हाफ गर्लफ्रेंड

sarpanch wore a greyish-white turban, matching his clothes. 'I thought they joined school. We sent eight children," he said. They stopped coming after a week.' 'So what can I do. Rajkumar sahib? 1 tried.' 'You have to tell them to commit to it. School isn't like visiting the village fair. It takes years to get educated.' 'And what do they do with it?" "Excuse me? It's almost free. Where is the problem?' Gopi paused to look at me. He took out a beedi from his pajama pocket and lit it. "Time. Their parents would rather the children help in the fields. And what will they do when they grow up?" "They will grow up only if they have food. They need to work in the fields for that.' I fell silent. You can't win over villagers with an argument. You have to listen to what they have to say. The sarpanch took a deep puff from his beedi. "You studied in a big city?" he said. "Yes. Why?" 'Big-city types never get it. Without knowing us they have all the answers for us.' 'I am from here. You know that, Sarpanch ji. I know, Rajkumar ji. But what do these poor farmer's kids do with the A-B--C and 1-2-3 you teach them?' 'What do you mean? A farmer sends his small child to

school. Sounds great. But what does the school give him?" "Education. What is he without education?' 'What will he do if, say, you make him an eighth-class-pass from Dumraon? Will he get a better job? More money? Nothing. It's a useless qualification. Here, he at least helps at home." 'What is his future?" I said, confused about how to convince someone about something as basic as schooling. He has no future. Like his father, he will also work in the fields and try to survive. Schools are for rich people.' I hung my head. 'Don't make the poor dream of having a future. Rajkumar ji.The schools you have don't help us get ahead in life. So we don't send our kids there. It's as simple as that. We are not village idiots who don't know better." I nodded. On the one hand I had to increase enrolments and, on the other hand. I couldn't fault his logic. Anything I can do to help you?" I asked as I stood up to leave. His own little grandkid lurked behind him, watching me with curiosity. Help us get water. Kids in the village walk two kilometres for it every day. If that ends, we will send them to school. Every politician's office always has people waiting outside. On a per-capita basis, netas meet more people than anyone in any other profession on earth. MLA Qiha's home-cum-office was packed. Groups of villagers sat outside on the veranda, each with a set of complaints or demands. Pankaj, the MLA's secretary, offered to push me ahead in the queue. I declined. I had little interest in my entitlements as a fake prince. The villagers waited silently. There is something about people with no hope for a better future in life. You can identify them from their expression. Most of all, it is in their eyes, which don't sparkle anymore. They aren't sad eyes. They are resigned eyes. The villagers had accepted that life would be what happened to them, not what they made of it. After all, this was rural Bihar. You can't decide one day to work hard and make it big in life. Nobody will let you. You have ramshackle schools that teach you how to read and write. but not help you make it in life. Even if you did educate yourself, you would find no jobs. What is the point of dreaming big? It is better to sit, wait and retire from life. 'What have you come here for?" I asked one of the village elders. 'Power. We get it one hour a day in our village, Bastipur. Not enough to pump water. We want to ask for two more hours.' That's it. The man wanted three hours of power in twenty-four hours. And even for that he had to wait to meet his leaders with folded hands. There must be millions of Indians like this, I thought. A lot more than those who attend sushi parties on Aurangzeb Road, for instance. I waved a bunch of flies away. Pankaj came up to me. 'Come, Ojha sir doesn't like it that you're waiting outside, Pankaj said, 'I'm fine, really,' I said. Ojha came out of his office. You're sitting on the floor?' he said, surprised. 'Like everyone else,' I said. He looked around. 'Enough now, just come in. Madhavji. "he said. We sat in the MLA's living room. His wife brought me orange juice, 'You should have just walked in,' he said, 'I didn't want the villagers to think you give me preferential treatment.' I said. Now the villagers will say that I made the prince of Dumraon sit on the floor. Trust me, they care more about class than fairness. Anyway, what brings you here?' 'I need help for my school. And some hand pumps for the nearby villages. Your school I can understand. Ojha said as he raised his eyebrows just a little. 'but hand. pumps for villages?*