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Kiran cooks, cleans and runs the household. She also gathers firewood and water and lugs it home, the distances getting longer as summers advance.Only 11 years old, she doesn&#39;t have a choice – her parents migrate out annually and there is no one else at home in her village (name withheld) in Banswara district. Her 18-year-old brother Vikas (name changed) is around, but he could migrate anytime, as he has done in the past. Their three other siblings, aged between three and 13 years, live with their parents who work as labourers at construction sites in Vadodara, Gujarat. They are missing out on school, but Kiran (name changed) gets to attend.“I cook some food in the morning,” says Kiran, explaining her daily routine to this reporter. The kitchen area takes up almost a half of the one-room house and a lone flashlight suspended from the roof provides light once the sun goes down.At one end is a wood-fire stove; extra wood and an old fuel can are placed close by. Vegetables, spices and other ingredients are stored in plastic bags and containers that are either arranged on the floor or hung from the walls – in easy reach of her small arms. “I also cook dinner in the evening after school. Phir murgi ko dekhna [Then I see to the hens and roosters] and then we go to sleep,” says Kiran. Her shyly narrated story leaves out the many other household chores such as collecting and carrying firewood from the jungles at the foot of the nearby hills, known to the locals as Bijliya or Davda Khora. It can take Kiran around an hour to go to the forest, another hour to cut, collect and tie the wood into a pile, and one more hour to return home with the kilos of wood, definitely taller and likely weighing more than the slightly built child.

“I also fetch water,” Kiran adds, remembering a critical chore. From where? “From the handpump.” The handpump belongs to her neighbour Asmita’s family. “We have two hand pumps on our land. Everyone in the area, around eight households, draws water from them,” says Asmita, 25. “Once summer comes and the hand pumps dry up, people will move to the gaddha [a naturally forming pond or pool at the base of the Bijliya hills].&quot; The gaddha is further off and quite a hike especially for someone as young as Kiran.Dressed in a salwar kurta and purple sweater for the winter chill, she looks almost too old for her age. But when she pipes up, “mummy-papa se roz baat hoti hai…phone pe [We talk to our parents everyday…on the phone],&quot; you catch a glimpse of her young age. Half the households in southern Rajasthan, where Banswara district is located, are migrant households. And Bhil Adivasis, like Kiran’s family, make up more than 95 per cent of the population of the district. Many leave young children behind to ensure the land and house are taken care of. But, besides the unfair burden on young shoulders, living alone also exposes them to those who want to prey on their vulnerability.It is early January and many of the fields here are brown with dry brush or the standing cotton crop, ready for picking. With the winter vacations still going on, many children are busy working on the family land, gathering firewood or grazing cattle.Vikas has stayed back this time, but had joined his parents the previous year. “I worked with the machines mixing sand [at construction sites],” he says, in between picking the cotton. “We would be paid 500 rupees for a day’s work. But we had to live on the side of the road. I didn’t like that.” So he returned around Diwali (2023) when the academic year picked up again.Vikas hopes to get an undergraduate degree soon. “Pehle pura kaam karke, phir padhne baithte hai [First we finish our work, then we study],” he tells PARI.But Kiran is quick to say what she likes about going to school: “I like studying Hindi and English. I don’t like Sanskrit and Maths.”

Kiran is fed lunch in school under the midday meal scheme: “Kisi din sabji, kisi din chawal [Some days vegetables, other days rice],” as she puts it. But to meet the rest of their food needs the siblings grow and collect papad (flat beans) on their land and buy leafy greens. Other ingredients come from government provided ration.“We get 25 kilos of wheat,” says Vikas. “And other ingredients like oil, chilli, turmeric and salt. We also get 500 grams of mung [green gram] and chana [chickpea] dal. It’s enough to last us two for a month.” But once the entire family returns it does not suffice.Income from the farm is not nearly enough to cover the family’s expenses. The poultry birds the siblings raise partially cover school fees and daily expenses, but when they run through that, their parents have to send money.Wages under MGNREGA vary widely but the <a href="https://nregaplus.nic.in/netnrega/WriteReaddata/Circulars/2476Wage_Rate_notification_FY_2024-25.pdf">daily wage</a> prescribed in Rajasthan – Rs. 266 – is almost half of the Rs. 500 paid by private contractors to Kiran and Vikas’s parents in Vadodara.With such wage disparities, it is no wonder that the bus stands in Kushalgarh town are always busy. Around 40 state buses leave every day through the year carrying 50-100 people in one journey. Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/migrantsdont-lose-that-number/">Migrants…don’t lose that number</a>

As children grow older, they often accompany their parents for wage work, so it’s not surprising that school enrolment in Rajasthan <a href="https://www.indiabudget.gov.in/economicsurvey/doc/stat/tab83.pdf">falls steeply</a> with age. Asmita who is a social activist, corroborates this lack in formal education saying, “a lot of people here study mostly till Class 8 or 10.” She herself used to migrate to Ahmedabad and Rajkot, but now works in the family’s cotton fields, is studying for public service exams and helping others.Two days later when this reporter meets Kiran again, she is attending a community outreach meeting conducted by young women volunteers from the area, including Asmita, with the help of Aajeevika Bureau, a non-profit organisation based in Kushalgarh.  Young girls are made aware of the different kinds of education, occupations and futures they can have. “You can be anything,” the mentors repeat throughout.After the meeting, Kiran makes her way back home, to draw another pot of water and prepare the evening meal. But she’s looking forward to being back in school, meeting her friends and doing all the things she couldn’t during the vacations.

Home alone in Banswara

ഒറ്റയ്ക്ക്, ബൻസ്‌വാരയിലെ വീട്ടിൽ

छोट कान्हा पर पलायन के बोझा

छोटी सी उमर में पूरे घर का बोझ ढोते बच्चे

রইনু ঘরে একাকী

బాన్స్‌వాడాలో ఇంట్లో ఒంటరిగా...

பன்ஸ்வாரா வீட்டில் தனியே

ਪ੍ਰਵਾਸ ਦਾ ਸੰਤਾਪ ਤੇ ਇਕਲਾਪਾ ਹੰਢਾਉਂਦਾ ਬਚਪਨ

ಬಾನಸವಾಡದಲ್ಲೊಬ್ಬಳು ಒಂಟಿ ಮನೆಯೊಡತಿ

બાંસવાડામાં ઘરે એકલાં અટૂલાં બાળકો

ବାଂସୱାଡ଼ାରେ ଘରେ ଏକୁଟିଆ

घर के बोझा ढोवत बचपन

বাঁচৱাৰাত ঘৰত অকলে জীৱন যাপন

Meerut

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The
popular name is ‘Virat Kohli’. India’s cricketing icon has many fans here in
Dungra Chhota. 

It’s
after 10 on a winter morning and the dozen or so young residents are engrossed
in a game. The square patch of open land flanked by bright green corn fields
will not strike you as a cricket field, but the cricket enthusiasts of this
village in Banswara district know each and every yard of it, from the popping
crease to the boundary line. 

Everyone
knows the most effective way of striking up a conversation with cricket fans is
to ask about their favourite players. Here, it may be Virat Kohli to start
with, but other names also get thrown up soon enough – Rohit Sharma, Jasprit
Bumrah, Suryakumar Yadav, Mohammed Siraj…

Finally,
18-year-old Shivam Labana adds, “I like Smriti Mandhana.” The left-handed
opening batter and ex-captain of the India Women T20 squad is one of the most
popular cricketers in the country.

But
she is not the only left-handed batter being discussed on this field, as we
soon find out.

Among the gaggle of aspiring bowlers and batters
– all boys – the single girl stands out. Just nine years old, Hitakshi Rahul
Harkishi is fully kitted in white shoes and batting pads with thigh and elbow
guards securely strapped onto her slight frame.

“I want to be a batsman. Mereko sabse acchi lagti hai batting [I love batting the most],”
she tells PARI.  “Main India ke liye khelna
chahungi [I want to play for India],” she declares. Not so keen on talking,
Hitakshi is however more than willing to stand at the crease and demonstrate
her game. Walking up the hard pitch she hits a few season ball deliveries into
the chain-link fencing that works as the net.

Hitakshi’s
desire to play for India is supported by her father who is also her coach. She
reels off her schedule: “After school I come home and sleep for an hour. Then I
train from four to eight [in the evening].” On weekends and holidays like
today, she also trains in the morning from around 7:30 a.m. to noon.

“We have been training continuously for around
14 months now. I also need to train along with her,” says her father, Rahul
Harkishi speaking to PARI in January 2024. He is the owner of a vehicle garage in Dungra Bada, Banswara district of
Rajasthan. Proud and confident of his daughter’s abilities he says, “Shaandaar playing hai [She plays really well]. As a father I shouldn’t be strict
with her but I have to be.”

Her
parents also ensure a healthy diet for her. “We have eggs four times a week,
and some meat too,” Rahul informs. “She also drinks two glasses of milk
everyday as well as cucumber and carrots in salad.”

The
effort shines through in Hitakshi’s play. She is used to practising with older
players like Shivam Labana, 18, and Ashish Labana, 15, two boys from Dungra
Chhota who have played at the district level. Both are bowlers and have been
participating in tournaments for 4-5 years now including the Labana Premier
League (LPL), where more than 60 teams from the Labana community compete
against each other.

“Back
when we first participated in the LPL, it was just us boys. We didn’t have
Rahul bhaiyya [Hitakshi’s father] as
coach then,” says Shivam. “I took five wickets in one of the matches.”

These days they also play for the Hitakshi Club
set up by Rahul. “We are training her [Hitakshi],” Shivam adds. “We want her to
debut in our team. Girls in our community don’t play [cricket] so we think it’s
good that she is.”

Luckily
for Hitakshi, her parents are dreaming differently as one of her young team
mates says, “Unka dream hai usko aage bhejenge [They have a
dream of sending her ahead].” 

Despite
the popularity of the sport, families hesitate to let their children pursue
cricket. Shivam mentions a 15-year-old teammate’s similar situation, “He’s played
at the state level multiple times and wants to continue but is thinking of
leaving. His family will probably send him to Kota.” Synonymous with coaching
classes and higher education, Kota seems as divorced from cricket as anything
can be.

Sheela Harkishi, Hitakshi’s mother, is a Hindi
teacher to primary and secondary school students. She too is a big cricket fan,
as everyone else in their family. “I know the name of every player in the
Indian team and I recognise them all. Although I like Rohit Sharma the most,”
she adds with a smile.

Other
than her work as a teacher, she also manages the garage where we meet her.
“Right now, we don’t have a lot of girls and boys from Rajasthan playing
cricket. We have tried a little for our daughter and we will keep trying.”

For
nine-year-year old Hitakshi there is still a long way to go but her parents are
determined to “do everything necessary to make her a skilled cricketer.”

“I don’t know what the future holds,” says
Rahul. “But as a father and as a good sportsman, I can say for sure that we
will have her play for India.”

‘I want to play for India’

‘എനിക്ക് ഇന്ത്യയ്ക്കുവേണ്ടി കളിക്കണം’

'இந்தியாவுக்காக விளையாட விரும்புகிறேன்'

’میں انڈیا کے لیے کھیلنا چاہتی ہوں‘

‘আমি ভারতের হয়ে খেলতে চাই’

‘నేను భారతదేశం తరఫున ఆడాలనుకుంటున్నాను’

'ਮੈਂ ਇੰਡੀਆ ਲਈ ਖੇਡਣਾ ਚਾਹੁੰਦੀ ਹਾਂ!'

‘મારે ભારત માટે રમવું છે’

'ನಾನು ಭಾರತದ ಪರವಾಗಿ ಆಡಬಯಸುತ್ತೇನೆ'

‘मला भारतासाठी खेळायचंय’

‘ମୁଁ ଭାରତ ପାଇଁ ଖେଳିବାକୁ ଚାହୁଁଛି’

‘हम इंडिया ला खेले चाहत बानी’

‘मंय भारत सेती खेले चाहत हवं’

‘মই ভাৰতৰ হৈ খেলিব বিচাৰোঁ’

‘मैं इंडिया के लिए खेलना चाहती हूं’

Delhi

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“Unconditional love for my students and total acceptance.
That is what I have learned as a teacher!”

Medha Tengshe offers her point, gently but firmly. A special
educator, she is one of the founding members of Sadhana Village where over 30
people of varying ages and with varying levels of intellectual abilities are
taught basic life skills along with some art, music and dance. 

Sadhana Village is located in Mulshi block of Pune district.
A residential institution for adults with intellectual disabilities, here
students are referred to as ‘special friends’ and Medha tai, a journalist by training, defines her role as that of a gruh mata (house mother) to the 10
residents as, “a mother who is also a teacher.” 

A feeling that Satyabhama Alhat, a special
teacher at the Dhayari School for the Hearing Impaired in Pune agrees with. “A
teacher at a residential school like ours is also a parent and we do not want
our children to miss home,” she tells PARI as she turns to teach some girls how
to play phugadi, a traditional game
as it was Nag Panchami, a festival celebrated on the fifth day of Shravan.
Dhayari is a primary school with 40 resident students and 12-day scholars who
come from parts of Maharashtra, Karnataka, Delhi, West Bengal and Rajasthan
among other places.

Satyabhama told PARI that parents prefer to send their
children to this school as they have heard good things about the facilities and
teachers from students who have moved out. The absence of fees and the
residential option make it very attractive – children as young as four and half
also join. Interestingly, not all admission enquiries are from hearing
impaired. “Parents of hearing children also come and enquire about admissions
as they like the school. We have to send them back,” Satyabhama says. 

Teachers of people with disabilities are
referred to as ‘special educators’ and they educate students in a way that
accommodates their individual differences, disabilities and special needs, and
makes them self-sufficient. Most of these teachers and educators believe that
special education is much more than techniques and methods. It is about the trust
and bond between a teacher and child. In 2018-19, Maharashtra noted 3,00,467
children with special needs (CWSN) enrolled in Classes 1 to 12. There are 1,600
special needs schools in Maharashtra. The 2018 state <a href="https://sjsa.maharashtra.gov.in/sites/default/files/pdf/Maharashtra-State-policy-in-marathi.pdf">policy</a> for people with disabilities aims to provide at least one special teacher in every school to assist special children in accessing education. But according to Medha tai, only nine special educators were appointed in 2018 for the entire Mulshi block with 96 villages.

A special educator needs special teaching skills. It’s not
easy, “more so, when the students are your parent’s age,” says Rahul Wankhede,
a 26-year-old social worker from Wardha who has been here since last year. His
senior colleague, Kanchan Yesankar, 27, also from Wardha, has spent five years
teaching students who she believes have taught her to be a happier person.

Twenty-year-old Kunal Gujar has borderline intelligence and
weakness in his left hand. Community worker, 34-year-old Mayuri Gaikwad and her
colleagues conducted classes for him and seven special children. “She taught me
songs and tables, and exercise. Haat ase
karayche, mag ase, mag tase [Move your hands like this, and then like
that],” says Kunal, speaking about his teachers at the Devrai centre in Kalekar
wadi of Hadshi, near Pune. 

Love and feeling of oneness with these children are a must
for this role, says Mayuri who also works with Katkari Adivasi children and
runs libraries. She is a farmer and a community worker, and it was her fondness
and comfort with children with disabilities made her take on the role of a
teacher at the Devrai centre.

Sangita Kalekar’s son Soham suffers from
epileptic seizures, and she has been his sole teacher – teaching him everything
from sitting up to talking. “He can now say ‘aai, aai’,” she says. Ten-year-old Soham is playing with a key,
watching it fall to the ground and making sounds.

For teachers at another residential institute, the Dhayari
School for the Hearing Impaired in Pune, every time a child in their class
makes a sound it is one step towards speaking. Apart from these sounds and
gestures, “they are no different from ‘normal’ children of their age,” points
out Satyabhama Alhat who has been working here for the last 24 years. 

The school is one among 38 schools for the hearing impaired
started by Suhrud Mandal, a Pune-based institute training special teachers for
last 50 years. These teachers have either done a BEd (Hearing Impaired) or
diploma courses and have consciously chosen to be special teachers. 

The blackboard in the Class 4 classroom is
filled with beautiful drawings of a building, a horse, a dog and a pond, all
the words Mohan Kanekar wants to teach his students. A trained teacher with 21
years of experience, the 54-year-old follows Total Communication – a method
that combines speech, lip-reading, sign and writing while teaching the hearing
impaired. His students respond to each sign and try and repeat the words in
different notes and tones. The sounds bring a smile to Kanekar’s face, and he
corrects the pronunciation of each and every child.

In another class, Aditi Sathe’s own speech impairment does
not come in way of teaching seven students in the ‘step 3’ class. She has
worked with the school since 1999 as an assistant.

She and her students are not bothered with all the ‘noise’
created by another class in the same hall where Sunita Zine is working with the
youngest students who study here. The 47-year-old superintendent of the hostel
is teaching colours, and students are running freely in the hall in search of
the colours. A blue bag, a red saree, black hair, yellow flowers… students
scream in joy, some making sounds, others just with their hands. A trained
teacher, her expressive face speaks to her students.

“Today, when there is increasing violence and aggression in
society and in schools, we need to question our notions of intelligence and
success. Of discipline and punishment,” says Medha tai. She is appealing to all teachers to visit at least one school
for special children to see “what can be achieved through gentle words.”

The reporters would like to
thank Dr. Anuradha Phatarphod of Suhrud Mandal for all the support while
reporting this story.

'Love makes you a good teacher'

معذور طلباء کو مضبوط بنانے والے ٹیچر

'ప్రేమ మిమ్మల్ని మంచి అధ్యాపకులుగా చేస్తుంది’

'அன்பு உங்களை நல்ல ஆசிரியராக்கும்'

'ਅਪਣੱਤ ਇੱਕ ਖਾਦ ਹੈ ਤੇ ਫ਼ਸਲ ਹੈ ਚੰਗਾ ਅਧਿਆਪਕ'

‘ସ୍ନେହ ହିଁ ଜଣେ ଭଲ ଶିକ୍ଷକ ଗଢ଼ି ତୋଳେ’

സ്നേഹം നിങ്ങളെ നല്ലൊരു അദ്ധ്യാപകനാക്കുന്നു

'ಪ್ರೀತಿ ನಿಮ್ಮನ್ನು ಉತ್ತಮ ಶಿಕ್ಷಕರನ್ನಾಗಿ ರೂಪಿಸುತ್ತದೆ'

'छात्रों के लिए प्यार ही बनाता है एक बेहतर शिक्षक'

‘તમારો બાળકો પ્રત્યેનો પ્રેમ જ તમને સારા શિક્ષક બનાવે છે’

‘गुरतुर मयारू बोली ले काय हासिल करे जाय सकथे’

अशक्त विद्यार्थी के सशक्त बनावे वाला ‘गुरुजी’

‘স্নেহের জোরেই ভালো শিক্ষক তৈরি হয়’

‘চেনেহে আপোনাক এজন ভাল শিক্ষক কৰি তোলে’

‘चांगला शिक्षक होण्यासाठी मुलांवर माया हवी’

Pune

01-Education-paused_Final-JS-For_children_of_migrants_school_is_out.jpg

It’s a hot and quiet February afternoon at the Rajaram Sugar Factory in Kolhapur district. The hundreds of khopyas (thatched huts of sugarcane workers) located on the premises of the factory are mostly empty. Migrant workers are cutting cane near Vadanage village, an hour&#39;s walk from here. The distant sound of metal utensils being moved signals that some workers could be home. Following the sound leads us to 12-year-old Swati Maharnor who is getting ready to make her family’s dinner. Pale and exhausted we find her seated on the threshold of her family’s hut, all alone. Cooking utensils lie around her.“I have been up since 3 a.m. in the morning,” she says, stifling a yawn.The little girl left early this morning in a bullock cart with her parents, younger brother and grandfather to help cut sugarcane in Bavda taluka of Maharashtra. The family of five have been paid to cut 25 moli (bundles) a day, and all hands must help reach this target. They have packed bhakri and a brinjal sabji cooked the previous night for their lunch.Only Swati returned at 1 p.m., walking back six kilometres to their home on the factory premises. “Baba [grandfather] went back after dropping me.” She has come home earlier than the others to prepare dinner for the rest of the family who will return soon, hungry and tired from over 15 hours cutting cane. “We [the family] have had only a cup of tea since morning,” says Swati.This daily up and down between the fields and her home, cutting cane and cooking, has been Swati’s routine for the last five months – ever since her family migrated to Kolhapur district from their home in Sakundwadi village in Beed district, in November 2022. They live here, spread across the factory&#39;s premises. A 2020 report brought out by Oxfam, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/human-costs-of-sugar-living-and-working-conditions-of-migrant-cane-cutters-in-maharashtra/">Human Cost of Sugar</a> said that migrant workers in Maharashtra often live in large colonies of makeshift tents with tarpaulin covers. The colonies are often without water, electricity or toilets.

“I don’t like cutting sugarcane,” says Swati. “I like to be in my village because I go to school there.” She is a student of Class 7 in the zilla parishad middle school back home in Sakundwadi village in Patoda taluka. Krishna, her younger brother, studies in Class 3 in the same school. Like Swati’s parents and grandfather, around 500 migrant workers are on contract to work at the Rajaram Sugar Factory during the sugarcane harvesting season. With them are their young children. “In March [2022], we were in Sangli,” says Swati. Both she and Krishna remain out-of-school for close to five months in a year.“Baba [grandfather] takes us back to our village every March so that we can attend our exams. We come back soon after to help our parents,” says Swati explaining how she and her brother manage to stay enrolled in the state school.Being absent from school from November to March makes it difficult to clear the final exams. “We fare okay in subjects like Marathi and History, but Mathematics is difficult to understand,” Swati says. Some of her friends back home try to help, but it doesn’t make up for missed classes.“What can be done? My parents need to work,” says Swati.During the months when they do not migrate (June-October), Swati’s parents, Varsha, 35 and Bhausaheb, 45, work as agricultural labourers in the fields around Sakundwadi. “During monsoon season till kapani [harvesting], we get work in the fields back home for 4-5 days in a week,” says Varsha. The family belongs to the Dhangar community, listed as a Nomadic Tribe in Maharashtra. The couple earns Rs. 350 a day – Varsha earns Rs. 150 and Bhausaheb Rs. 200. When work dries up near their village, they migrate out to seek work as cane cutters.

“Free and compulsory education to all children between six and 14 years of age,” mandates <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/right-of-children-to-free-and-compulsory-education-act-2009/">T</a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/right-of-children-to-free-and-compulsory-education-act-2009/">he </a><a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/right-of-children-to-free-and-compulsory-education-act-2009/">Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education Act</a> (RTE) 2009. But, like Swati and Krishna, nearly <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/human-costs-of-sugar-living-and-working-conditions-of-migrant-cane-cutters-in-maharashtra/">0.13 million</a> children (aged 6-14 years) of migrant sugarcane workers cannot access a school education when they accompany their parents. In an attempt to reduce the number of school dropouts, the Maharashtra government introduced &#39;Education Guarantee Cards&#39; (EGC). The EGC was the result of a resolution passed in 2015 to the Right to Education Act, 2009. The card aims to ensure they can continue schooling in their new location without disruption. It includes all academic details of a student and is issued by teachers at schools in their home village.“The child has to carry the card with him to the district he is migrating to,” explains Ashok Tangde, a social activist based in Beed district. On presenting the card to authorities at the new school, “Parents don’t need to go through the process of admission and the child can continue education in the same class,” he adds.However, the reality is that “Not a single EGC card has been issued to a child till date,” Ashok says. It should be given by the school where the child is enrolled in and is migrating out for a period.“Our teacher in the zilla parishad (ZP) middle school issued no such cards to me or any of my friends,” says Swati, who misses school for months. In fact, the local ZP middle school is located three kms from the site near the sugar factory, but with no card in hand, Swati and Krishna cannot attend it.

An officer at the Directorate of Primary Education in Pune however insists, “The scheme is actively run. School authorities do give cards to migrating students.” But when asked to share data on the total number of children who had received the cards till date he said, “It is an ongoing survey; we are gathering data on EGC and it is currently being compiled.”

“I hate being here,” says Arjun Rajput. The 14-year-old lives with his family who work at a two-acre brick kiln in Jadhavwadi area in Kolhapur district.His seven-member family migrated from Wadgaon village in Aurangabad district to work in the kiln located along the Kolhapur-Bangalore highway. Bustling with activity, the kiln churns out an average of 25,000 bricks per day. Arjun’s family is among the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/slavery-in-indias-brick-kilns-the-payment-system-way-forward-in-the-fight-for-fair-wages-decent-work-and-eradication-of-slavery/">10-23 million</a> people who are employed in brick kilns in India, one of the most unsafe work environments with high temperatures and physically arduous tasks. With exploitative wages, brick kilns are often the last resort of those seeking work.Accompanying his parents, Arjun has had to skip school from November to May. “I study in Class 8 at a ZP school in my village,” Arjun says as JCB machines pass by, trailing clouds of suffocating dust.

Back in Wadgaon, Arjun’s parents, Suman and Abasaheb work as farm labourers in and around the village in Gangapur taluka. They get work for roughly 20 days in a month during the cultivation and harvesting seasons and earn around Rs. 250-300 each for a day’s labour. During these months, Arjun can attend the school in his village. Last year, his parents took uchal – an advance, to build a pucca house next to their thatched hut. “We took an advance of Rs. 1.5 lakhs and built the base of our house,” Suman says. “This year, we took another advance of one lakh rupees to build the walls.”Explaining their migration she adds, “We can’t earn a lakh [rupees] in a year by any other means. This [migrating to work in brick kilns] is the only way.” And she adds that they will likely be back next year, “to arrange money for the plaster of the house.”Two years gone in the making and another two to go – meanwhile Arjun’s education has paused. Four of Suman’s five children dropped out of school and were married before they even turned 20. Worried and unhappy about her child’s future she says, “My grandparents used to work in brick kilns; then my parents too, and now I work in brick kilns. I don’t know how to stop this cycle of migration.”Arjun is the only one who is still studying, but he says, “After six months of missing school, I don’t feel like studying when I go back home.”For six hours every day, Arjun and Anita (his maternal cousin) are at a day-care centre run by Avani, a non-governmental organisation that has set up at the site of the kiln. Avani runs day-care centres in over 20 brick kilns sites and a few sugarcane farm sites in Kolhapur and Sangli. Many of the students at Avani are Katkari, listed as Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) or Beldar, listed as a Nomadic Tribe. With close to 800 registered brick kilns, Kolhapur is a major attraction for migrants who seek work, explains Sattappa Mohite, programme co-ordinator at Avani.

“Here [at the day-care centre] I don’t read books for Class 4. We get to eat and play, though,” Anita says, smiling. About 25 migrant children between the ages of 3 and 14 spend their day at the centre. In addition to a mid-day meal, children get to play games and hear stories.When their day at the centre ends, Arjun adds hesitatingly, “we help aai-baba [in moulding bricks].”Seven-year-old Rajeshwari Naynegeli is one of the children at the centre. She adds, “I sometimes make bricks at night with my mother.” A student of Class 2 back in her village in Karnataka, little Rajeshwari is adept at the exacting task: “Aai and baba prepare the clay in the afternoon, and they make bricks at night. I follow what they do.” She fills clay into the brickmould and sets it by constantly patting it. Then either her mother or father unmolds it because it&#39;s too heavy for the young child to lift.“I don&#39;t know how many [bricks] I make, but I sleep when I am tired and aai-baba keep working,&quot; says Rajeshwari.None of the 25 children at Avani – many of whom are from within Maharashtra – possess an EGC card to continue their studies after migrating to Kolhapur. Moreover, the school closest to the kiln is five kms away. “It [the school] is so far away. Who will take us there?” Arjun demands to know.The card, in fact, assures parents and children that when the nearest school is more than a km away, “local education department, zilla parishad or municipal corporation should provide classrooms and transportation facilities for the education of migrant children.”But as Anuradha Bhosale, founder and director of NGO Avani who has been working here for 20 years points out, “These provisions are only on paper.”

From Ahmednagar district, Aarti Pawar works at the Kolhapur brick kiln. “My parents married me off in 2018,” says the 23-year-old who dropped out of school after Class 7. “I used to go to school. Now I work in brick kilns,” Aarti says.

“I didn’t study anything for two years. We don’t have a smartphone,” says Arjun referring to the period March 2020-June 2021 when education moved entirely online.“Even before the pandemic, it was difficult for me to pass since I miss school for many months. I had to repeat Class 5,” says Arjun who is now in Class 8. Like many students across Maharashtra, during the pandemic Arjun was promoted twice (Class 6 and 7) despite not attending school, as per government orders.The number of people migrating within the country is 37 per cent (450 million) of India’s total population (Census 2011), and many of them are estimated to be children. This large number makes effective policies – and their proper implementation – an urgent necessity. Ensuring that the children of migrant workers continue their education without a break is a crucial policy action recommended by an <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/road-map-for-developing-a-policy-framework-for-the-inclusion-of-internal-migrant-workers-in-india/">ILO report</a> published in 2020.“At the state or the central level, the government is not serious in implementing policies which will guarantee education for migrating children,” says Ashok Tangde. Thus lacunae is not only depriving children of migrant workers of their right to an education, but they are also compelled to live in extremely unsafe environments.A young Geetanjali Suna from Odisha’s Sunalarambha village in Bargarh district, travelled across the country to the Kolhapur brick-kiln with her parents and sister in November 2022. Amidst the clamouring machines, the 10-year-old Geetanjali plays a game of tag with other children at Avani and for a few brief moments, the sound of giggling children also fills the dusty air around the Kolhapur brick kiln.

For children of migrants, school is out

اسکول سے دور ہوتے جا رہے مہاجر مزدوروں کے بچے

వలస కూలీల పిల్లలకు చదువు ఒక కలే

பள்ளிக்கல்வி இழக்கும் புலம்பெயர்ந்தோர் குழந்தைகள்

ਪ੍ਰਵਾਸੀ ਮਜ਼ਦੂਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਬੱਚੇ, ਰਹਿਣ ਸਕੂਲਾਂ ਤੋਂ ਸੱਖਣੇ

ପ୍ରବାସୀ ଶ୍ରମିକଙ୍କ ପିଲାମାନେ ବିଦ୍ୟାଳୟ ଶିକ୍ଷାରୁ ବଞ୍ଚିତ

കുടിയേറ്റക്കാരുടെ മക്കൾക്ക്, സ്കൂൾ പുറത്താണ്

ಶಾಲೆಯಿಲ್ಲದ ವಲಸೆ ಮಕ್ಕಳು

प्रवासी मज़दूरों के बच्चों के लिए स्कूल बस एक सपना है

સ્થળાંતરિત શ્રમિકોના બાળકોના ભણતરના નામે મીંડું

प्रवासी मजूर लइका मन बर सपना बनगे पढ़ई-लिखई

प्रवास के भंवर में फंसल बा बचवन के पढ़ाई

দেশান্তরি শ্রমিকদের স্কুলছুট সন্তানেরা

প্ৰব্ৰজিত শিশুৰ বাবে দুঃসাধ্য স্কুলীয়া শিক্ষা

स्थलांतरितांची भटकंती, मुलांची शाळा गळती

Kolhapur

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“We have not had electricity in my home in Jharia for the last 4-5 months. My two siblings and I manage to study a bit with the use of a torch, but it works only for 30-45 minutes before it needs to charge again.”  Sombari Baskey is a 13-year-old girl from the Santhal Adivasi community. A Class 8 student in Bhatin Middle School, she is determined to finish school: “I want to study [get a formal education]. It&#39;s my only dream.” Jharia is a village in Jadugora block and has a population of over 1,000. The literacy rate here is 59 per cent – lower than Jharkhand&#39;s average of 66 per cent. Jharia, in Purbi Singhbum district only has a primary school, so Sombari goes to a middle school four kilometres from home. When this reporter visited Kharia Kocha, a nearby village, it was young Sombari who put her hand up volunteering to be an interpreter from the Sabar language to Hindi. She helped the reporter talk to people from the Sabar community in East Singhbhum. Apart from her mother-tongue Santhali, Sombari knows Sabar, Ho, Hindi and Bangla languages.

Speaking in Hindi, Sombari goes on to explain how she has to rush back and forth from her village Jharia to Kharia Kocha, almost a kilometre away to charge the torch.

“Our electricity was cut-off because we couldn&#39;t pay the bill in time. They [the electricity department] had sent a bill of 16,745 rupees in my grandfather, Gurai Baskey&#39;s name. How could we arrange for such a huge sum? &quot;So, our connection was cut. &quot;There are only a few houses in my village that have an electricity connection, but they get angry if we charge our torches and mobiles in their homes. So I go to the neighbouring village, Kharia Kocha, to charge the torch. I plug in the flashlight at any one of the Sabar Adivasi homes in that village and return home.

“After that I wait for either papa [father] or chacha [uncle] to return from the market so I can use their cycle. It takes 3-4 hours for the torch to get fully charged and once I get my hands on the cycle I promptly set out to bring the charged torch back. I must try and charge it every single morning, or we cannot study. My older sister Ratni studies in Class 10 and my younger brother Jitu is in Class 3. “Often, we are not able to go to Kharia Kocha. On such days we try to ration the charge left in the battery, or we make do with a candle.”

The students from Bhatin Middle School come from Bhatin and other nearby villages like Jharia. Most of the 232 students belong to tribal communities.“We provide mid-day meals and the highest number of students turn up when eggs or fruits are distributed,” said Dinesh Chandra Bhagat, the headmaster of Sombari’s school. The Jharkhand government provides uniforms free of cost to students under the Jharkhand Education Project Council. Each child from Class 1-5 is allotted Rs. 600 for buying a set of the school uniform, shoes and socks. Students in Classes 6-8 receive Rs. 400 for their clothes – Rs. 200 for a sweater and Rs. 160 for a pair of shoes and socks.

The money due in this scheme is supposed to be credited to their bank accounts through Direct Benefit Transfer (DBT). However, the headmaster said that only 60 per cent of his students have ever received this money for buying uniforms. Here in Jharia, 94.39 percent of the population belongs to Santhal, Munda, Tanti and Lohar communities; a majority, 94 per cent are Santhals.  Most people are daily wage workers, and some have a few bighas on which they practice rain-fed agriculture, growing paddy for their own homes. “My father, Diwaram Baskey, is a daily wage labourer and he usually gets work digging for underground cables. On the days he does get work, he gets paid 300-350 rupees. Our family depends on his wages. We have around seven acres of land owned by my paternal grandfather, but it is very rocky.   “My mother Malati Baskey takes care of the house and has to often go into the forest in search of firewood. In her absence, I take care of the household and often end up missing school. My mother also cooks for Bablu chacha&#39;s [father’s brother] breakfast shop. Depending on the sales, she could earn 50-60 rupees in a day. When my father does not get wage work, he helps Bablu chacha. Although not from our community, chacha is very much a part of our family.”

During Covid-19, 87 per cent of those studying in government institutions didn&#39;t have any access to smartphones, says this report on school education: <a href="https://roadscholarz.net/">Gloom in the classroom: The schooling crisis in Jharkhand</a>. Economist Jean Drèze told PARI that, “during the covid crisis, the underprivileged and Adivasi students were left helpless by the school-education system. We were dependent entirely on online education, it was unfair to the poor children.”

“The month of December had just begun, and I was worried about whether I would be able to attend the Christmas picnic arranged by our school. I really wanted to go to Jamshedpur&#39;s Dimna dam with my classmates. But we had to pay Rs. 200 for it and my family simply couldn&#39;t afford it. That&#39;s why I didn&#39;t ask my parents for the money. I was earning Rs. 100 a day for harvesting paddy in someone else&#39;s farm. This is how I painstakingly put together Rs. 200 and paid for the picnic myself. I went to the dam with my school friends, and I enjoyed myself. “Our school was shut during the corona pandemic and it only opened last year. I couldn&#39;t study properly during the lockdown, and I scored poorly in the last exams. But this time I&#39;m working hard and &#39;m hell-bent on getting good marks. “This year once my exams are over, I would have to go to Jadugora to study further, it&#39;s around 7-8 kilometres from my village. I will get enrolled in the high school over there. &quot;I want to be a police officer or a lawyer when I grow up.”

'I want to study; it's my only dream'

’میں پڑھنا چاہتی ہوں؛ یہی میرا خواب ہے‘

'నేను చదువుకోవాలి, ఇదే నాకున్న ఒకే ఒక కల'

‘கல்வி கற்பதே என் கனவு’

‘ਚੰਗੀ ਤਰ੍ਹਾਂ ਪੜ੍ਹਾਈ ਕਰ ਪਾਉਣਾ ਹੀ ਮੇਰਾ ਸੁਪਨਾ ਹੈ’

‘ମୁଁ ଭଲ ପାଠ ପଢ଼ିବାକୁ ଚାହୁଁଛି, ଏହା ହିଁ ମୋର ସ୍ୱପ୍ନ’

'एकच स्वप्न आहे माझं... भरपूर शिकायचं!'

‘എനിക്ക് നന്നായി പഠിക്കണം, ഒരേയൊരു സ്വപ്നം അതുമാത്രമാണ്’

ʼನಾನು ಚೆನ್ನಾಗಿ ಓದಬೇಕು, ನನಗಿರುವುದು ಅದೊಂದೇ ಕನಸುʼ

‘ભણીગણીને આગળ વધવાનું મારું સપનું છે’

‘मंय पढ़े ला चाहत हवंव, इही मोर सपना आय’

‘पढ़ाई छोड़ब नाही, स्कूल छोड़ब नाही’

‘আমি লেখাপড়া করতে চাই, এটাই আমার স্বপ্ন’

‘পঢ়াটোৱে মোৰ একমাত্ৰ সপোন’

‘मैं अच्छे से पढ़ना चाहती हूं, यही मेरा सपना है’

Jaduguda

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After the break, a long path to relearning

دو سال تک اسکول سے دور رہنا، بچوں پر پڑا بھاری

సుదీర్ఘ విరామం తర్వాత మళ్లీ ప్రతిదీ మొదటినుంచీ నేర్చుకోవడం ఒక సవాలు

மறு கற்றலுக்கான நீண்ட பாதை

ਤਾਲਾਬੰਦੀ ਤੋਂ ਬਾਅਦ, ਮੁੜ ਸਿੱਖਣ ਦਾ ਇੱਕ ਲੰਬੇਰਾ ਪੈਂਡਾ ਸ਼ੁਰੂ

ଦୀର୍ଘ ବ୍ୟବଧାନ ପରେ, ପୁଣି ପାଠ ବୁଝିବାରେ ସମସ୍ୟା

ഇടവേളയ്ക്ക് ശേഷം, പുനർപഠനത്തിലേക്കുള്ള നീണ്ട പാത

ವಿರಾಮದ ನಂತರ ಮೊದಲಿನಿಂದಲೇ ಕಲಿಯುವ ಸವಾಲು

लंबे अंतराल के बाद सबकुछ दोबारा सीखने की मुश्किल राह पर

વિરામ પછી ફરીથી શીખવા માટેનો લાંબો રસ્તો

छुट्टी के बाद फिर ले सीखे के लंबा रद्दा

लॉकडाउन के बाद फेरु से सभ सीखे के मुस्किल राह

অতিমারি পেরিয়ে শিক্ষার কঠিন পথে বৌদ্ধিক প্রতিবন্ধী শিশুরা

দীৰ্ঘবিৰতিৰ পিছত পুনৰ-শিকনৰ দীঘলীয়া বাট

Karmala, Solapur, Maharashtra, India

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Chandrika Behera is nine years old and has been out of school for almost two years. She is among 19 students of Barabanki village who should be in Class 1 to 5, but these children have not attended school regularly since 2020. Her mother just won’t send her, she says.Barabanki got its own school in 2007, but it was closed down in 2020 by the Odisha government. Primary school children, mostly Santhal and Munda Adivasis from the village like Chandrika, were asked to enrol in the school in Jamupasi village about 3.5 kilometres away.  “Kids cannot walk that much daily. And they’re all getting into fights with one another on the long walk,” points out Mami Behera, Chandrika’s mother. “We are poor labourers. Are we to go find work or accompany children to and from school every day? The authorities should just re-open our own school,” she adds.  Until then, she shrugs helplessly, the 6 to 10-year-olds like her youngest child, just have to go without an education. In her 30s, the mother also fears that there may be child kidnappers in the forest here in Danagadi block of Jajpur district.  For her son, Jogi, Mami did manage to arrange a used bicycle. Jogi is studying in Class 9 at another school 6 km away. Her older daughter, Moni is in Class 7 and must walk to the school in Jamupasi. The youngest Chandrika, has to stay home. “Our generation has walked and climbed and worked till our bodies gave way. Should we expect the same for our children too?” Mami asks.

The 87 households in Barabanki are predominantly Adivasis. Some till small parcels of land, but most are daily wage labourers going as far as Sukinda, 5 km away, to work at a steel plant or cement factory. A few men have migrated to Tamil Nadu, to work at a spinning mill or in a beer can packaging unit.In Barabanki, the school closure also threw up a doubt about the availability of school mid-day meals – an essential part of family meal planning for the very poor. Kishore Behera says, “For at least seven months, I did not get either the cash or the rice that was promised as an alternative to the hot cooked school meal.” Some families received money in their accounts in lieu of the meal; at times they were told there would be a distribution in the premises of the new school – 3.5 km away.

Puranamantira is a neighbouring village in the same block. It’s the first week of April 2022. At noon, there is a flurry of activity on the narrow road leading out of the village. The back road is suddenly full of women and men, the odd grandmother and a couple of older teenage boys on bicycles. Nobody speaks as every last hint of energy conserved; gamchas (a towel-like scarf) and saree-ends are pulled low over foreheads against the midday sun, a searing 42 degrees Celsius. Ignoring the heat, Puranamantira’s residents are out walking 1.5 km to collect their little boys and girls from school. Deepak Malik is a resident of Puranamantira and a contract worker at a cement plant in Sukinda – Sukinda valley is known for its vast chromite reserves. Like him, others in the scheduled caste-dominated village are acutely aware that a decent education is the children’s ticket to better prospects. “Most of our village has to work if they want to eat that night,” he says. “That is why the construction of a school building in 2013-2014 was such a huge occasion for all of us.” Since the pandemic in 2020, Puranamantira has not had a primary school for the 14 children who should be in Class 1-5, says Sujata Rani Samal, a resident in the village of 25 households. Instead, the young, primary schoolers have had to trudge the 1.5 km distance to Chakua, a neighbouring village located across a busy railway line.

To avoid the railway line one can use the motorable road with an overbridge, but the distance increases to 5 km. A shorter road snakes past the old school and a couple of temples at the edge of the village before ending at the railway embankment leading up to the Brahmani railway station. A goods train screams past. Every ten minutes, goods and passenger trains cross Brahmani, on the Howrah–Chennai main line of the Indian Railways. And so, no family in Puranamantira allows their child to walk to school unaccompanied by an adult. The tracks are still vibrating as everyone scurries across before the next train comes along. Some children slide-jump-skip down the embankment; the smallest ones are hastily hoisted up and down the embankment. Stragglers are hurried along. It’s a 25-minute-hike for grubby feet, calloused feet, sunburnt feet, bare feet, too-tired-to-walk-any-longer-feet.

The primary schools in Barabanki and Puranamantira are among nearly 9,000 schools closed in Odisha — the official term is ‘consolidated’ or ‘merged’ with a neighbouring village’s school — through a Union government programme called ‘Sustainable Action for Transforming Human Capital (SATH)’ in the education and health sectors. SATH-E was launched in November 2017, to ‘reform’ school education in three states—Odisha, Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh. The aim was to make “the entire governmental school education system responsive, aspirational and transformational for every child”, according to a 2018 Press Information Bureau <a href="https://pib.gov.in/Pressreleaseshare.aspx?PRID=1525111">release</a>.  The ‘transformation’ in Barabanki, where a village school was closed, is a little different. The village had one diploma holder, a few who completed their Class 12, and several who failed matriculation. “Now we may not have even that,” says Kishore Behera, chairperson of the now non-existent school’s management committee.

The ‘consolidation’ of primary schools with a selected school in a neighbouring village is a euphemism for closing down schools with a very small number of students. The then CEO of Niti Aayog, Amitabh Kant described the consolidation (or school closures) as one among &quot;bold and pathbreaking reforms&quot; in a November 2021 <a href="https://www.niti.gov.in/sites/default/files/2021-11/BCG_SATHE_DIGITAL_13112021_0.pdf">report</a> on SATH-E.That’s not how young Siddharth Malik of Puranamantira would describe the pain in his legs from walking long distances daily to his new school in Chakua. He has ended up missing school on many occasions, says his father, Deepak.Of the nearly 1.1 million government schools in India, approximately 4 lakh have fewer than 50 students, and 1.1 lakh have fewer than 20 students. The SATH-E report referred to these as “sub-scale schools” and listed their deficiencies: teachers with no subject-specific expertise, a lack of dedicated principals, and no playgrounds, boundary walls and libraries. But parents in Puranamantira point out that the additional amenities could have been built in their own school.  Nobody is certain if the school in Chakua has a library; it does have a boundary wall that was absent in their old school. In Odisha, the third phase of the SATH-E project is currently underway. A total of 15,000 schools are identified for “consolidation” in this phase.

Jhilli Dehuri is struggling to push her cycle uphill, as she nears home. In her village in Barabanki, an orange tarpaulin sheet is spread in the shade of a big mango tree. Parents have gathered here to discuss the schooling problem. Jhilli arrives exhausted.Barabanki&#39;s upper primary and older students (from ages 11 to 16) attend school in Jamupasi, 3.5 km away. They find both walking and cycling in the noon sun exhausting, says Kishore Behera. His brother’s daughter, who started Class 5 in 2022 after the pandemic and was still unfamiliar with the long walk, fainted while walking home the previous week. Strangers from Jamupasi had to bring her home on a motorbike. “Our kids don’t have mobile phones,” Kishore says, “nor is there any practice in schools of keeping parents’ phone numbers handy for emergencies.” Across Sukinda and Danagadi blocks in Jajpur district, scores of parents in remote villages spoke about the dangers of travelling long distances to school: it’s a walk through a dense forest or along a busy highway, or across a railway line, down a steep hill, across trails flooded by monsoon streams, on village tracks where feral wild dogs prowl, through fields known to be visited by herds of elephants.  The SATH-E <a href="https://www.niti.gov.in/sites/default/files/2021-11/BCG_SATHE_DIGITAL_13112021_0.pdf">report</a> says that Geographic Information System (GIS) data was used to identify the prospective new schools’ distance from those listed for closure. However, the neat mathematical calculations of GIS-based distances do not reflect these ground realities.

Mothers have worries beyond the train and the distance, says Geeta Malik, a former panchayat ward member from Puranamantira. “The weather has been unpredictable in recent years. In the monsoon, it’s sometimes sunny in the morning and by the time school closes, there is a storm. How do you send a child to another village in these circumstances?”Geeta has two boys, one aged 11 and in Class 6, and a six-year-old who has just started school. Her family have been bhagachashis (sharecroppers) and she would like her boys to fare better, hopefully earn well and buy their own plot of agricultural land.  Every one of the parents gathered under the mango tree conceded that when their village primary school closed, their children had either stopped attending school altogether or had become irregular. Some had skipped up to 15 days a month. In Puranamantira, when the school closed, the anganwadi center for children younger than 6 years was also shifted out of the school complex and is now about 3 km away.

The village school for many, is a symbol of progress; a totem of possibilities and fulfilled aspirations.Madhav Malik, is a daily-wage labourer who studied till Class 6. He says the arrival of a school in Puranamantira village in 2014 seemed to announce better years for his sons, Manoj and Debashish, “We took great care of our school, because it was a symbol of our hope.”  The classrooms of the now-closed government primary school here are spotlessly clean. The walls are painted white and blue and filled with charts displaying the Odia alphabet, numerals and pictures. A blackboard is painted on one wall. With classes suspended, villagers decided that the school is the most sacred space available for community prayers; one classroom is now converted into a room to gather for kirtans (devotional songs). Brassware is arranged against a wall beside a framed picture of a deity.

Besides taking care of the school, Puranamantira’s residents are committed to ensuring that their children continue to get a proper education. They have organised tuition classes for every student in the village, conducted by a teacher who cycles in from another village 2 km away. Deepak says, often on rainy days, he or another resident fetches the tutor on a motorbike to ensure tuition classes are not skipped because the main road is flooded. The tuition sessions are held in their old school, each family paying the tutor Rs. 250 to Rs. 400 per month. “Almost all the learning happens here, in the tuition class,” says Deepak.  Outside, in the sparse shade of a palash tree in full, fiery bloom, residents continue to discuss what the school closure signifies. Access to Puranamantira is challenging when the Brahmani floods in the monsoon. Residents have experienced medical emergencies when ambulances are unable to come, and days without electricity supply.  “The closing of the school seems to be a sign that we’re slipping back, that things will get worse,” says Madhav.  Global consulting firm Boston Consulting Group (BCG), the union government’s partner in the SATH-E project, has called it a “<a href="https://www.bcg.com/systemic-transformation-education">marquee education transformation program</a>” that shows improved learning outcomes.  But in village after village in these two blocks of Jajpur and elsewhere in Odisha, parents say that access to education itself has become a challenge due to school closures.

Gunduchipasi village got a school as far back as 1954. Located in Sukinda block, this village in the Kharadi hill forest area is occupied entirely by members of the Sabar community, also known as Shabar or Savar and listed as a Scheduled Tribe in the state. Thirty-two of their children were attending the local village government primary school before it was shut down. Once schools reopened, children were required to walk to the neighbouring village of Kharadi. It’s a mere kilometre away if one walks through the forest. Alternatively, there is the busy main road, a dangerous route for small children. While attendance has dropped, parents admit it’s a trade-off between safety and the mid-day meal.  Om Dehuri, in Class 2, and Surjaprakash Naik, in Class 1, say they walk to school together. They carry water in plastic bottles but no snack or any money for it. Rani Barik, in Class 3, says she takes an hour but that’s mostly because she’s dawdling and waiting for friends to catch up.  Rani’s grandmother Bakoti Barik says she cannot understand how it made any sense to close their school of six decades and send children through a forest to a neighbouring village. “There are dogs and snakes, sometimes a bear – will a parent in your city believe this is a safe way to go to school?” she asks. Class 7 and 8 kids are now in charge of getting the younger lot there and back. Subhashree Behera, in Class 7 has a tough time controlling her two younger cousins Bhumika and Om Dehuri. “They don’t always listen to us. If they run off, it’s not easy to follow each one,” she says. Mamina Pradhan’s kids – Rajesh in Class 7, and Lija in Class 5 – walk to the new school. “The kids walk about an hour, but what choice do we have?” says this daily-wage labourer seated in her home made of bricks and straw with a thatched roof. She and her husband Mahanto work on other people’s land in the farming season and look for non-agricultural work in the off-season.

Parents say the quality of education in their Gunduchipasi school was much better. “Here our children got personal attention from the teachers. [In the new school], our children are made to sit at the back of the classrooms,” says Golakchandra Pradhan, 68, a village leader.In nearby Santarapur village, also in Sukinda block, the primary school closed in 2019. Children now walk 1.5 km to the school in Jamupasi. Eleven-year-old Sachin Malik fell into a lake while trying to avoid a wild dog chasing him. “It happened in late 2021,” says Sachin’s older brother Sourav, 21, a worker in a steel plant in Duburi, 10 km away. He adds, “Two older boys saved him from drowning, but everyone was so frightened that day that the next day several kids from the village didn’t go to school.”  The feral dogs on the Santarapur-Jamupasi route have attacked adults too, says Labonya Malik, a widow who works as a helper to the mid-day meal cook at the Jamupasi school. “It’s a pack of 15-20 dogs. I once fell on my face when they chased me, eventually jumping over me. One bit my leg,” she says.  In the 93 households of Santarapur, the residents are mainly from scheduled caste and other backward class families. There were 28 children attending the village primary school when it closed. Only 8-10 attend school regularly now. Ganga Malik of Santarapur, in Class 6 in Jamupasi, stopped going to school after falling into the seasonal lake at the edge of the forest path. Her father, Sushant Malik, a daily-wage labourer, recalls the incident: “She was washing her face at the lake when she slipped in. She was almost drowning by the time she was rescued. After that she began to skip school a lot.”  In fact, Ganga couldn’t muster the courage to attend school for her final exams, but says, “I was promoted anyway.”  The reporter would like to thank the staff of Aspire-India for their assistance.

It's a long way to school in Jajpur

تعلیمی اصلاح کے نام پر اسکول سے دور ہوتے بچے

జాజ్‌పూర్‌లోని బడికి వెళ్ళాలంటే చాలా దూరం...

ஜஜ்பூரிலிருந்து பள்ளிக்கூடத்துக்கு நீண்ட தூரம்

ਜਾਜਪੁਰ ਦਾ ਸਕੂਲ ਹਾਲੇ ਹੋਰ ਦੂਰ ਹੈ

जाजपूरच्या शाळेची बिकट वाट

ജാജ്പൂരിലെ സ്കൂളിലേയ്ക്കുള്ള നീണ്ട വഴികൾ

ಜೈಪುರ್: ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಶಾಲೆಯ ದಾರಿ ದೂರ

बच्चों की पहुंच से दूर जाजपुर के स्कूल

જાજપુરમાં નિશાળની લાંબી રાહ

जाजपुर मं इस्कूल के लंबा रद्दा, छूटत पढ़ई

जाजपुर: स्कूल दूर भइल, पढ़ाई छूट गइल

ইস্কুলের পথ বহুদূর ওড়িশার জাজপুরে

জাজপুৰত স্কুললৈ বহুদূৰ বাট

ଯାଜପୁରରେ ସ୍କୁଲ ଯିବା ଲାଗି ଲମ୍ବା ରାସ୍ତା

Jajpur

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It’s 6 a.m. and Saranya Balaraman is already leaving her home in Gummidipoondi. At the railway station in this small town in Thiruvallur district near Chennai, she boards a local train with her three children. Nearly two hours later she reaches Chennai Central station, 40 kilometres away. From here, the mother and her children travel another 10 to 12 kms by local train to reach school.In the evening at 4 p.m., the journey happens in reverse, and it is 7 p.m. by the time they are back home. The journey of more than 100 kms from home to school and back is done five times a week. It’s a feat for Saranya, as she explains: “Earlier [before she was married], I wouldn’t know where to board a bus or train. Or even, where to get down.”

Saranya’s trials are for her three children who were all born with visual impairment. The first time they set off, she says, a maami (older woman) came along with her to show her the route. “The next day, when I asked her to come again with me, she said she had work to do. I cried. I struggled to travel,” she says, recalling the journey with her children. She was determined that her three children receive a formal education, but there were no schools for the visually challenged close to home. “There is a big school [private] near our house. I went to the school and asked them if they could take my children. They told me that if they take them, other children might poke their eyes with a pencil or a sharp object, and they could not be held responsible for that,” she recalled. Saranya took the advice of the teachers, and went in search of a school for the visually challenged. There is only one government-run school for the visually impaired children in Chennai. It is located in Poonamallee (also spelt Poonamalle), 40 kms away from her house. Her neighbours suggested that she should instead enrol her children in private schools in the city; she decided to pay them a visit.

“I didn’t know where to go,” she says, remembering those days. The young woman who had “spent a lot of time at home before marriage,” was now out hunting for schools. “Even after marriage, I didn’t know how to travel alone,” she adds.In Adyar, an area in south Chennai, Saranya found the St. Louis Institute for Deaf and the Blind; she enrolled both her sons here. Later, she would put her daughter at the Little Flower Convent Higher Secondary School on G. N. Chetty Road close by. Today, the eldest boy, M. Meshak, is in Class 8, the second child, M. Manase, is studying in Class 6 and the youngest, M. Lebana, in Class 3. But keeping them in school has meant long train journeys that are tiring, stressful and often traumatic. The older boy suffers seizures quite frequently enroute at the Chennai Central station. “I don’t know what would happen to him… he would start getting fits. I would hold him on my lap so no one sees him. After some time, I would carry him,” she says. Residential schooling for her children was not an option. Her elder son needs close monitoring. “He gets fits [epileptic seizures] three to four times a day,” she says and adds, “My second child [Manase] won’t eat if I am not there.&quot;

Saranya was married to Muthu, her uncle, before she turned 17. Consanguineous marriages are quite common in the Reddi community, listed as a Backward Class (BC) in Tamil Nadu. “My father didn’t want to break the family bond, so he married me off to my maama [maternal uncle],&quot; she says. &quot;I lived in a joint family. I had four thai maaman [maternal uncles], my husband was the youngest.&quot;By the time she was 25, Saranya was the mother of three children born with visual impairment. “Till I gave birth to my first son I didn’t know children could be born that way [without eyesight],” she says. “I was 17 when he was born. His eyes looked like that of a doll. I had only seen older people like that.” She was 21 when she had her second son. “I thought at least the second child would be normal, but in five months I realised even this child had no eyesight,” says Saranya. When the second child was two years old, Saranya’s husband met with an accident and slipped into a coma. When he recovered, her father helped him set up a small mechanic shop for trucks. Two years after his accident, Saranya gave birth to a daughter. “We thought she might be healthy…,” she says and trails off adding, “People told me the reason all the three children were born this way is because I married a blood relation. I wish I had known this earlier.”

She spends up to Rs. 1,500 a month on her eldest son&#39;s medical expenses to treat his epileptic seizures. Then there is an annual school fee of Rs. 8,000 for both the boys; her daughter’s school doesn’t charge a fee. “My husband was taking care of us,” she says. “He used to earn 500 or 600 rupees a day.”When her husband died of a heart attack in 2021, Saranya moved to her parent’s house in the same locality. “Now, my parents are my only support,” she says. “I have to do this [parenting] all alone. I have forgotten to laugh.”Saranya’s father works in a powerloom factory and earns Rs. 15,000 a month when he is able to work through the month. Her mother gets a pension of Rs. 1,000 every month given to physically disabled persons. “My father is getting old. He cannot go to work all 30 days and so cannot meet our expenses,” she says. “I have to be with the children all the time, I am unable to get a job,” says Saranya. A stable government job would help, and she has submitted petitions but nothing has moved. Saranya battles suicidal thoughts as she struggles every day to deal with her problems. “It is my daughter who has kept me alive,” she says. “She would tell me, ‘our father has left us. At least we should live for some years and then go’.”

Saranya’s search for a silver lining

اپنے نابینا بچوں کی تعلیم کیلئے سرنّیا کی جدوجہد

ఒక ఆశాకిరణం కోసం శరణ్య అన్వేషణ

ਆਪਣੇ ਬਲ਼ਦੇ ਦਿਲ ਨਾਲ਼ ਬੱਚਿਆਂ ਦਾ ਰਾਹ ਰੁਸ਼ਨਾਉਂਦੀ ਇੱਕ ਮਾਂ

ଏକ ଆଶାର କିରଣ ଲାଗି ସରନ୍ୟାଙ୍କର ସନ୍ଧାନ

दुःखाच्या सावटात आशेचा किरण शोधणाऱ्या शरण्या

ഒരു അമ്മയുടെ അന്വേഷണങ്ങൾ

ಬದುಕಿನ ಆಕಾಶದಲ್ಲಿ ಬೆಳ್ಳಿ ಗೆರೆಯ ಹುಡುಕುತ್ತಿರುವ ಸರಣ್ಯ

उम्मीद की एक किरण की तलाश में भटकतीं सरन्या

રૂપેરી આશાની શોધમાં સરન્યા

आस के उजियार ला खोजत सरन्या

अन्हार में उम्मीद के किरिण ढूंढ़त एगो माई

রুপোলি রেখার খোঁজে শরণ্যা

তিনি দৃষ্টিহীন সন্তানক লৈ সৰন্যাৰ সপোন

நம்பிக்கைக்கான சரண்யாவின் தேடல்

Boodur

01-IMG_20211129_110348-SK-This_is_our_favourite_game.jpg

‘This is our favourite game’

’یہ ہمارا پسندیدہ کھیل ہے‘

‘ఇది మాకెంతో ఇష్టమైన ఆట’

’இது எங்களுக்கு பிடித்த விளையாட்டு’

'ਇਹ ਸਾਡੀ ਮਨਭਾਉਂਦੀ ਖੇਡ ਆ'

‘ଏହା ଆମର ପ୍ରିୟ ଖେଳ’

‘हा आमचा आवडता खेळ आहे’

‘ഇത് ഞങ്ങളുടെ ഇഷ്ടവിനോദം‘

ʼಇದು ನಮ್ಮ ಇಷ್ಟದ ಆಟʼ

‘यह हमारा पसंदीदा खेल है’

‘આ અમારી મનપસંદ રમત છે’

'ये हमर मनपसन्द खेल आय'

‘এয়া আমাৰ প্ৰিয় খেল’

‘এইটা আমাদের সবচেয়ে প্রিয় খেলা’

Murshidabad

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Paaru was only seven years old when her father sent her away in 2019 from their home in Nashik district, Maharashtra, to work as a sheep grazer.Three years later, in late August 2022, her parents found her outside their hut. She was left there unconscious, and wrapped in a blanket. There were strangulation marks on her neck. &quot;She did not utter a word until her last breath. We tried asking her what had happened, but she could not speak,&quot; said Paaru&#39;s mother, Savitabai, wiping her tears. “We thought someone had done black magic on her. So we took her to a temple on Mora hills nearby [off the Mumbai-Nashik highway]. The priest applied angara [holy ash]. We waited to see if she would gain consciousness, but she didn’t,” Savitabai remembered. Five days after she was found, on September 2, 2022, Paaru died from her injuries at the Civil Hospital in Nashik city. Paaru had visited her family only once in the three years that she was away. She was brought home a year and a half ago by the same middleman who had taken her away to work. &quot;She lived with us for seven to eight days. After the eighth day, he came and took her away again,” Savitabai said in the police complaint she 
filed against the middleman the day after Paaru was found unconscious.

Paaru&#39;s brother, Mohan was also sent away when he was seven. His father had taken Rs. 3,000 for him too. About 10 years old now, Mohan narrated his experience working with the shepherd who employed him. “I used to take sheep and goats to graze from one village to another. He had 50-60 sheep, 5-6 goats and other animals.” he said. Once a year, the shepherd would buy Mohan a shirt, a full pant, a half 
pant, a handkerchief and footwear – and that was all. Sometimes, the 
young boy would be given 5 or 10 rupees to buy something to eat. “If I didn’t work, the sheth [the sheep owner] used to beat me. I asked him to send me home many times. He used to say ‘I will call your papa,’  but he never called.” Like his sister, Mohan visited his family only once in three years. “His sheth brought him to our house and took him back the next day,” mother Savitabai said. When she saw him next, the child had forgotten their language. “He didn’t recognise us.”

“No one in my family had any work, and there was nothing to eat. So we sent the children away,” explained Reemabai, who lives in the same Katkari hamlet. Reemabai&#39;s two sons were also taken to help graze sheep. “We thought they would work and get full meals.” A middleman picked up the children from Reemabai&#39;s home and placed them with shepherds in Parner block of Ahmadnagar district. Money changed hands on both sides – the middleman paid the parents to take away the children and the shepherds paid the middleman for bringing them these workers. In some instances, a sheep or goat would be promised too. Reemabai&#39;s boys remained in Parner for the next three years. Besides grazing the sheep and feeding them, they fetched water from the well, washed clothes and cleaned the shed. They were allowed to go home only once. The younger son, Eknath, said that he was beaten up if he wasn’t awake and working by 5 a.m. “The sheth used to beat me on my back and feet, and use unkind words. He kept us hungry. If the sheep we were grazing entered a field both the farmer and the [sheep] owner used to beat us up. We had to work until late night,” he told PARI. Even when a dog bit him on his left hand and leg, Eknath said he received no medical treatment and had to keep grazing animals.Both Reemabai&#39;s and Savitabai&#39;s families belong to the Katkari Adivasi 
community, a Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group in Maharashtra. They own no land and 
rely on labour work for income, migrating in search of work – which they
 usually find in brick kilns and on construction sites. Not earning enough to feed 
their family, many send their children to shepherds of the semi-nomadic Dhangar community, to work as sheep grazers.