് ശതമാനം സാക്ഷരതയോ അല്ലെങ്കില് ഇന്ത്യയിലാകെ implement ചെയ്ത പോലെ പത്താം ക്ലാസ്സ് വരെയുള്ള നിര്ബ്ബന്ധിത വിദ്യാഭ്യാസ പദ്ധതികളോ നടപ്പിലാക്കുവാന് സാധിക്കുമോ? നടക്കില്ല എന്ന് പറയുവാന് എനിക്ക് കാരണങ്ങളുണ്ട്. ഇവിടെയും സ്വകാര്യ സ്കൂളുകളില് പഠനത്തില് താരതമ്യേനെ പിന്നോക്കം നില്ക്കുന്ന വിദ്യാര്ത്ഥികളെ പുറത്താക്കിയിട്ടല്ലാതെ സമ്പൂര്ണ്ണ വിജയം ആഘോഷിക്കുന്ന എത്ര സ്വകാര്യ സ്കൂളുകള് ഉണ്ട്? അത് പോലെ തന്നെ പഠനച്ചിലവ് സ്വകാര്യ സ്കൂളുകളില് എത്ര അധികമാണ്.
ആരോഗ്യം, വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം, ഭക്ഷണം പോലെയുള്ള കാര്യങ്ങള് ആരുടെയും ഔദാര്യമല്ല, ചാരിറ്റി ആയി ലഭിക്കേണ്ടതുമല്ല. മറിച്ച് അതെല്ലാം ഒരു മനുഷ്യന്റെ അവകാശങ്ങളാണ്. ഒരു സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ ചുമതല എന്നത് ആ പറഞ്ഞ കാര്യങ്ങള് 'വിറ്റ്' ലാഭമുണ്ടാക്കുക എന്നതല്ല, മറിച്ച് അത് സാര്വത്രികമായി അതിന്റെ ലഭ്യത ഉറപ്പു വരുത്തുക എന്നതാണ്. അതിനു വേണ്ടി സ്വകാര്യ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങള്ക്ക് അതിന്റെ ചുമതല വച്ചു കൊടുത്താല് അവര് അത് സാമൂഹിക സുരക്ഷിതത്വത്തിനെ മുന്നിര്ത്തി ചെയ്യുമോ അതോ ലാഭേച്ഛയോടെ പ്രവര്ത്തിക്കുമോ?
എനിക്ക് സ്വകാര്യ സ്കൂളുകളിലെ അധികച്ചെലവ് താങ്ങുവാന് കഴിയും എന്ന് കരുതി അതിന് ബുദ്ധിമുട്ടുള്ളവരെ നാം മറക്കണമോ? ഈ നാടിന്റെ resources അവയെന്ത് തന്നെ ആയാലും എല്ലാ പൗരന്മാര്ക്കും കൂടി അവകാശപ്പെടതല്ലേ?
Private players try to minimize cost, managers think about ways to reduce the expenses. Government officers sit on a budget and think about ways on how to spend it all.
പൊതുമേഖലാ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങള് ലാഭത്തിലും പ്രവര്ത്തിച്ചിരുന്നില്ലേ? ഗവണ്മെന്റിന്റെ നയങ്ങളുമായി അതിന് ബന്ധമില്ലേ? [തുടരുന്നു...]
I have a vodafone mobile connection, I am planning to change the operator. I can change it any day I want. My home has a BSNL connection which went out of order a week ago and is yet to be repaired. I have no option to change it.BSNL got 3g services an year ahead of everyone else. Did they make use of it properly ? You can blame the nexus between BSNL management and private players. Air India is also in a similar situation. But who is to blame for weeks delay in repairing ? the so called nexus ?
ബി.എസ്.എന്.എല് എന്ന പൊതുമേഖലാ കമ്പനി ഇപ്പോള് പിടിപ്പുകേടിന്റെ തറവാടാണ് എന്ന കാര്യത്തില് സംശയമേതുമില്ല. നഷ്ടത്തിലാക്കി വില്ക്കുക എന്ന യു.പി.ഏ. സര്ക്കാരിന്റെ നയവൈകല്യങ്ങളുടെ ഭാഗമാണതെന്ന് ഞങ്ങള് കുറച്ച് പേര് പറയുമ്പോള് കെന്നിക്കും കൂട്ടര്ക്കും അതിനെ പുച്ഛിച്ച് തള്ളാം,
പൊതുമേഖലയുടെ സ്വതവേ ഉള്ള സ്വഭാവമാണതെന്ന് അനുമാനിക്കാം. പ്രശ്നമില്ല. കാഴ്ചപാടിന്റെ വ്യത്യസ്തകളെ പൂര്ണ്ണ മനസ്സോടെ അംഗീകരിക്കുന്നു.
എന്നാല്, ബി.എസ്.എന്.എല്. കടന്നു വരുന്നതിന് മുമ്പ് മൊബൈല് ഫോണ് മേഖല മുഴുവനും, ഏതാനും സ്വകാര്യ കമ്പനികള് കയ്യടക്കി വെച്ചിരുന്ന സമയത്ത് മൊബൈല് ഫോണ് ചാര്ജ്ജുകള് എത്രയധികമായിരുന്നു? ബി.എസ്.എന്.എല് ഇറങ്ങിയ ശേഷം അതെത്ര കുറഞ്ഞു. സര്ക്കാര് ഇടപെടാതെ, സ്വകാര്യ കമ്പനികള് മാത്രം പരസ്പരം മല്സരിക്കുന്ന ഒരു വ്യവസ്ഥയില്, തനിയേ വില കുറയുമെന്നും, ഗുണനിലവാരം കൂടുമെന്നും സിദ്ധാന്തം ചമയ്ക്കുന്നവര് എന്തേ അന്നത്തെ അവസ്ഥയ്ക്ക് നേരെ കണ്ണുകള് മുറുക്കനെയടച്ചു നില്ക്കുന്നു? ഇന്കമിങ്ങിന് വരെ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്ന ചാര്ജ്ജ് പിന്നീടെപ്പോഴാണ് എടുത്ത് കളഞ്ഞത്. ബി.എസ്.എന്.എല്. മൊബൈല് സര്വ്വീസ് തുടങ്ങിയ കാലത്ത് ഏറ്റവും മികച്ച സെര്വ്വീസ് പ്രൊവൈഡര്മാരില് ഒരാളായിരുന്ന ബി.എസ്.എന്.എല്ലിന്റെ ഇന്നത്തെ ഗതിക്ക് കാരണം പൊതുമേഖലാ സ്ഥാപനങ്ങളില് കെന്നിയാരോപിക്കുന്ന പിടിപ്പുകേടോ അതോ കേന്ദ്ര ഗവണ്മെന്റിന്റെ നയവൈകല്യങ്ങളോ?
Can we bring accountability in the public sector ? Can we fire the inefficient ones ?
Firing the inefficient ones may be the 'right' way, but correcting them and involving them in the developmental process is the alternate way which ensures social security. I accept your point that there are bottlenecks, but firing/liquidating is not the solution.
Is it possible in a land where we pay "Nokkukoli" ?
സി.ഐ.ടി.യു.-വിന്റെ തൊഴിലാളികള് നോക്കു കൂലി ആവശ്യപ്പെട്ടാല് നിങ്ങള്ക്ക് receipt ചോദിക്കാം, യൂണിയനോഫീസില്/ലേബറോഫീസില് പരാതി നല്കാം. ഇത് വല്ലതും കെന്നി ചെയ്തിട്ടുണ്ടോ?
സ്വകാര്യ കമ്പനികള് എഴുതി തരുന്ന തൊട്ടതിനും പിടിച്ചതിനുമുള്ള കൂലികള് അവര്ക്ക് ലാഭമുണ്ടാക്കുവാനുള്ളതല്ലേ എന്ന ന്യായം പറഞ്ഞ് നമ്മുക്ക് മറക്കാം. പക്ഷേ ഭീകരന്മാരായ തൊഴിലാളികള്, ദിവസം 20 രൂപയ്ക്ക് മേല് വരുമാനമുള്ള കോടീശ്വരന്മാര്, അത് ചെയ്യുന്നത് നമ്മുടെ വികസനത്തെ ബാധിക്കില്ലേ?
Shiju, 17.56% is decent enough; but sadly that is after enjoying undue benefits from the government; benefits which no other player enjoys.
Also note that some areas these PSUs work where no private company is willing to work.
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Though I cannot make out which all are those unattractive areas, in such areas where private players cannot work, government should intervene. In all other areas, government should give way to competition.
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By "PSU only era", I meant the licence raj!
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Yes, we have seen it in USA with the housing finance companies doing the rest :-) and causing an international crisis.
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We can learn from that superpower's mistakes :)
Cheers!
"Do not judge me by my actions;
Do not judge me from man's point of view"
"Judge me from God's - by the hidden purpose behind my actions.
Regi George wishing you Good Luck.
Thanks
I think most of the public sector companies are badly managed and that is the primary reason these companies making loss! Most of the time Managers and Ministers responsible to those companies are not capable to do their respective duty is one of the main reasons these companies are in disaster! After 50 years of congress rule this country end up buying huge loans from IMF to run the day to day affairs of the state is the best example for how incapable congress party is to rule the nation.
Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone
| Below is an article tells how IIPM without even having recognized by Government of India cheating the middle class India. It is very relavant in this context of Privatising Education. Pls also note that, Caravan magazine and Google has been sued for publishing this article. Hence circulating it may cause some harm to us. |
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Once I became aware of Arindam Chaudhuri’s existence, I began to find him everywhere: in the magazines his media division published, flashing their bright colours and inane headlines from little newsstands made of bricks and plastic sheets; in buildings fronted by dark glass, behind which earnest young men imbibed Arindam’s ideas of leadership; and on the tiny screen during a flight from Delhi to Chicago, when the film I chose for viewing turned out to have been produced by him. It was a low-budget Bombay gangster film with a cast of unknown, modestly paid actors and actresses: was it an accident that the film was called Mithya? The word means falsehood, appearances, a lie—things I would have much opportunity to contemplate in my study of Arindam. Every newspaper I came across carried a full-page advertisement for Arindam’s private business school, the Indian Institute of Planning and Management (IIPM), with Arindam’s photograph displayed prominently. It was the face of the new India, in closeup. His hair was swept back in a ponytail, dark and gleaming against a pale, smooth face, his designer glasses accentuating his youthfulness. He wore a blue suit, and his teeth were exposed in the kind of bright white smile I associate with American businessmen and evangelists. But instead of looking directly at the reader, as businessmen and evangelists do to assure people of their trustworthiness, Arindam gazed off at a distant horizon, as if pondering some elusive goal. There were few details about the academic programme or admission requirements in these advertisements, but many small, inviting photographs of the Delhi campus: a swimming pool, a computer lab, a library, a snooker table, Indian men in suits, a blonde woman. A fireworks display of italics, exclamation marks and capital letters described the perks given to students: “free study tour to Europe etc. for twenty-one days,” “world placements,” “Free Laptops for all.” Stitching these disparate elements together was a slogan: “Dare to Think Beyond the IIMs”—referring to the elite, state-subsidised business schools, and managing to sound promising, admonishing and mysterious at the same time. The new India needed a new kind of university, and a new kind of attitude, and Arindam, said the ads, was the man who could teach you how to find it.
Sutanu ran the media division of Arindam’s company from a basement office where there was no cellphone reception, and it took many calls and text messages to get in touch with him. When I finally reached him, he sounded affable enough, suggesting that we have lunch in south Delhi. We met at Flames, an “Asian Resto-Bar” in Greater Kailash-II with a forlorn statue of the Buddha tucked away in the corner. Sutanu was in his 40s, a dark man with a bushy moustache and glasses, his raffish 1960s air complemented by a bright blue shirt and a red tie patterned with elephants. He was accompanied by Rahul, a journalist who worked at one of the magazines published by Arindam. Although they couldn’t have been there long, their table held two packs of Navy Cut cigarettes, a partly empty bottle of Kingfisher, and a battered smartphone that thrummed insistently throughout our conversation. “The boss is a great man, and sure, his story is interesting,” Sutanu said. “The question is whether he’ll talk to you.”
“There’s also a film division, and he’s produced a major Bollywood blockbuster,” Sutanu said. “It was meant to be a blockbuster,” Rahul said quietly. “But it flopped.” “Yeah, yeah, no big deal,” Sutanu said. “He’s on other blockbuster projects. He’s a man of ideas. So sometimes they flop.” He lit a cigarette and waved it around, the rings on his hand flashing. “What he’s doing, he’s using intellectual capital to make his money. But people don’t get that and because he’s been badmouthed so much, he’s become suspicious. He’s been burned by the media. You know, cynical hacks they are. They make up stories that he’s a fraud. A Johnny-come-lately. Everyone asks, ‘Yaar, but where does all that money come from?’” There was a moment of silence as we contemplated this question. “They don’t ask these things of other businessmen,” Sutanu said. “That’s because when the mainstream media does these negative stories on him, just hatchet jobs, you know, they’re serving the interests of the big industrialists. The industrialists don’t like him because our magazines have done critical stories on them. The government doesn’t like him and harasses him all the time. They say, ‘You can’t use the word “Indian” in the name of your management school because we don’t recognise your school.’ They send us a letter every six months about this. Then, the elite types are after him. The Doon School, St Stephen’s, Indian Institute of Management people. There were these bloggers writing silly stuff about him, saying that the institute doesn’t give every student a laptop as promised in the advertisements. You want to know how he makes money? It’s simple. There are 2,000 students who pay seven lakhs each. The operating costs are low. You know how much teachers get paid in India. So the money gets spun off into other businesses.” We ate hot-and-sour soup and drank more beer, our conversation widening out to include our careers and lives, and the unforgiving city of Delhi. Rahul told us a story about covering the war in Iraq and being arrested by Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard while crossing over the border from Jordan. When it was time to depart, I felt reluctant to break up the drunken afternoon bonhomie but nevertheless asked, “When do I get to meet Arindam Chaudhuri?” “The good thing about the boss is that he’s a yes or no sort of person,” Sutanu said. “You’ll find out in a couple of days whether he wants to meet you.”
The drive from Delhi to IIPM’s main campus, which is located on the city’s outskirts in an area called Satbari, is a fairly quick one. First come the temples of Chattarpur, modern structures with crenellated, fluted walls, where memories of old Hindu architecture have been transformed into a simple idea of excess. A gargantuan statue of Hanuman stands with a mace on his shoulder, looking down dismissively at the traffic. The road is dusty, and the clusters of shops and houses soon give way to large stretches of land partitioned off for the very rich. A few boutique hotels crop up, looking empty, but the land is mostly colonised by the farmhouses of Delhi’s newly affluent. All I saw on my first drive were walls edged with broken glass, the occasional flash of green from a well-tended lawn, and a young peasant woman with a suitcase sitting in front of a farmhouse. The high-walled Delhi campus of IIPM squatted amid these hotels and farmhouses. Compared to the sprawling campuses of the IIMs, it is tiny—five acres instead of a hundred— and thus seems more like a miniature, model school than a real one. The gates were kept shut, and the campus appeared sleepy until just before Arindam’s arrival. Then the security guards hovered around the guardhouse, looking at their watches and fingering their walkie-talkies. The scruffy management students, who, in their odd assortment of blazers and flashy shirts, had the air of men just coming off an all-night wedding party, tried not to look as if they were loitering. The gates were hurriedly opened for Arindam’s metallic blue luxury car, a million-pound Bentley Continental, as it coasted down the driveway and parked in front of the building lobby. Arindam, dressed in blue, passed through a knot of sycophants and disappeared inside the building, leaving behind nothing but the frisson of his arrival and the Bentley gleaming in the fierce Delhi sun. The power and the glory! A million pounds! Custom-made in the mother country of England! A Bentley was the ultimate status symbol of the Indian rich, expensive and relatively uncommon. A business journalist had told me the probably apocryphal story that Arindam had ordered the special paint scraped off when his car arrived from England and then had it repainted to match the blue of one of his favourite shirts. The campus building was split along two levels. Most of the classrooms were on the basement floor, and were filled with the chatter of students, some of them dressed in suits to attend a class in “Executive Communications.” The ground floor contained a computer lab, a tiny library and some classrooms, but it was dominated by a boardroom in the center. On the other side of this was an open-plan office. The employees sitting in front of computers and phones were mostly in their 20s and 30s, and although they looked busy, they didn’t give the impression that they were running a global megabusiness. Arindam referred to them as “managerial staff,” but when I introduced myself to one of the managers, a balding, middle-aged man, he seemed to be making cold calls, dialing numbers from a database and asking people if they were interested in taking management seminars. Up close, Arindam was a few shades darker than his picture, though with the same glossy hair tied back in a ponytail. Beneath his blue pinstriped suit he wore a white shirt open to show his smooth, hairless chest. There were rings on his fingers and bright sparkling stones on the frame of his designer glasses, silver cufflinks on his sleeves and argyle socks and shiny pump shoes on his feet. All these harsh, glittering surfaces were accompanied by a youthfulness that softened the effect. He was in his late 30s, a year younger than me, with a boyish air that took over when he became sarcastic about his critics and rivals and said, “Wow!” Our first meeting took place in the boardroom. There were about 50 chairs in the room, most of them pushed to one side, and Arindam and I sat at one end of a long table. The air-conditioning was fierce, and after a couple of hours, I began to feel cold in my summer garb of short-sleeved shirt and cotton trousers, but Arindam went on speaking, slowing slightly only when a worker brought us chicken sandwiches and cups of Coca-Cola. Like most of the new rich in India, Arindam hadn’t started from scratch. He inherited the management institute from his father, Malay Chaudhuri, who began it in 1973. But the original institute had hardly been cutting-edge. The admissions and administrative office in a house in south Delhi doubled as a family bedroom at night. As for Gurgaon, where the institute’s students convened, “it was the least developed place on earth.” I understood why Arindam wanted to emphasise this: before the office parks, condominiums and shopping malls sprouted, Gurgaon was little more than an assortment of unpaved roads meandering through fields of wheat, with electricity and phone lines in short supply, a no-man’s-land between Delhi and the vast rural hinterland of India, where a management school must have seemed like just one more of those strange, minor cults that crop up in this country from time to time.
During those early years, Arindam’s ambitions were disproportionate to his abilities and experience. He started a magazine and a research division, but the magazine closed quickly and his recruitment firm failed to take off. He had nothing to sell except himself. “In 1997, I announced my first leadership workshop for senior executives under the banner, ‘Become a great leader.’ My thinking was that if they can take leadership lessons from me, they will give me business. So they came, not realising from the photos how young this guy was. And then it didn’t matter, because that first workshop was a rocking interactive super-success.” His voice rose, his chin lifted with pride, and he looked me in the eyes. “That is how we built a brand.”
In June 2005, nearly a decade after his first failed attempt to start a magazine, Arindam began publishing a magazine called Business & Economy. This led to a newsweekly, The Sunday Indian, and a marketing magazine called 4Ps. Each was printed on glossy paper, heavy on graphics and syndicated material, thin on original content and, to judge by the misspelled names on Sunday Indian covers (“Pamela Andreson”), short of copy editors. In 2007, Arindam began bringing out an Indian edition of PC Magazine under licence from Ziff Davis Media. At the same time, he began discussions with Foreign Affairs in New York to bring out an Indian edition, and when that fell through, he began negotiations with Foreign Policy in Washington DC. “In the school, I have an audience of only 6,000 students,” he had said to me (the actual enrolment, according to Sutanu, was closer to 2,000). “Now, every week, I reach one lakh people.” The business schools also produced “academic” journals with names like Indian Economy Review, Human Factor, Strategical Innovators, and Need the Dough? But the most significant arena of influence seemed to be his film business, which had turned Arindam into something approaching a household name. In 2002, Arindam decided to enter the movie business. A few days before his first Bollywood film was to be shot, he told me, the director walked out on him. Arindam, naturally, decided to direct the film himself. He admitted to me that he had not been entirely qualified. “But I hope, some day, when I have more experience, to make a truly revolutionary film.” With a plot lifted from the American comic strip Archie, that first film flopped commercially and was panned by critics. Even the DVD stores in the Palika Bazaar underground market were unable to procure a copy for me. But Arindam learnt quickly. Before long, he had developed a careful corporate approach to filmmaking that differed from the older Bollywood model of massive budgets, dubious financing (often from underworld sources) and a hit-or-miss approach to success. Arindam’s films, by contrast, focused on the bottom line, keeping the budget small and aiming not for huge audiences but for as much presence as possible in the multiplexes proliferating in the new India, places where a number of films ran simultaneously in theatres far smaller than their predecessors. He also sought out prestige; some more recent ventures of Arindam Chaudhuri Productions have been directed by the Kolkata-based Rituparno Ghosh, who has something of a reputation as an auteur. Within IIPM, meanwhile, Arindam was surrounded by fierce loyalists. Former students and classmates became employees and continued to refer to him in the nice, middle-class Indian way as “Arindam sir.” They were so enamored of Arindam that when I visited him at the IIPM campus or stood too near him, some of them displayed a barely disguised hostility. Upset at the proximity I had stolen, sensing perhaps that I did not entirely share their faith in their guru, they seethed with the desire to protect Arindam from me. Almost all of Planman’s employees—90 percent, according to Arindam—were former IIPM students. The same was true of the faculty members, who tended to morph from students to teachers as soon as they had finished their courses. Rohit Manchanda, a short, dapper man who would have been shorter without the unusually high heels of his shoes, taught advertising and headed Planman’s small advertising agency. The dean of IIPM, Prasoon Majumdar, was also economics editor for the magazines published by Planman. Other employees were family members as well as former students. Arindam’s wife, Rajita, a petite woman who drove a Porsche, had been a student of Arindam’s before they got married and now taught Executive Communications. Arindam’s sister’s husband, a young man with shoulder-length hair and a shirt left unbuttoned to reveal a generous expanse of chest, was a former student, a faculty member and the features and lifestyle editor of the magazines. When Arindam met with his division heads, all of whom had been his classmates at IIPM, they joked and chatted for an hour before turning to their work. They seemed to derive immense pleasure from showing me just how closeknit they were. “We’re like the mafia,” Arindam said. It was a comparison that had occurred to me, although other metaphors also came to mind. They were like the mafia in their suspicion of outsiders, like a dot-com in their emphasis on collegiality, and like a cult in their belief in a mythology made up of Arindam’s personal history, management theories and the strange ways in which the company functioned. But perhaps this is simply another way of saying that they were a business, operating through an unquestioning adherence to what their owner said and believed. During our first meeting, Arindam explained to me in a five-hour monologue that his business was built around the “brand” of Planman Consulting, the group that includes the business school and numerous other ventures from media and motion pictures to a charitable foundation. To an outsider, however, the brand is Arindam. Even if his role is disguised under the description of “honorary dean” of IIPM, the image of the business school and Planman is in most ways the image of Arindam Chaudhuri. With his quirky combination of energy, flamboyance, ambition, canniness and even vulnerability, he is the promise of the age, his traits gathering force from their expression at a time in India when all that is solid melts into air.
The event at the Grand Ballroom was different. It was the final performance of a daylong “leadership” seminar for which people had paid 4,000 rupees, the previous speakers having included Arindam’s wife and several IIPM professors. Over 100 people, quite a few women among them, sat under the chandeliers as a laptop was set up on stage. They looked like aspirational rather than polished corporate types, the men with red sacred threads around their wrists, the women in saris and salwar kameezes, a gathering of middle-class, middle-rung, white-collar individuals whose interest in leadership skills had a dutiful air. After a number of children—it was unclear to whom they belonged— clustered around Arindam to get copies of the all-time best-seller Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch signed, Arindam took the stage. He wore a shiny black corduroy suit, the jacket displaying embroidery on the shoulders, and loafers that appeared to be made of snake skin.
As the session went on, however, it became evident that these qualities weren’t drawbacks, not among the people he was addressing. The mannerisms gave Arindam an everyday appeal, and it was the juxtaposition of this homeliness with his wealth, success and glamour that created a hold over the leadership aspirants in the audience. By themselves, the Bentley Continental, the ponytail and the designer glasses, or the familiar way Arindam had of dropping names like Harvard, McKinsey and Lee Iacocca would have made him too remote. But the glamour was irresistible when combined with his middlebrow manner. He was one of the audience, even if he represented the final stage in the evolution of the petit bourgeoisie. Arindam was well aware of this. If he wasn’t a natural speaker, he nevertheless had a performer’s ability to gather strength the longer he stayed on stage. Thirty minutes into the leadership session, as I began to be drawn into his patter, I realised that Arindam was telling the Indian middle class a story about itself, offering his audience an answer to the question of who they were. “I am trying to be a mirror,” he said, a comment remarkably attuned to the way he represented a larger-than-life version of the people he addressed. His listeners had come to the session with a rough sense of who they were supposed to be. They received instruction about this from the culture at large, especially the proliferating media outlets that obsessed about them as members of “India Shining.” The Western media characterised them in a similar manner. Arindam’s audience knew that as middleclass, well-to-do Indians, they were supposed to be modern and managerial. They were a people devoted to efficiency, given to the making of money and the enjoyment of consumer goods while retaining a touch of traditional spice, which meant, for instance, that they used the internet to arrange marriages along caste and class lines. Still, they needed further affirmation of their role, and this is what Arindam provided, mixing that cocktail of spurious tradition and manufactured modernity, while adding his signature flavor to the combination. He told his listeners stories about traveling to America, Europe and Japan—the ultramodern places that middle-class India had been emulating and suddenly found within its reach. Yet few people in the audience had been to these countries, and if they did go, they would not encounter them with any degree of intimacy. The very places they were most drawn to—the business centres, the shopping plazas, the franchise restaurants— would remain slightly unreal in spite of the photographs taken, the souvenirs bought, the money spent. In the Grand Ballroom, though, these places were conjured anecdotally and made to resemble the India the audience knew, or thought they knew. So there were jokes about national stereotypes, comments about the different strengths and weaknesses of the Americans, the Japanese, the French and the Indians. There were no individuals in these stories, only nameless businessmen met by Arindam in anonymous boardrooms, and the world itself seemed no more than a string of Grand Ballrooms, each dominated by a different ethnic group of capitalists. After Arindam had given the audience this touch of the foreign, he returned to more familiar territory. He made fun of regional Indian identities, something done rather easily among a largely Hindi-speaking Delhi crowd that tends to see itself as national. He pandered to their middleclass prejudices, attacking the government as inefficient and corrupt, and then satisfied their nationalism by speaking of the Indian Army as the most efficient and disciplined wing of the state. As Arindam became more comfortable, he slipped into Hindi, segueing into the story of the Mahabharata. This was his way of approaching the “Theory i Management” concept of leadership. Like many contemporary Hindus who have tried to cut from their sprawling beliefs the hard lines of a modern faith, Arindam wasn’t interested in the complex ethical questions or sophisticated narrative strategies of the Mahabharata. Instead, his focus was on the Bhagavad Gita. The Gita emerged as a foundational religious text only in modern times, when Hindu revivalists reeling from colonialism sought something more definitive than the amorphous set of practices and ideas that had characterised Vedic religion until then. Then in the early 1990s, the Gita again received new life, when the Indian elites simultaneously embraced free-market economics and a hardened Hindu chauvinism. They discovered in the Gita an old, civilisational argument for maintaining the contemporary hierarchies of caste, wealth and power, while in the story of Arjuna throwing aside his moral dilemmas and entering wholeheartedly into the slaughter of the battlefield, they read an endorsement of a militant, aggressive Hinduism that did not shrink from violence, especially against minorities and the poor. Given this appeal of the Gita among the Indian middle and upper classes, Arindam’s use of it was a canny choice. He was extending into the realm of management theory a story that his audience would be both familiar with and respectful toward, so that to challenge Arindam’s ideas would be tantamount to questioning a sacred text. Arindam began the elaboration of his Indian theories, naturally enough, by pulling a red Gita out of a pocket. A Planman photographer ran forward to capture the moment and, for the first time in the session, the audience began scribbling notes. Arindam turned to the laptop as if he were going to boot Krishna into existence, but the laptop refused to comply. As one, two, three, and then four people hurried to help, Arindam gave up, turned away from the computer, and faced the audience. He began a performance that was part television soap and part stand-up comedy, hamming the roles of housewives, husbands returned from work, fathers and babies, management trainees and their bosses. The audience burst into laughter as each little cameo played out. The laptop was finally made to work, and on the screen appeared a matrix of character types Arindam had extracted from the Hindu scriptures. There was the tamas or pleasure-loving type, who could be led only by domination; the rajas, ambitious but greedy, who needed a combination of encouragement and control; and the sattva, who was brilliant and talented and needed to be left alone. “Leadership is about changing your colors like a chameleon to suit the situation,” Arindam said, citing Krishna, the androgynous, slippery god, as the role model for the ideal CEO. Laborers and blue-collar workers were tamasic, young management trainees rajasic, and highly skilled professionals like research scientists were sattvic. He had reinvented the caste system in two hours. Arindam finished to all-round applause, and as he came down the stage, he was mobbed by his listeners. I went outside to the passageway, where tamasic workers in overalls were installing gates decorated with marigold garlands for a wedding reception that would take place later in the evening. I sat down beside a disheveled-looking man in a suit who was holding a plastic shopping bag that said “More Word Power.” He had attended the entire day’s session, and when I asked him what he thought, he replied that it had been interesting. He had enjoyed some of the earlier speakers, especially A Sandip, the editor-in-chief of all of Planman’s magazines. “And what did you think of Arindam Chaudhuri’s talk?” I asked. “Rubbish. It made no sense at all,” he said. He fell silent, avoiding my gaze, and when he looked at me again, it was with embarrassment. “You are a friend? You work for the company?” He cheered up as soon as he found out that I was writing about Arindam. “The man is a fraud,” he said, “but a very successful one.” He was a small publisher who churned out language education books. He would be publishing a management book during the World Book Fair in Delhi in February, a work written by a Canadian living in Beijing. “It is mostly China-focused. You are aware that there is great interest in China these days? So I wanted to have an event like this for the Canadian during the book fair, and I decided to come and see this. You are writing about Arindam Chaudhuri?” He handed me his business card, leaned toward me, chuckled and said, “You must find out how he makes his money.” I knew by now how Arindam made his money, or much of it—through IIPM’s tuition and (as in his movie business) by keeping costs low. But what was mysterious was the air of disrepute that clung to him; his wealth, oddly, had not bought him a free pass. People like this publisher seemed to see in Arindam a more successful version of themselves: far enough away to be envied, yet close enough to be resented.
The strike continued for four months. When the Chaudhuri family moved back home from the hotel, they were greeted by protesting students. “They were carrying horrible placards calling us thieves and murderers,” Arindam said. “The neighbours, who talked to the students, began calling my father ‘Bada Chor’ [Big Thief] and me ‘Chota Chor’ [Little Thief].” But what was most distressing, Arindam said, was that they eventually discovered that members of the faculty were behind the strike. “All the people we trusted were involved, and I decided that I would not let this happen ever again.”
Arindam started, he said, by competing for students with the “mafia” of management education in the country, but it was when he started a media division that his troubles began. “The elite now saw that I was challenging them directly, in the realm of ideas.” He was no longer operating merely within the confines of business schools; he was breaking down “the establishment hold on thought.” Arindam’s voice dropped low. “That is the reason why I am hated by a lot of people.” He was referring in part to a harsh piece about IIPM by an alumna of the elite IIM Ahmedabad business school. “It was the world’s most stupid article,” Arindam said, adding that he couldn’t remember the name of the journalist. But the ensuing public imbroglio (“we had no clue what is the blogger world,” he told me ruefully) put a dent in Arindam’s reputation, even as it solidified, at least for a while, his tenuous alliance with his own student body. The woman whose name Arindam couldn’t remember was Rashmi Bansal. Responding in part to an especially frenzied media blitz from IIPM (it was reported that they’d spent more than 1 million dollars to advertise in a number of prominent Indian newspapers and magazines), she wrote an article, ‘The Truth Behind IIPM’s Tall Claims,’ for JAM (Just Another Magazine—“India’s Most Loved Youth Magazine Since 1995”), a small periodical that she published herself for a young, English-speaking audience. Bansal’s article claimed that IIPM’s advertising was misleading: only the Delhi campus had the facilities prominently displayed in the pictures, from swimming pool to library, while campuses in other cities were housed in crowded office buildings; the scholars from institutions like Wharton, New York University, Columbia and Harvard claimed as “visiting faculty” were people who had merely passed through, delivering one-time lectures; the degrees IIPM awarded were not recognised by the Indian government; the company fudged data from media surveys to claim top rankings; and, contrary to its claims, it did not place its graduates in multinational corporations like McKinsey. The story was linked to by a young blogger and IBM salesman in Mumbai named Gaurav Sabnis. His post, ‘The fraud that is IIPM,’ was vicious. IIPM responded immediately, and clumsily: it wrote to Sabnis, threatening to sue him, and obtained a court injunction against the original article in JAM, which was temporarily taken offline. It also contacted IBM, from whom it purchases the free laptops that it gives to students, asking them to pressure Sabnis to take down his post, and threatening that the students would march to the IBM headquarters in Delhi and burn their laptops in protest. IBM claimed that it did not pressure Sabnis, but Sabnis resigned anyway to spare his employer’s embarrassment. This—in addition to abusive comments left by IIPM students on various blogs where criticisms of IIPM appeared— inflamed an already excited blogosphere, which decided that Sabnis was a martyr to truth and freedom of expression. They set about challenging IIPM’s claims with ever greater energy, discovering, among other things, that its “campuses” in Antwerp and Brussels consisted of a loose affiliation with a rather questionable institute not recognised by the Belgian government. Soon the mainstream press took notice. The large weekly Businessworld—for which Bansal was a columnist—reported that it had accepted Arindam’s request to look into the case for and against his institute, but was fobbed off with generalities about IIPM and its “enemies” when it asked for specific information. The resulting article, ‘When the Chickens Come Home…,’ while more moderate in tone than Bansal’s, was skeptical of IIPM’s claims, especially regarding the placement of graduates and the consultancy work done by Planman. Most of the multinational corporations named in IIPM advertisements, when contacted by Businessworld, said that they had few if any dealings with Arindam’s organisation. It was unquestionably a public relations disaster for Arindam, though his students stood by him. If anything, their commitment to the school was redoubled. In sifting through the long, labyrinthine posts on the anti-Arindam blogs, it is hard to avoid the impression of a virtual world being torn apart by virtual tools. Most often, the claims made by IIPM and Planman depended on a careful selection of pictures, comments and data, and the creation of numerous websites. This approach had worked well because it was part of a larger narrative of corporate success in India. Most mainstream journalists were too lazy and untrained, and too enamored of wealth, to subject these claims to the most basic scrutiny. But this was not true of the bloggers, who relentlessly probed the web, emailed people listed by IIPM as contacts, checked IP addresses, and conducted background research. The most interesting investigation the bloggers carried out involved IIPM’s history, focusing not merely on Arindam and his faculty but also on Arindam’s father, the man who had started it all by beginning a management school in Gurgaon. In F Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel of Jazz Age America, The Great Gatsby, there are two questions asked of the mysteriously wealthy title character: Where did he get his money? And, where did he go to college? These are necessary questions in a time when money is being made too quickly and in too many ways for established social networks to keep track. In the gap between old networks and rapidly changing times lies opportunity. Gatsby hopes to make good the promise of capitalism that ambitious people can have second acts to their lives. So when he tells people in a voice laced with British affectations (“old sport”) that he went to Oxford, he is trying to transform his new money, procured by questionable means, into old money. And because assuming the persona of a blue-blooded heir leads naturally to questions about why he hasn’t attended one of the Ivy League colleges where wealthy young men like Tom Buchanan are sent for a final polish, he adopts Oxford as his alma mater, a place so far away that it is difficult for people to check up on him. Arindam, unlike Gatsby, wasn’t a working-class upstart from the interior of the country. He was a middle-class man who grew up in Delhi, alert from the very beginning to the opportunities provided by the capital city, and who thus demonstrates that the mobility provided by the new India is significantly more limited than that of America at the turn of the 20th century. As for the degrees claimed by Arindam, they came not from some exotic overseas institution but from the business school set up by his father. The question of pedigree, the bloggers realised, could be transferred back one generation to Arindam’s father, “Doctor” Malay Chaudhuri, and his claim to have a doctorate from the Berlin School of Economics. The bloggers discovered that it was hard to pinpoint any such school with certainty. Dr. Chaudhuri had once contested elections to the Indian Parliament—he received so few votes that he lost his deposit—and in his application to the Election Commission, he credited his doctorate to an institute in the other Berlin, in the former East Germany. What records could one possibly locate when the country itself no longer existed? The bloggers concluded that there had never, in all likelihood, been a Berlin School of Economics, and that Malay Chaudhuri’s doctorate was simply the first of many fictitious degrees handed out by the Chaudhuri clan.
Other things remained beyond my scrutiny. I realised I had met Arindam only in hotels and at the main IIPM campus in Satbari, where he spoke, in expansive terms, of expanding to America. “Let Harvard fume, ‘We are 200 years old,’” Arindam had said, lopping two centuries off Harvard’s past. “Eventually they will recognise how good we are.” It was astonishing, this equation of America, through Harvard, with the old, while the India he represented was new, young and modern. And perhaps he was right. His institute was a fluid, virtual business school of the future, one that had done away with the arduous task of institution building. Arindam had first moved the school from Gurgaon to the Qutab Institutional Area, on the southern fringe of Delhi, where it occupied a leased building that finally ran afoul of the city’s zoning laws. Now they were operating from Satbari, somewhere between Gurgaon and Qutab, but even this building, its bright colors and abstract designs done to Arindam’s specifications, its small gym and swimming pool throwing out a challenge to the well-funded IIMs, might not be the final stop. It was a leased space, and Arindam told me that negotiations were already in progress to set the campus up somewhere else. If the school was mobile, Arindam was even more so. After our meeting at the campus, I had wanted to meet him in his office. “I don’t really operate from a fixed space,” he said. “I am so much on the move.” One day in September, after he’d missed an appointment with me, he sent me a text message at 7 am. “Good morning!” it said. “Totally totally forgot that day. However in the airport right now. And free. Can call. Do let me know if you ve woken up! Sorry about this early morning missive!” He was going on a long business trip to Toronto and London, and I called him back hurriedly, trying not to sound sleepy. He would be attending the Toronto Film Festival, where one of his films, the Rituparno Ghosh directed The Last Lear, was being screened. At London, he would be joined on the plane by the stars of his film, Preity Zinta and Amitabh Bachchan. After the festival, Arindam would stop by his London office for a couple of days. I remembered an article in the Financial Times that said he would be opening his London institute at Chancery Lane, and so I asked him, “Where exactly is your London office?” There was a pause. “That’s a good question,” he said. “Where is it?” He sounded boyish and vulnerable, and I found myself wanting to respond kindly, as if speaking to a child I didn’t want to embarrass about an insignificant lie. “It’s hard for you to keep track of all the offices you have,” I suggested. “That’s right,” he replied, seemingly relieved that I had offered him a way out. One day at the Satbari campus I asked Arindam about the criticism that his institute didn’t really offer careers. It was undoubtedly successful in attracting students, but the students, on graduating, seemed to end up in the very organisation that had given them their expensive degrees, teaching at the institute and working for Planman. Arindam told me that his organisation was a “family,” one that offered a continuation of the camaraderie experienced by the students. He also pointed out that, unlike the IIMs, he was not using public money to produce a small number of MBAs who then received extravagant salaries from multinational corporations. “They’ve cornered 100-acre campuses in India. The six IIMs, taken together, teach 1,000 students. And because they have so few students, the average pay package [for graduates] is eight to nine lakhs. That is aura! Wow!” He was right in pointing out how higher education for the Indian elite, from the engineering colleges to the IIM business schools, was funded by the state, producing technocrats and corporate executives who then went on to attack the state for being inefficient and wasteful. “Every American president should start by thanking the Indian taxpayer,” he said, noting that US multinationals benefited most from the training given to Indian Institute of Technology and IIM graduates. By contrast, he had privatised management education, applying to it the genuine rules of the marketplace. His graduates might get smaller starting salaries. They might be working, he said sarcastically, for distinctly unglamorous companies like ‘Raju Underwear’ and ‘Relaxo Hawaii Chappals.’ But they were not coasting on the taxpayer’s money. He was training people who would work in Indian organisations that needed their skills. “Our placements are improving. Foreign companies are also coming,” he added defensively. The bulk of IIPM students still ended up working for Arindam. It was hard to find out how much they were paid, but I had a rough idea because Arindam had, in a different context, divided his organisation’s salary structure into three groups: those making up to 25,000 rupees a month; up to 75,000 rupees a month; and more than 75,000 rupees a month. It seemed reasonable to assume that a starting IIPM graduate fell into the first category; at 6,000 dollars a year, he or she earned a third of what an IIM graduate did, which doesn’t seem bad. On the other hand, this is only twice what a call centre worker with a basic—and cheap— college degree can earn, even if managerial work offers better hours and prospects for advancement. The problem with Arindam’s approach lay deeper than the salaries his graduates made. Even in the world of closed Indian companies, Arindam’s organisation is unusual. It is not publicly traded, and was incorporated only very recently. The success and failure of IIPM students depends largely upon what happens to Planman, and what happens to Planman depends on what happens to Arindam. As for what happens to Arindam, that depends on whether the students keep coming. If the business school produces the greater part of the company’s revenues and employs most of the graduating students, this model can keep functioning only as long as a growing body of students remains willing to put up substantial sums of money for their degrees.
None of the bloggers seemed willing to consider that their cherished corporate practices would necessarily spawn imitators. IIPM has the same relationship to IIM as knockoff goods do to branded products; there is always a market for the knockoff version among the aspirational crowd. In other ways too, the cult of Arindam—the bloggers were puzzled by the vehemence with which IIPM students, the people apparently being defrauded, defended him—is only part of the larger cult that is contemporary India. Arindam’s management factory produces something less tangible, but more resonant than durables or consumer products. It takes people who have a fair bit of money but little cultural or intellectual capital and promises to turn them into fully fledged partners in the corporate globalised world. The students at IIPM are not from impoverished backgrounds. They can’t be because the courses are expensive. Many come from provincial towns, from small-business families that have accumulated wealth and now feel the need to upgrade themselves so they can compete in the realm of globalisation. Arindam gives youth from these backgrounds a chance to tap at IBM laptops, wear shiny suits and polished shoes, and go on foreign trips to Geneva or New York. All this involves a considerable degree of play-acting, and the students spend the most impressionable years of their lives in what is in essence a toy management school—mini golf course, mini gym, mini library. But play-acting is what the Indian middle and upper classes are doing anyway, wandering about the malls checking out the products purveyed by more established, easeful play-actors like Tommy Hilfiger and Louis Vuitton.
I had begun feeling some of this aspiration myself. One afternoon, I ate lunch with a former IIPM student who was one of Arindam’s prized employees. His name was Siddharth Nambiar. Wearing a suit and designer sunglasses, his head shaven, he appeared in front of me with long strides, car keys dangling from his right hand. He was late because he had rammed his car into the back of a bus, but he was unfazed by this “fender bender,” as he put it. We met at a shopping plaza just across the street from where I lived at the time, an odd mix of multinational franchises, rundown shops and a multiplex that often seemed to be showing one or the other of Arindam’s films. Nambiar led me up the stairs to an Italian restaurant called Azzurro. It was quite empty: the call centre workers preferred the kathi roll stand around the corner or the TGIF outlet across the square and it was too early for Western expats and upper-class Indians. The waitstaff knew Nambiar, as did the woman who ran the restaurant. He took off his sunglasses, ordered with a flourish, and began telling me about his career with Planman. He had been a student at IIPM Delhi, joined the company upon graduating, and had soon taken charge of the media division. He was 23 years old. Arindam had put considerable thought into sending Nambiar to meet me. If his primary business was churning out management graduates, he had sent me his finest product, glistening and confident, someone who could compete effortlessly with the MBAs from IIM. Nambiar’s shaven head shone in the bright afternoon light as he spoke about how he had negotiated with Foreign Affairs about publishing an Indian edition (although the effort was unsuccessful, he impressed Foreign Affairs with his presentation, according to a friend of mine who worked there). He had travelled around the world with Arindam, and in a few weeks he would be leaving for Oxford, where he would earn an MBA. When he returned, he expected to work at Planman again. I asked about Arindam’s conspicuous consumption, and he was delighted to give me the details. “The car?” he said. “It’s a Bentley Continental four-door. Actually, he got it because of me. We were in London, near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and I saw a Bentley parked outside this restaurant where I was having lunch with friends. I had one of them take a picture of me leaning on the hood of the Bentley with a glass of champagne in my hand.” He laughed, waiting for the image to be fully processed in my brain. “It looked so cool, you know? Then, I went to see Arindam at the Ritz, where he was staying. I was showing someone else the picture on my laptop, and he grabbed the laptop from me, looked at the picture, and said, ‘What kind of car is that? I’m going to get one.’” I asked him if he could describe Arindam’s Delhi office for me. “Let me think,” he said. “I’d say it has a nightclub in the daytime look.” We laughed at this. Nambiar’s laughter had a doubleness to it—it conveyed the knowledge that he himself was too sophisticated to make such a mistake but also revealed his admiration for a man who had the money to flaunt his taste, however questionable. He described the long, curved, red leather couch, the shelves filled with management books and magazines. An anteroom contained a treadmill, a television, and a pullout sofa where Arindam’s son Ché sometimes slept in the afternoon. The office floor had blue granite tiling, and the building’s exterior was of tinted blue glass. From the windows of Arindam’s office, Nambiar said, it was possible to see the Ernst & Young building. What gave Nambiar’s description a touch of virtual reality was the fact that Arindam’s Delhi office no longer existed. It had been closed down for violating zoning laws and survived only in the images that Nambiar so expertly created. When I asked for the bill, the waiter said that it had been taken care of by the manager. “She’s my girlfriend’s mother,” Nambiar said. “That’s really too bad, because I was hoping to treat you.” I insisted that the waiter bring me the bill. The waiter smiled and disappeared, while Nambiar looked surprised. I said something about journalistic ethics, but I could see that this made no sense to him. I was beginning to lose my temper, and I wondered why. Who would really care if I let Nambiar’s girlfriend’s mother pay for lunch? Who would think that my honesty as a writer had been compromised? As I cornered the waiter again and forced him to bring the bill, I found myself wondering why I didn’t have a suit, designer sunglasses, and car keys. I wondered why I wasn’t making money at a time in India when moneymaking opportunities seemed everywhere for the asking. Like Arindam’s students, I was an aspirer, finally, oblivious to anything but my own inchoate desires, filled with a sense of anger that I had no wealth to flaunt, as well as a trembling awareness of opportunities that it was perhaps not too late to capitalise. “I don’t like an image of me that isn’t me,” Arindam had told me, anxious to clarify his essential self. And here was I, not liking the image of me that was me. I felt that I was beginning to lose myself in this world of appearances and aspirations, and that paying the bill was the only way to return to steady ground. Adapted from The Beautiful and the Damned: A Portrait of the New India, forthcoming from Viking Penguin in June. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||