जनजातीय गौरव दिवस: भारत की संस्कृति, स्वतंत्रता और भविष्य में जनजातीय योगदान

10 नवंबर, 2021 को केंद्रीय मंत्रिमंडल ने भगवान बिरसा मुंडा की जयंती, 15 नवंबर को ‘जनजातीय गौरव दिवस’ के रूप में मनाने का निर्णय लिया। इस फैसले के साथ देश ने जनजातीय स्वतंत्रता सेनानियों का सम्मान करने और आने वाली पीढ़ियों को उनके बलिदानों से परिचित कराने की जिम्मेदारी स्वीकार की। इस दिवस का महत्व केवल समारोह मनाने तक सीमित नहीं है। यह उन समुदायों के योगदान को समझने का अवसर भी है, जिनके साहस, ज्ञान और सांस्कृतिक रचनात्मकता ने भारत की सभ्यता को बनाए रखने और समृद्ध करने में महत्वपूर्ण भूमिका निभाई है।

इन योगदानों को समझने के लिए भारतीय इतिहास को व्यापक रूप से देखना जरूरी है। जनजातीय समुदायों ने शासकों, किसानों, योद्धाओं, कारीगरों, भक्तों और प्रकृति से जुड़े ज्ञान के रखवालों के रूप में भारतीय समाज को आकार दिया है। बाकी समाज के साथ उनके संबंध आपसी लेन-देन और सहयोग से विकसित हुए हैं। इसलिए उनके ऐतिहासिक योगदान के प्रति आभार व्यक्त करने के साथ हमें अपने मामलों में निर्णय लेने की उनकी स्वतंत्रता, संवैधानिक अधिकारों और आज की आकांक्षाओं का भी सम्मान करना चाहिए।

नगर, गाँव और जंगल का आपसी संबंध

भारत की सभ्यता के विकास को समझने का एक उपयोगी तरीका नगर, ग्राम और अरण्य, यानी शहरों, गाँवों और जंगलों के बीच संबंधों को समझना है। रोजी-रोटी, ज्ञान और अधिकारों के मामले में ये एक-दूसरे से जुड़े थे। अलग-अलग क्षेत्रों और समय में इनके बीच की सीमाएँ बदलती रहीं। जंगलों में रहने वाले समुदाय खेती भी करते थे और उन्होंने राज्य भी स्थापित किए। वहीं, गाँव और शहर जंगलों से मिलने वाले संसाधनों, वहाँ के लोगों के हुनर और उन्हें जोड़ने वाले रास्तों पर निर्भर थे।

शहरों के बाजार, गाँवों की खेती और जंगलों की उपज ने इन्हें एक-दूसरे पर निर्भर बनाया। इन संबंधों का सांस्कृतिक महत्व भी था। तीर्थयात्राओं, त्योहारों, राजनीतिक गठबंधनों और धार्मिक कथाओं ने अलग-अलग समुदायों को जोड़ा। जनजातियों, घुमंतू समुदायों और स्थायी रूप से बसे लोगों के बारे में एनसीईआरटी का विवरण इसी बदलते समाज में गोंड राज्यों के उदय की चर्चा करता है। इसी तरह, रामनगर के गोंड स्मारकों के बारे में भारत के आधिकारिक दस्तावेज में खेती, व्यापार, चिकित्सा और राज्य स्थापित करने में गोंड समुदाय की भागीदारी दर्ज है।

भारत की धार्मिक और सांस्कृतिक सोच में भी जंगलों का महत्वपूर्ण स्थान है। रामायण में निषादराज गुह, श्रीराम के प्रिय मित्र हैं। श्रीराम और शबरी की भेंट एक वनवासी भक्त को रामायण की आध्यात्मिक परंपरा में महत्वपूर्ण स्थान देती है। ये कथाएँ अलग-अलग सामाजिक समूहों के बीच मित्रता, अतिथि-सत्कार और भक्ति के संबंधों को दर्शाती हैं। हालाँकि, प्राचीन समुदायों के नामों और आज संविधान के तहत किए गए वर्गीकरणों को एक ही मानकर नहीं देखना चाहिए।

महाभारत में भी एक महत्वपूर्ण उदाहरण मिलता है। भगवान शिव किरात शिकारी का रूप लेकर अर्जुन की परीक्षा लेते हैं और फिर उन्हें पाशुपतास्त्र देते हैं। इस कथा में जंगल ईश्वरीय शक्ति और ज्ञान प्राप्त करने का स्थान बन जाता है। इन कथाओं को साथ पढ़ने पर यह धारणा सही नहीं ठहरती कि ज्ञान केवल शहरों से जंगलों तक पहुँचा। ये बताती हैं कि जीवन के अलग-अलग तरीकों के बीच मेल-जोल से भी भारत की सांस्कृतिक सोच विकसित हुई। इन संबंधों को स्वीकार करने का अर्थ यह नहीं है कि अतीत में सब कुछ शांतिपूर्ण और बराबरी पर आधारित था। संबंधों में दबाव और ऊँच-नीच भी रही होगी। फिर भी, जनजातीय समुदायों और बाकी भारत को हमेशा अलग-अलग मानकर इतिहास को नहीं समझा जा सकता।

मध्यकाल में सहयोग, शासन और संस्कृति

मध्यकाल और उसके बाद के शुरुआती आधुनिक काल में भी इस जुड़ाव के कई उदाहरण मिलते हैं। मुगल सत्ता के विस्तार के विरुद्ध महाराणा प्रताप के संघर्ष में भीलों ने उनका साथ दिया। युद्ध में उनकी भागीदारी और कठिन रास्तों की जानकारी ने मेवाड़ के संघर्ष को जारी रखने में मदद की। राणा पूंजा और उनके साथी भीलों को इस इतिहास में सम्मान के साथ याद किया जाता है। उनका योगदान बताता है कि किसी राज्य की स्वतंत्रता की रक्षा में अलग-अलग समुदायों का सहयोग कितना महत्वपूर्ण था।

सह्याद्रि की पहाड़ियों में स्थानीय समुदायों ने भी स्थापित साम्राज्यवादी सत्ता के विरुद्ध संघर्ष में भाग लिया। महाराष्ट्र गजेटियर में दर्ज है कि कोली सरदारों ने छत्रपति शिवाजी महाराज की शुरुआती सफलताओं को मुगल सत्ता को चुनौती देने के अवसर के रूप में देखा। इससे पता चलता है कि स्वराज्य के उदय के साथ हो रहे बड़े राजनीतिक बदलावों से स्थानीय लोगों की आशाएँ भी जुड़ी थीं।

गोंड इतिहास में बड़े स्तर पर राजनीतिक नेतृत्व के उदाहरण मिलते हैं। रानी दुर्गावती और दलपत शाह के विवाह ने चंदेल और गोंड राजपरिवारों को जोड़ा। गढ़ा राज्य की संरक्षिका शासक के रूप में उन्होंने शासन चलाया और राज्य की स्वतंत्रता की रक्षा की। उन्होंने 1564 में मुगल आक्रमण का सामना किया। उनके जीवन में राजनीतिक सहयोग, प्रशासन और बलिदान साथ-साथ दिखाई देते हैं। इससे स्पष्ट होता है कि जनजातीय इतिहास में सत्ता के विरुद्ध संघर्ष के साथ शासन चलाने की उनकी भूमिका को भी स्थान मिलना चाहिए।

रामनगर के सत्रहवीं शताब्दी के स्मारक सांस्कृतिक मेल-जोल के ठोस प्रमाण हैं। गोंड शासक हृदय शाह के समय बने इस परिसर में महल और रानी सुंदरी से जुड़ा एक विष्णु मंदिर है। यूनेस्को को दिए गए भारत के दस्तावेज में इन भवनों की बनावट पर राजपूत और मुगल शैलियों के प्रभाव का उल्लेख है। ये इमारतें दिखाती हैं कि गोंड शासकों ने अपनी राजनीतिक पहचान बनाए रखते हुए दूसरी निर्माण शैलियों को चुना और अपनाया।

धार्मिक परंपराओं में भी ऐसे संबंध दिखाई देते हैं। उड़ीसा रिव्यू में प्रकाशित अपने अध्ययन “ट्राइबल ओरिजिन ऑफ होली ट्रायड” में चित्रसेन पसायत ने जगन्नाथ पूजा से शबर समुदाय के संबंधों की चर्चा की है। विश्वावसु द्वारा नीलमाधव की पूजा की परंपरा और दैता सेवकों का आज भी बना हुआ महत्व एक प्रमुख धार्मिक परंपरा में जनजातीय भागीदारी की याद दिलाता है।

बस्तर दशहरा भी इसी तरह के संबंध का एक जीवंत उदाहरण है। इसके समारोह जनजातीय समुदायों, स्थानीय देवी-देवताओं और पूर्व राजपरिवार की व्यवस्था को जोड़ते हैं। सरकारी विवरण इस उत्सव के इतिहास को राजा पुरुषोत्तम देव की पुरी तीर्थयात्रा से जोड़ते हैं। इसके खास अनुष्ठान बताते हैं कि स्थानीय परंपराएँ अपनी पहचान और महत्व बनाए रखते हुए व्यापक धार्मिक संबंधों से कैसे जुड़ीं। ये उदाहरण भारत के निर्माण में जनजातीय समुदायों की भागीदारी को स्पष्ट करते हैं। उनकी अपनी पहचान और भारत की व्यापक सभ्यता के साथ उनके संबंध, दोनों को मान्यता मिलनी चाहिए।

स्वतंत्रता संघर्ष की शुरुआती नींव

अंग्रेजी शासन के विरुद्ध जनजातीय संघर्ष 1857 से बहुत पहले शुरू हो गए थे। खानदेश में भील प्रतिरोध, 1831–1832 का कोल विद्रोह, 1829–1833 का खासी संघर्ष और 1855–1856 का संथाल हूल अंग्रेजी सत्ता और उसकी शोषणकारी व्यवस्थाओं के विरुद्ध हुए। सिदो और कान्हू संथाल विद्रोह के प्रमुख नेता बने। इन संघर्षों के तत्कालीन उद्देश्य और राजनीतिक रूप अलग-अलग थे, लेकिन उन्होंने अंग्रेजी शासन के विरुद्ध प्रतिरोध की शुरुआती नींव रखी।

जल, जंगल और जमीन की रक्षा के उनके संघर्ष में रोजी-रोटी, पूर्वजों की याद, पवित्र स्थान और सामुदायिक संस्थाओं की रक्षा भी शामिल थी। अंग्रेजी दखल ने उन सामाजिक व्यवस्थाओं को खतरे में डाला, जिनसे लोग अपने कर्तव्यों और समुदाय के प्रति अपनेपन को समझते थे। भगवान बिरसा मुंडा के ‘उलगुलान’ ने अन्याय के विरुद्ध संघर्ष को सांस्कृतिक जागरण और सामूहिक सम्मान से जोड़ा। राष्ट्रपति द्रौपदी मुर्मु ने भी कहा है कि उनके आंदोलन में न्याय की माँग और सांस्कृतिक पहचान की रक्षा साथ-साथ जुड़ी थीं।

इसलिए भारतीय जनजातीय अनुभवों को उनके अपने इतिहास और परिस्थितियों के आधार पर समझना चाहिए। अमेरिकी महाद्वीपों और ऑस्ट्रेलिया के मूलनिवासी समुदायों का इतिहास यूरोपीय उपनिवेशवाद से गहराई से प्रभावित हुआ। जमीन से बेदखली और संस्कृति को बचाने के संघर्ष के मामले में उनसे उपयोगी तुलना की जा सकती है। लेकिन उनके अनुभव भारत में आपसी संवाद, अपने मामलों का संचालन स्वयं करने और राज्यों के निर्माण के विविध इतिहास को समझने का एकमात्र आधार नहीं हो सकते। साथ ही, साझा सभ्यता से जुड़ाव हमारे लिए अन्याय दूर करने की जिम्मेदारी को और मजबूत करता है।

प्रकृति की रक्षा से मिलने वाली सीख

जनजातीय गौरव दिवस प्रकृति की रक्षा से जुड़ी जीवंत परंपराओं से सीखने का अवसर भी है। मेघालय में खासी और प्नार समुदाय धार्मिक मान्यताओं और परंपरागत नियमों के आधार पर पवित्र माने जाने वाले वन क्षेत्रों की रक्षा करते हैं। मेघालय जैवविविधता बोर्ड इन्हें दुर्लभ और लुप्त होने के खतरे का सामना कर रहे पौधों के महत्वपूर्ण आश्रयस्थल मानता है। इनकी रक्षा दिखाती है कि सामुदायिक अधिकार और धार्मिक जिम्मेदारी पेड़-पौधों तथा दूसरे जीवों की विविधता बचाने में कैसे मदद कर सकते हैं।

अरुणाचल प्रदेश की जीरो घाटी में अपातानी समुदायों ने सुव्यवस्थित जल प्रबंधन के साथ धान की खेती और मछली पालन को जोड़ा है। उनकी खेती और जीवन-शैली में उत्पादन, प्रकृति का ज्ञान और सामूहिक प्रयास साथ-साथ दिखाई देते हैं। यूनेस्को की संभावित विश्व धरोहर सूची के विवरण में भी अपातानी मान्यताओं, संसाधनों की देखभाल और पवित्र वन क्षेत्रों के संबंध का उल्लेख है। यह ज्ञान ऐसी खेती पर आज की चर्चा के लिए उपयोगी है, जो लंबे समय तक उत्पादन दे और पर्यावरण का ध्यान रखे।

अरुणाचल प्रदेश के ही एक अन्य हिस्से में न्यीशी समुदाय के लोग पक्के के आसपास हॉर्नबिल, यानी धनेश पक्षियों के घोंसलों की रक्षा करते हैं। घोरा-आभे सोसाइटी, वन विभाग और नेचर कंजर्वेशन फाउंडेशन ने मिलकर 2011 में ‘हॉर्नबिल नेस्ट अडॉप्शन प्रोग्राम’ शुरू किया। इसमें स्थानीय लोग पक्षियों के प्रजनन स्थलों की निगरानी करते हैं और उनकी सुरक्षा करते हैं। यह उदाहरण बताता है कि समुदाय अपने तौर-तरीकों में बदलाव कर सकते हैं और संरक्षण के लिए साझेदारी बना सकते हैं।

महाराष्ट्र के गढ़चिरौली जिले के गोंड गाँव मेंढा-लेखा ने सामूहिक निर्णय लेने की प्रक्रिया को वन संरक्षण से जोड़ा है। स्वशासन, सामुदायिक वन अधिकारों और स्थानीय रोजी-रोटी के बीच संबंध के कारण इस गाँव के अनुभव ने व्यापक ध्यान आकर्षित किया है। यह संरक्षण से जुड़े फैसलों में समुदायों को शामिल करने के महत्व का एक व्यावहारिक उदाहरण है।

कर्नाटक की बिलिगिरि रंगनाथस्वामी पहाड़ियों में सोलिगा समुदायों के साथ किया जा रहा काम जैवविविधता की रक्षा को लंबे समय तक चलने वाली आजीविका से जोड़ता है। एट्री संस्था ने वन उपज की देखभाल और उपयोग, शहद के कारोबार, जैवविविधता-अनुकूल कॉफी उत्पादन और सामुदायिक पौधशालाओं से जुड़े प्रयासों का विवरण दर्ज किया है। ये प्रयास बताते हैं कि कमाई और शिक्षा के अवसर बढ़ाने के साथ-साथ पर्यावरण की देखभाल भी की जा सकती है।

इन उदाहरणों से नीतियाँ बनाने में मदद मिलनी चाहिए, लेकिन इनके आधार पर काल्पनिक या बढ़ा-चढ़ाकर कही गई धारणाओं को बढ़ावा नहीं देना चाहिए। संरक्षण के लिए कठिन निर्णय लेने पड़ते हैं और समय के साथ दबाव भी बदलता है। समुदायों के ज्ञान को मान्यता मिलनी चाहिए और उन्हें आवश्यक संसाधन मिलने चाहिए। उसे वैज्ञानिक शोध के साथ भी सार्थक ढंग से जोड़ना चाहिए।

संविधान की सुरक्षा और उसे लागू करने की जिम्मेदारी

जनजातीय समुदायों के ऐतिहासिक योगदान का सम्मान सरकारी संस्थाओं के कार्यों में भी झलकना चाहिए। अनुच्छेद 15(4) और 16(4) अपने संवैधानिक दायरे में शिक्षा तथा सरकारी रोजगार में आरक्षण जैसे विशेष उपायों की व्यवस्था की अनुमति देते हैं। अनुच्छेद 46 सरकार को अनुसूचित जनजातियों के शैक्षिक और आर्थिक हितों को आगे बढ़ाने तथा उन्हें शोषण से बचाने का निर्देश देता है। अनुच्छेद 330 और 332 लोकसभा तथा राज्य विधानसभाओं में आरक्षित सीटों के माध्यम से राजनीतिक प्रतिनिधित्व प्रदान करते हैं। अनुच्छेद 338क राष्ट्रीय अनुसूचित जनजाति आयोग की स्थापना का प्रावधान करता है।

अनुच्छेद 244 जनजातीय क्षेत्रों के प्रशासन को संविधान की पाँचवीं और छठी अनुसूचियों से जोड़ता है। पाँचवीं अनुसूची में अनुसूचित क्षेत्रों के लिए विशेष व्यवस्थाएँ हैं। इनमें जनजाति सलाहकार परिषद और राज्यपाल की जिम्मेदारियाँ शामिल हैं। छठी अनुसूची असम, मेघालय, त्रिपुरा और मिजोरम के तय जनजातीय क्षेत्रों में जिला और क्षेत्रीय स्तर पर स्वशासन की संस्थाओं की व्यवस्था करती है। ये प्रावधान अलग-अलग क्षेत्रों में लागू होते हैं। अनुच्छेद 29(1) नागरिकों के किसी वर्ग की अपनी अलग भाषा, लिपि या संस्कृति को बचाए रखने के अधिकार की रक्षा करता है। अनुच्छेद 275(1) में जनजातीय कल्याण और अनुसूचित क्षेत्रों के प्रशासन के लिए संबंधित अनुदानों की व्यवस्था है।

इन प्रावधानों को प्रभावी बनाने के लिए ऐसी संस्थाएँ जरूरी हैं, जिन तक लोग आसानी से पहुँच सकें। पर्याप्त धन और स्पष्ट जवाबदेही भी आवश्यक हैं। आरक्षण, संस्कृति की रक्षा और शोषण से बचाव के उपायों से लोगों को वास्तविक अवसर मिलने चाहिए।

पेसा अधिनियम, 1996, पाँचवीं अनुसूची के क्षेत्रों में इस जिम्मेदारी को स्थानीय स्तर पर लागू करने का आधार देता है। यह परंपराओं, सांस्कृतिक पहचान और सामुदायिक संसाधनों की रक्षा में ग्रामसभा की भूमिका और अधिकार को मान्यता देता है। इसके तहत ग्राम-स्तरीय पंचायतों द्वारा लागू की जाने वाली विकास योजनाओं के लिए ग्रामसभा की मंजूरी का प्रावधान है। भूमि अधिग्रहण और पुनर्वास के मामलों में सलाह-मशविरा करने की भी व्यवस्था है। इन अधिकारों को सही ढंग से और प्रभावी रूप में लागू करना चाहिए।

वन अधिकार अधिनियम, 2006, लंबे समय तक वनवासियों के अधिकारों को मान्यता न दिए जाने की समस्या का समाधान करता है। इसके दायरे में रहने की जगह, रोजी-रोटी और सामुदायिक वन संसाधन शामिल हैं। धारा 3(1)(i) समुदायों को उन साझा वन संसाधनों की रक्षा, उन्हें फिर से विकसित करने, उनका संरक्षण और प्रबंधन करने का अधिकार देती है, जिन्हें वे परंपरागत रूप से बचाते आए हैं। इसलिए इस कानून को लागू करने का काम केवल व्यक्तिगत पट्टों तक सीमित नहीं रहना चाहिए। सामूहिक अधिकारों और समुदायों द्वारा वनों की देखभाल को भी पूरा महत्व मिलना चाहिए।

अपनी पसंद का विकास और भविष्य में भागीदारी

जनजातीय समुदाय ऐसे विकास के हकदार हैं, जो उनकी पसंद के अनुसार हो। उनके युवा भी डॉक्टर, इंजीनियर, प्रोफेसर, प्रशासक और राजनीतिक नेता बनना चाहते हैं। इन इच्छाओं को पूरा करने के लिए अच्छे स्कूल, स्वास्थ्य सेवाएँ, संपर्क की सुविधाएँ और रोजगार जरूरी हैं। संस्कृति की रक्षा के प्रयासों से अपना भविष्य तय करने की उनकी स्वतंत्रता को मजबूती मिलनी चाहिए।

विकास परियोजनाओं में समुदायों को उस समय शामिल करना चाहिए, जब उनके सुझावों के आधार पर फैसलों में बदलाव किया जा सके। उनके पवित्र और पैतृक स्थानों की रक्षा होनी चाहिए। उचित पुनर्वास और स्थानीय लोगों को लंबे समय तक मिलने वाले लाभ भी सुनिश्चित होने चाहिए। उनकी भागीदारी का असर अंतिम परिणामों पर दिखना चाहिए।

भगवान बिरसा मुंडा को सबसे सार्थक श्रद्धांजलि यही होगी कि हम उनकी स्मृति को अपनी जिम्मेदारियों से जोड़ें। जनजातीय इतिहास पढ़ाना, प्रकृति से जुड़े ज्ञान का सम्मान करना, संवैधानिक सुरक्षा उपायों को लागू करना और अवसर बढ़ाना, एक ही राष्ट्रीय कार्य के हिस्से हैं। भारत अपने जनजातीय समुदायों का सम्मान तब करता है, जब वह अपनी सभ्यता के निर्माण में उनके योगदान को स्वीकार करे और उसका भविष्य तय करने में उनकी आवाज पूरी तरह सुनी जाए।

खाकी पैंट, नीली शर्ट : सपनों को पहचान देता एक शिक्षक

 

कभी-कभी कोई फिल्म हमें केवल एक कहानी नहीं सुनाती; वह हमारे भीतर संजोई स्मृतियों, संवेदनाओं और विश्वासों को भी छू जाती है। ‘खाकी पैंट, नीली शर्ट’ मेरे लिए ऐसी ही फिल्म रही। 5 नवम्बर को नई दिल्ली के महादेव रोड स्थित राष्ट्रीय फिल्म विकास निगम के फिल्म्स डिवीजन सभागार में इसके विशेष प्रदर्शन में सम्मिलित होने का अवसर मिला। फिल्म देखते हुए कई क्षण ऐसे आए, जब मन भावुक हो उठा और आँखें नम हो गईं। एक शिक्षक होने के नाते इसके कथानक से मेरा जुड़ाव स्वाभाविक था, लेकिन इस आत्मीयता का एक व्यक्तिगत कारण भी है।

मेरी अपनी शिक्षा सरकारी शिक्षण संस्थानों में हुई और उसका एक बड़ा हिस्सा छात्रावासों में रहते हुए पूरा हुआ। इस यात्रा में अनेक ऐसे सहृदय लोग मिले, जिन्होंने अभिभावक की तरह मेरा मार्गदर्शन किया और कठिन समय में सहारा दिया। आज पीछे मुड़कर देखता हूँ, तो उनके विश्वास, सहायता और स्नेह के प्रति मन कृतज्ञता से भर जाता है। इसका उल्लेख किसी बड़ी उपलब्धि का दावा करने के लिए नहीं कर रहा हूँ। मेरा आशय इतना ही है कि कठिन आर्थिक और सामाजिक परिस्थितियों से आने वाले किसी बच्चे को सही समय पर मिला सहयोग उसके जीवन की दिशा बदल सकता है। विशेषकर किशोरावस्था में उसकी भूलों पर केवल दंड देने के बजाय उसे समझना, क्षमा करना और सही रास्ता दिखाना बहुत मायने रखता है। कभी-कभी किसी बड़े का यह विश्वास कि ‘तुम कर सकते हो’, बच्चे के अपने ऊपर विश्वास करने का आधार बन जाता है।

ग्रामीण भारत की एक सच्ची कहानी से प्रेरित ‘खाकी पैंट, नीली शर्ट’ इसी विश्वास और संभावना की कथा है। इसके केंद्र में वंचित परिस्थितियों से आने वाले तीन लड़के और उनके जीवन को दिशा देने वाला एक प्रतिबद्ध शिक्षक है। सीमित संसाधनों के बीच सपने देखने, असफलताओं से जूझने और आगे बढ़ते रहने की उनकी यात्रा मन को छूती है। शिक्षा, संस्कार, परिश्रम और दृढ़ता कहानी को उसका भावनात्मक आधार देते हैं।

फिल्म का शीर्षक भी मेरे लिए एक सुंदर प्रतीक बनकर उभरता है। खाकी रंग अपनी मिट्टी, जड़ों और जीवन की वास्तविकताओं से जुड़े रहने का भाव जगाता है, जबकि नीला रंग खुले, अनंत आकाश की याद दिलाता है। यह मेरी अपनी अनुभूति है—पैर जमीन पर हों और आँखों में आकाश छूने का सपना। साधारण-सी वर्दी में दिखाई देने वाले इन बच्चों के पास सुविधाएँ कम हैं, लेकिन उनकी कल्पना और आकांक्षाएँ किसी से कम नहीं हैं।

जिमी शेरगिल द्वारा निभाया गया शिक्षक का चरित्र इस कहानी की केंद्रीय शक्ति है। वह विद्यार्थियों की परिस्थितियों के पीछे छिपी क्षमता को पहचानता है। शिक्षक के रूप में उसकी भूमिका पाठ्यक्रम पूरा करने से आगे जाती है। वह बच्चों को प्रश्न पूछने, अपनी बुद्धि पर भरोसा करने और कुछ नया करने का साहस देता है। एक विद्यार्थी के वर्तमान को उसकी अंतिम पहचान मान लेने की हमारी प्रवृत्ति को यह चरित्र चुनौती देता है। कमजोर आर्थिक स्थिति या साधारण विद्यालय में पढ़ना किसी बच्चे की संभावनाओं का अंतिम पैमाना कैसे हो सकता है?

यहीं फिल्म प्रतिभा और अवसर के संबंध पर एक महत्वपूर्ण प्रश्न उठाती है। हमारे समाज में अंग्रेजी बोलने की दक्षता, महँगे विद्यालय और सुविधासंपन्न परिवेश को अक्सर योग्यता का सहज प्रमाण मान लिया जाता है। इन सुविधाओं से मिलने वाला लाभ वास्तविक है, लेकिन उनके अभाव को प्रतिभा का अभाव मान लेना अन्यायपूर्ण है। गाँवों, वनांचलों और आर्थिक रूप से कमजोर परिवारों में भी जिज्ञासा, कल्पनाशीलता और सृजनशीलता मौजूद है। उसे पहचानने वाली दृष्टि और विकसित होने के अवसर मिलने चाहिए। प्रतिभा किसी चुनिंदा वर्ग की बपौती नहीं है।

फिल्म देखते हुए बार-बार लगा कि हमारे आसपास कितने बच्चे होंगे, जिनके भीतर ऐसी ही संभावनाएँ हैं, लेकिन जिन तक प्रोत्साहन पहुँच ही नहीं पाता। एक प्रतिबद्ध शिक्षक इस दूरी को कम कर सकता है। फिर भी प्रत्येक बच्चे का भविष्य केवल किसी असाधारण शिक्षक के व्यक्तिगत समर्पण पर निर्भर नहीं रहना चाहिए। हमारी शिक्षा व्यवस्था ऐसी होनी चाहिए, जिसमें बच्चों को अच्छा शिक्षक, पर्याप्त समय और जरूरी संसाधन सामान्य रूप से उपलब्ध हों।

इसी संदर्भ में प्रधानमंत्री नरेंद्र मोदी के नेतृत्व वाली सरकार की अटल टिंकरिंग लैब जैसी पहल की सराहना आवश्यक है। अटल नवाचार मिशन के अंतर्गत स्थापित इन प्रयोगशालाओं का उद्देश्य विद्यार्थियों में जिज्ञासा, रचनात्मकता, कल्पनाशीलता और समस्याओं का समाधान खोजने की क्षमता विकसित करना है। बच्चों को उपकरणों के साथ काम करने और अपने विचारों को प्रयोग में बदलने का अवसर देना शिक्षा को अधिक जीवंत बनाने की सार्थक दिशा है।

मेरी दृष्टि में ऐसी पहलों को टेलीविजन की टीआरपी केंद्रित बहसों के बीच जितना स्थान मिलना चाहिए, उतना नहीं मिलता। शिक्षा में धीरे-धीरे आने वाला परिवर्तन अक्सर सनसनी नहीं बनता, जबकि उसका प्रभाव पीढ़ियों तक जा सकता है। किसी ग्रामीण विद्यालय के बच्चे का पहली बार कोई मॉडल बनाना, किसी स्थानीय समस्या का समाधान सोचना या विज्ञान के प्रति उत्साहित होना भी सार्वजनिक चर्चा का विषय बनना चाहिए। मीडिया इन अनुभवों को सामने लाए, उनकी उपलब्धियों के साथ कमियों की भी पड़ताल करे, तो शिक्षा पर अधिक उपयोगी संवाद संभव होगा।

अटल टिंकरिंग लैब जैसी पहल में भारत की युवा आबादी को जनसांख्यिकीय लाभांश में बदलने की महत्वपूर्ण संभावना है। युवा जनसंख्या की बड़ी संख्या तभी राष्ट्रीय शक्ति बनेगी, जब उसे गुणवत्तापूर्ण शिक्षा, कौशल और सृजन के अवसर मिलेंगे। नवाचार के साधन वंचित बच्चों तक पहुँचें, तो सामाजिक समावेशन भी अधिक अर्थपूर्ण होगा। अटल नवाचार मिशन के अनुसार, उसकी 60 प्रतिशत से अधिक अटल टिंकरिंग लैब सरकारी अथवा सरकारी सहायता प्राप्त विद्यालयों में हैं। यह दिशा उत्साहजनक है; इसकी सफलता के लिए नियमित मार्गदर्शन, उपकरणों का रखरखाव और सभी विद्यार्थियों की सक्रिय भागीदारी सुनिश्चित करना भी जरूरी है।

इस प्रशंसनीय पहल के साथ प्राथमिक, उच्च प्राथमिक और माध्यमिक विद्यालयों की बुनियाद को मजबूत करने में कहीं अधिक निवेश की आवश्यकता है। पर्याप्त कक्षाएँ, पुस्तकालय, प्रयोगशालाएँ, स्वच्छ शौचालय और शिक्षण सामग्री उपलब्ध हों। सबसे आवश्यक है योग्य, स्थायी और शिक्षा के प्रति प्रतिबद्ध शिक्षकों की पर्याप्त संख्या में नियुक्ति। केंद्र और राज्य सरकारों को इस जिम्मेदारी को निरंतर प्राथमिकता देनी चाहिए। प्रयोगशाला की उपयोगिता भी तभी पूरी होगी, जब विद्यालय में उसे विद्यार्थियों के सीखने से जोड़ने वाला शिक्षक मौजूद होगा।

लेकिन शिक्षक की नियुक्ति के बाद हम उसके समय का उपयोग कैसे करते हैं, यह भी उतना ही महत्वपूर्ण प्रश्न है। चुनाव, मतदाता सूची के विशेष गहन पुनरीक्षण अर्थात एसआईआर, जनगणना और अन्य प्रशासनिक दायित्वों के लिए शिक्षकों पर निर्भर रहने की प्रवृत्ति पर गंभीर पुनर्विचार होना चाहिए। ये कार्य सार्वजनिक महत्व के हैं, लेकिन इन्हें पूरा करने के लिए बच्चों की पढ़ाई का समय और शिक्षक की ऊर्जा बार-बार खर्च होना शिक्षा की दृष्टि से भारी कीमत है। यह समस्या अलग-अलग सरकारों के दौर में बनी रही है; इसलिए इसका समाधान भी राजनीतिक आरोप-प्रत्यारोप से आगे जाकर खोजना होगा।

वर्तमान कानूनी व्यवस्था को भी स्पष्ट रूप से समझना जरूरी है। शिक्षा का अधिकार अधिनियम की धारा 27 शिक्षकों को गैर-शैक्षणिक कार्यों में लगाने पर रोक लगाती है, लेकिन दशकीय जनगणना, आपदा राहत और चुनाव संबंधी कार्यों के लिए अपवाद रखती है। शिक्षा मंत्रालय के दिशानिर्देश मतदाता सूची के पुनरीक्षण संबंधी कार्यों को अवकाश तथा गैर-शिक्षण समय में कराने पर बल देते हैं। प्रश्न यह है कि इन सीमाओं का पालन कितनी गंभीरता से होता है और शिक्षक का वास्तविक कार्यभार कितना रह जाता है। 

मेरे विचार में सरकारों को ऐसे कार्यों के लिए प्रशिक्षित अतिरिक्त कर्मियों की व्यवस्था विकसित करनी चाहिए। जहाँ नियम अनुमति दें, वहाँ समुचित प्रशिक्षण, उचित पारिश्रमिक, निगरानी और जवाबदेही के साथ नियुक्त कर्मचारी अनेक प्रशासनिक कार्य संभाल सकते हैं। जहाँ नियम बाधा हों, वहाँ व्यवहार्य सुधारों पर विचार किया जाना चाहिए। शिक्षक का प्राथमिक दायित्व शिक्षण और उससे जुड़े कार्य हों—पाठ की तैयारी, विद्यार्थियों का मूल्यांकन, अभिभावकों से संवाद और बच्चों का सर्वांगीण विकास। राष्ट्रीय शिक्षा नीति 2020 भी शिक्षकों को समय लेने वाले गैर-शैक्षणिक और कठिन प्रशासनिक कामों से बचाने की आवश्यकता स्वीकार करती है। इस विचार को व्यवहार में उतारना जरूरी है। 

यह प्रश्न शिक्षक की सुविधा से बढ़कर बच्चों के बीच अवसरों की समानता का है। सरकारी विद्यालयों के अनेक विद्यार्थी पहले से आर्थिक और सामाजिक कठिनाइयों का सामना करते हैं। यदि उनके शिक्षक का समय अतिरिक्त प्रशासनिक जिम्मेदारियों में जाता है, तो उसका नुकसान अंततः उन्हीं बच्चों को होता है। दूसरी ओर, जिन सुविधासंपन्न निजी विद्यालयों में शिक्षकों को ऐसा बोझ अपेक्षाकृत कम उठाना पड़ता है, वहाँ विद्यार्थियों को पढ़ाई और सह-पाठ्यक्रम गतिविधियों के लिए अधिक नियमित समय मिल सकता है। विद्यालयों के परिणामों की तुलना करते समय इन परिस्थितियों को भी देखना होगा। शिक्षक को कक्षा से दूर करने की कीमत उस बच्चे से नहीं वसूली जानी चाहिए, जिसके लिए विद्यालय ही आगे बढ़ने का सबसे बड़ा सहारा है।

संविधान के राज्य के नीति-निदेशक तत्व हमें कमजोर वर्गों के शैक्षिक हितों के प्रति विशेष जिम्मेदारी की याद दिलाते हैं। अनुच्छेद 46 विशेष रूप से कमजोर वर्गों तथा अनुसूचित जातियों और अनुसूचित जनजातियों के शैक्षिक एवं आर्थिक हितों को आगे बढ़ाने का निर्देश देता है। यदि हमारी प्रशासनिक प्राथमिकताएँ उन्हीं बच्चों के सीखने के अवसर कम करती रहें, तो संवैधानिक आदर्शों और व्यवहार के बीच की दूरी बनी रहेगी। समान अवसर की घोषणा के साथ उसकी वास्तविक परिस्थितियाँ भी बनानी होंगी। इस दोहरेपन को जितनी जल्दी दूर किया जाए, उतना बेहतर होगा।

‘खाकी पैंट, नीली शर्ट’ की सार्थकता मेरे लिए यही है कि वह भावुक करने के साथ ऐसे प्रश्नों पर सोचने के लिए प्रेरित करती है। फिल्म में बच्चों के प्रति शिक्षक का विश्वास देखकर मुझे अपने जीवन के उन लोगों की याद आई, जिन्होंने कठिन समय में मेरा हाथ थामा था। उनकी सहायता का सबसे अच्छा प्रत्युत्तर शायद यही है कि हम भी किसी विद्यार्थी की बात धैर्य से सुनें, उसकी क्षमता पहचानें और जरूरत पड़ने पर उसके साथ खड़े हों।

इस विशेष प्रदर्शन में आमंत्रित करने के लिए निर्देशक, निर्माताओं, पटकथा लेखक तथा समस्त कलाकारों एवं सहयोगियों का हार्दिक आभार। साधारण परिस्थितियों में पलते सपनों और शिक्षा की परिवर्तनकारी शक्ति को सामने लाने का उनका प्रयास सराहनीय है। विद्यार्थियों, शिक्षकों, अभिभावकों और शिक्षा नीति से जुड़े लोगों के लिए यह देखने और विचार करने योग्य फिल्म है।

फिल्म देखकर लौटते हुए मन में यही बात बनी रही—किसी बच्चे के सपने को पहचान लेना बदलाव की शुरुआत है; उस सपने को आगे बढ़ने का अवसर देना हमारी साझा जिम्मेदारी।

Nothing Was Wasted : Lessons from an Uncertain Journey

There were two periods in my working life that I found particularly difficult: my years in call centres and my time assisting Members of Parliament. Both opportunities attracted me at first. Yet, once I began working, I often felt that I was spending my time and energy on work that was taking me away from the life I wanted. I was restless, impatient and sometimes deeply disappointed. Looking back today, however, I feel grateful for both experiences. The work that once seemed to delay my progress helped me support my family, continue my education and understand people whose struggles were very different from my own.

As I approached the end of my graduation at Fergusson College in Pune, I wanted to join an international call centre. There was some excitement attached to the idea of speaking with customers in the United Kingdom and the United States. But there were also pressing responsibilities behind that ambition. I am the eldest of my siblings, and I wanted to help arrange the marriage of the eldest among my sisters. In the circumstances in which we had grown up, girls were generally married young. She was around twenty, and further studies did not appear to be the path she wished to pursue. I had assured my father that I would work and save enough for her marriage. I also wanted to put aside money for my education. Since Class XII, I had hoped to prepare for the civil services examination.

Getting a job in an international call centre proved much harder than I had expected. My English was reasonably good, but I had studied in Marathi-medium government schools, and my speech carried a strong influence of my mother tongue. Employers expected a level of spoken English that I had not yet developed. My typing was slow, and I had very little knowledge of computers. I was also appearing for my final-year examinations and did not yet have a graduation certificate. Some back-office positions required graduates, while certain voice processes accepted undergraduates who met their communication standards. I particularly wanted a voice process because speaking directly with customers abroad, I believed, would help me become more fluent and confident.

I must have appeared for close to a hundred interviews during that search. Each rejection reminded me of something I still needed to improve. After a while, the repeated disappointments became exhausting. I eventually accepted a position with Tata SerWizSol in Kalyani Nagar, Pune, working in customer care for Tata Sky. I stayed for about three and a half months before leaving without serving the required notice period. Looking back, I recognise that I should have fulfilled that obligation. My impatience does not excuse it. At the time, however, I was determined to enter an international process, attracted by better pay, transport facilities and the opportunity to speak regularly with customers overseas.

The interviews began again. After further disappointments, I secured a position with Zensar Technologies in Pune. Before beginning the work, I underwent two months of extensive voice and accent training. I had to listen carefully, practise unfamiliar sounds and learn to make myself understood more clearly. The assignment itself, however, left me dissatisfied. It was a blended process for an American dental-equipment company, combining different kinds of customer support rather than offering continuous telephone conversations. My responsibilities included following up on overdue accounts and asking customers to clear their pending payments. The salary was also lower than what some other call centres offered.

I had never intended to make a long career in that industry. My purpose was to earn, fulfil my family responsibilities and save enough to begin serious preparation for the civil services examination. That made me impatient with anything that seemed to slow me down. After completing six months at Zensar, I served my notice period, collected my experience certificate and moved on. At Mphasis, then an EDS company, I finally entered a full voice process. I worked with customers of Abbey, the British bank that was part of Spain’s Santander group. By then, training and practice had made me much more comfortable speaking with people abroad. I remained there for about a year and a half before moving to other, better-paying opportunities.

My work with the British bank included the difficult year of 2008, when the financial crisis was unsettling lives across the world. Sitting in Pune with a headset, I encountered some of its consequences through the people who called us. Their worries entered our working day through conversations about account balances, overdrafts, unpaid dues and bank charges. A financial crisis could appear distant when described through markets and large institutions. On the telephone, it had the voice of someone who had lost a job or did not know how to meet the next household expense.

There was also resentment about jobs being handled from India while people in Britain were themselves struggling to find employment. Many customers directed their anger at us. Some used abusive language, and as customer-support employees, we were expected to remain composed and continue the conversation. Being insulted while trying to do one’s job was painful. Yet I gradually understood that some callers were speaking from fear, frustration and a sense of helplessness. Their circumstances did not make the abuse acceptable, but they helped me understand why an ordinary conversation about a bank account could become so bitter.

Some of the hardest calls concerned overdrafts and the charges that followed when customers could not make payments on time. In certain accounts, incoming money would be absorbed by outstanding dues and accumulated charges. From the bank’s side, these were amounts to be recovered. From the customer’s side, that money might have been needed immediately for food, household expenses or the care of a child. As an employee, I had to explain the account and work within the rules given to me. I had little authority to change the situation, even when I could hear how much distress it was causing.

I particularly remember young single mothers who cried while speaking with us. They described trying to care for their children with the limited support or benefits they received. When money entered their accounts and was taken towards outstanding charges, they feared being left with too little for their children’s needs. Listening to them was difficult. I could explain a transaction, but an explanation could not relieve their worry. There were moments when the person on the other end needed patience and understanding as much as information, while the working system required us to move quickly towards completing the call.

Those conversations stayed with me. I was a young man from a forest village in India, working to meet my own family’s needs, listening to people in Britain who were struggling to meet theirs. Our circumstances were different, but I could recognise the anxiety of having responsibilities greater than the money available. Until then, life in a wealthy country had seemed far removed from the insecurities I knew. The calls showed me how unemployment, debt and the fear of being unable to care for one’s family could unsettle people there too. I was learning about human vulnerability through voices I would never be able to put faces to.

Meanwhile, my own life was passing through a painful period. I lost my father, and the responsibilities I had hoped to share with him became heavier in his absence. My sister’s marriage took place in a simple ceremony in Pune, but even that required me to borrow money from friends. Once the marriage was over, I had to repay those debts while continuing to save for my studies. I remain deeply grateful to the people who stood beside me. Deepak Sir and Lata Tai became like family. My friends Mangesh Dhawan and Sandip Pol helped me financially when I needed support. Their kindness gave me room to manage responsibilities that would otherwise have been much harder to carry.

The work itself was demanding. In one assignment, we were expected to maintain an average handling time of about 247 seconds per call. Within those few minutes, we had to understand the customer’s concern, respond appropriately and complete the necessary work. Taking longer could affect our performance figures. Repeated difficulties could bring sharp criticism from team leaders and floor managers, and continued failure to meet expectations could put the job at risk. The pressure was especially hard to bear when a distressed customer needed more time. I struggled with these demands and somehow continued, but I often felt that while I was meeting targets at work, my educational ambitions were standing still.

To earn more, I also taught in coaching classes during my weekly days off and sometimes on working days. Teaching brought me closer to something I enjoyed, but fitting it around my employment required considerable effort. The call-centre shifts were irregular. At times I worked during the day; at other times, through the night. Changes in working hours disturbed my sleep and affected both my physical and mental well-being. There were days when life seemed to consist almost entirely of work, travel, tiredness and calculations about money. I worried that the years in which I should have been studying were slipping away.

Eventually, I earned enough to repay my debts and save something for my education. I left the call-centre industry, joined coaching for the civil services examination and returned to my preparation. My journey later brought me to Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. The four years I spent there, two pursuing my M.A. and two my M. Phil., gave me something I had missed for a long time: space to read, think and spend time on my intellectual development. There were still concerns about the future, but my days were no longer measured by the length of a customer call. I could give sustained attention to a book, a classroom discussion or a question that interested me.

It was at JNU that I began to recognise more fully what the call-centre years had given me. I could speak with classmates from far more privileged educational and social backgrounds without feeling overwhelmed. Years of listening to unfamiliar accents, explaining matters clearly and responding to people I had never met had strengthened my spoken English and confidence. The work had enabled me to help my family and finance the next stage of my education. What I had experienced mainly as a delay had prepared me to make better use of the opportunities that followed.

My studies in international relations also gave me a language for understanding the human stories I had heard. When I encountered the idea of human security, I could connect it with those telephone conversations. Security included the ability to earn a livelihood, provide food, care for children and face the future without constant fear. I remembered callers whose lives had become uncertain because they had lost employment or become trapped in debt. Concepts discussed in the classroom became easier to understand because I had listened to people experiencing those insecurities. Without realising it at the time, I had carried part of my education into the university with me.

After completing my M.Phil., I began assisting Members of Parliament. Once again, the opportunity excited me. Entering Parliament and helping an elected representative with correspondence, parliamentary work and constituency matters seemed meaningful. I hoped that my education in international relations and political science would find a useful place in that environment. I had completed two higher degrees at JNU and cleared the National Eligibility Test for being an Assistant Professor. I wanted to contribute and become financially secure. Instead, I found myself earning roughly what I had earned in call centres about five years earlier, and sometimes even less.

That difference troubled me deeply. After further years of study and two additional degrees, I was struggling to earn as much as I had earned as a graduate. Delhi was expensive, and my responsibilities had not become lighter. Two of my younger sisters were pursuing their Master of Social Work degrees in Nagpur, and I needed to support their education. I repeatedly asked myself what my qualifications had changed. I valued my education, but that did not make the financial strain easier. The distance between what I had hoped for and what I was experiencing became a source of considerable distress.

There was also the question of dignity at work. Some of the parliamentarians I encountered did not treat their private secretaries with the respect that any working person deserves. The proximity to public office could appear impressive from outside, while the daily experience could be discouraging. I had entered the work hoping to use my abilities, but there were times when I felt undervalued and uncertain about my future. Those roughly three years tested my patience. I continued because there were bills to pay, family members to support and no clear alternative immediately before me.

The opportunity to teach at Shyam Lal College changed the direction of my life. I remain grateful to Principal Prof. Rabi Narayan Kar Sir, whose trust gave me the chance to serve as an ad hoc Assistant Professor. Teaching offered me a sense of purpose that I had struggled to find in my earlier employment. My education became part of my everyday work, and the classroom gave me opportunities to learn while helping students learn. Principal Sir, our IQAC Director, Prof. Kusha Tiwari Ma’am and my senior colleagues treated me with care and affection. Their encouragement helped me grow within the institution. In 2023, I secured a permanent appointment, bringing a measure of stability for which I had worked and waited for many years.

With greater stability came the ability to look back more calmly. I began to see that my parliamentary work, too, had given me something valuable. I had entered Parliament regularly and observed its functioning from close quarters. I had assisted with concerns that constituents brought to their elected representatives. I visited ministries and government offices, including the Prime Minister’s Office, to follow up on matters connected with the constituencies of the Members of Parliament I served. These experiences helped me understand the practical work around institutions I had previously studied mainly through books.

I also saw how much effort can lie between raising a concern and securing a response. A letter had to be drafted carefully, a matter explained clearly and a request followed up. I became more familiar with policy discussions and administrative processes. Somewhere during those years, I made a promise to myself that I would one day contribute meaningfully to public policy in Bharat. At the time, I was too troubled by my immediate circumstances to appreciate everything I was learning. Today, as a teacher of political science, I recognise the value of having observed those institutions at work.

The call-centre and parliamentary experiences now seem connected in ways I could not see then. In one, I listened to people struggling with the consequences of economic insecurity. In the other, I saw citizens’ concerns enter the offices of elected representatives and government departments. Both brought me closer to the difficulties people face when they need an institution to respond. They also showed me how much depends on whether the person handling a concern listens carefully, explains honestly and treats another human being with respect.

I do not wish to make those years appear easier than they were. The exhaustion was real. So were the financial worries, the disappointment and the fear that I was falling behind. I sometimes felt that I had lost too much of my youth while trying to meet responsibilities that could not be postponed. Looking back with gratitude does not erase those feelings. It allows me to understand that a period can be painful and still leave us with something useful. I can acknowledge the pressures of those jobs while remaining thankful that they helped me move forward.

Both experiences also remind me that my journey was never mine alone. My father’s hopes stayed with me after his passing. My family’s needs gave urgency to my efforts. Friends lent money and offered reassurance when my own resources were insufficient. Later, mentors and colleagues gave me opportunities and treated me with dignity. Whatever I have been able to do rests partly on that support. Remembering the difficult years brings their kindness into clearer view.

As I bring these reflections together, I see a connection between the young man searching for a call-centre job, the student finding his place at JNU, the private secretary walking through government offices and the teacher standing before a classroom. While living through those stages, I often saw only the distance between where I was and where I wanted to be. I now understand how one experience helped me enter the next. Telephone conversations strengthened my confidence and widened my understanding of human hardship. Parliamentary work brought me closer to public institutions. Teaching has allowed me to draw upon both.

I still have much to learn and much that I hope to contribute. But I am less willing now to dismiss a difficult chapter of life as worthless merely because its purpose was unclear to me at the time. Some experiences reveal their value slowly. We understand them better after we have moved beyond them and discover that something we learned there is helping us in the present.

The two kinds of work I once disliked most have become part of the foundation on which I stand. They helped me care for my family, return to education and find confidence in unfamiliar surroundings. They also left me with the memory of people whose voices carried worry, anger and hope. I would not choose every hardship again, but I can honour the effort it took to pass through those years, and the people who helped me along the way.

What I once thought was wasted time has become part of the life I am grateful to have lived.

Dr Dwarkanath Kotnis: Humanity Beyond Borders

 

The year was 1938. The world was embroiled in the unending war, fighting along the fault lines of national greed, violent imperialist ambitions, and catastrophic warfare. In the Far East, the Second Sino-Japanese War raged with unimaginable brutality. Blood ran through the rivers of China, towns were turned to ash, and thousands of wounded soldiers lay dying in makeshift ditches, crying out for help that never came. Far away, in the quiet, dusty town of Solapur, Maharashtra, a young Indian physician named Dr. Dwarkanath Shantaram Kotnis listened to those distant cries.

When the communist General Zhu De reached out to Jawaharlal Nehru requesting medical aid, the Indian National Congress, under Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, assembled a five-member volunteer team known as the Indian Medical Mission Team. Dwarkanath, just 28 years old, had his entire life ahead of him. He could have chosen a comfortable, lucrative practice in India. Instead, he packed his bags, looked at his weeping mother, and stepped into the tempest of war. He did not see geopolitical chessboards or foreign strangers; he saw suffering human beings who needed a healer.

Upon arriving in the isolated, rugged revolutionary base of Yan'an in early 1939, the Indian team was greeted with immense warmth but staggering challenges. The harsh winter bit through their thin clothes, and the sheer volume of casualties was overwhelming. Dr. Kotnis quickly realized that a doctor cannot truly heal a patient if he cannot speak to their heart. He dedicated his rare, precious hours of rest to studying Mandarin Chinese. Within a short time, he could not only speak the language fluently but could also read and write Chinese characters.

Moved by his absolute humility, the local people gave him a Chinese name: ‘Ke Dihua’. Ke stood for the sound of Kotnis, Di meant to guide, and Hua stood for China. He was no longer an expatriate doing a duty; he had become one of their own. As the months rolled by, the dangerous realities of the frontline intensified. While the other four Indian doctors eventually had to return home due to health issues or logistical shifts, Dr. Kotnis refused to leave. He chose to move deeper into the anti-Japanese base areas of North China, operating under constant enemy bombardment with the Eighth Route Army.

In 1940, a devastating piece of news reached the battlefront: Dr. Kotnis’s father had passed away unexpectedly back in India. The grief struck him like a physical blow. By tradition and familial duty, he belonged at home, performing the final funeral rites for his father. He stood at a painful crossroads, looking south toward India, torn between his family and his patients.

Ultimately, his profound sense of global humanity won over his personal sorrow. Looking around at the hundreds of critically injured young soldiers filling the corridors of the Eighth Route Army General Hospital, he knew that leaving meant signing their death warrants. He wept in private, chose to stay, and channeled his overwhelming grief into his surgical instruments.

His commitment was superhuman. During a prolonged battle in 1940, Dr. Kotnis operated continuously for 72 hours without a single moment of sleep, treating over 800 wounded soldiers in less than two weeks. The makeshift operating tables were often just wooden planks balanced on rocks inside dark caves, illuminated only by dim oil lamps. The sounds of exploding mortar shells echoed outside, shaking dust onto his sterile sheets, but his hands never trembled. The soldiers affectionately started calling him "Dr. Thoughtful" and the "Black Mother" because of the tender, fierce protection he provided to every soul under his watch.

Even in the darkest, blood-soaked soil of war, the fragile flower of love found a way to bloom. While working at the front lines, Dr. Kotnis met a young, dedicated Chinese nurse named Guo Qinglan. They shared the same exhausting hours, the same horror of losing patients, and the same unshakeable belief in saving lives. Bound by a shared language of compassion, they fell deeply in love and were married in December 1941.

Their joy multiplied in August 1942 when Guo gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. They named him Yinhua, a combination of the characters for India (Yin) and China (Hua). Yinhua was a living bridge between two ancient civilizations, a tiny beacon of hope born amidst the ashes of global carnage.

Following the passing of the famous Canadian humanitarian Dr. Norman Bethune, Dr. Kotnis was appointed the first President of the Bethune International Peace Hospital. In addition to performing relentless surgeries, he began lecturing at the local hygiene school, trying desperately to train the next generation of Chinese doctors so that his mission of mercy would survive long after him.

Human flesh, however, has its limits, even if the spirit is invincible. The years of living in damp caves, eating meager rations, enduring freezing temperatures, and working up to twenty hours a day began to take an irreversible toll on his young body. Just three months after the birth of his beloved son Yinhua, Dr. Kotnis was struck by severe, violent epileptic seizures brought on by sheer physical exhaustion and neurological stress. On December 9, 1942, at the tragic age of just 32, Dr. Dwarkanath Kotnis closed his eyes for the final time in Paoting, China.

The news of his death cast a dark shroud of mourning over the entire region. Rough, battle-hardened soldiers broke down and wept openly in the trenches. Chairman Mao Zedong, deeply moved by the loss of this foreign brother, picked up his calligraphy brush and wrote an emotional tribute that remains etched in history:

"The army has lost a helping hand, the nation has lost a friend. Let us always bear in mind his internationalist spirit."

Dr. Kotnis was buried in the Heroes Courtyard in Nanquan Village. Decades have passed, political borders have shifted, and diplomatic relations between nations have thawed and frozen repeatedly, but the memory of Ke Dihua remains untouched by the passage of time.

Today, in the Shijiazhuang Martyrs' Memorial Park in Hebei province, a massive granite statue of Dr. Kotnis stands tall beneath the open sky. Every year during the Qingming Festival (Tomb-Sweeping Day), generations of Chinese citizens gather at his memorial to clear the leaves and pay homage to the young doctor from India who gave his life for them.

Dr. Dwarkanath Kotnis's life is a reminder that the human soul is not bound by the passports we carry or the trenches we dig. Amidst the terrifying tempests of war, he showed that a single candle of selfless love can shatter the darkness of an entire era. His story remains an immortal monument to the truth that our ultimate identity is not our nationality, but our humanity.

The Day He Became My Kaka

My life has been shaped by many people. Whatever I have achieved has not come only through my own efforts, but also through the kindness, encouragement and help of others. When I look back at my journey, from a poor family in a remote village of Bhamragad tahsil in Maharashtra’s Gadchiroli district to teaching at the University of Delhi, I remember the people who helped me move forward when my family’s means were limited.

One of those people is Shri Sunil Khobragade, whom I lovingly call Kaka. We are not related by blood. Yet he welcomed me into his life so naturally that, over time, I became part of his family. He worked as a conductor with Maharashtra State Transport. His work involved long journeys, collecting fares and issuing tickets to passengers. Amid those everyday duties, he noticed a young boy who needed help and chose to do something for him.

I first met him while travelling by an S.T. bus from Bhamragad towards my village, Kukkameta. There was no bus that went directly to our village. I had to get down at Mallampodur crossing and walk about three kilometres along a narrow path through the dense forest. This was a familiar journey for me. Travelling home meant a bus ride followed by a walk, carrying whatever belongings I had.

A police personnel who knew me was also on that bus. During the journey, he spoke to the conductor about me. He told him that I belonged to his community and came from a very poor family. He also said that, with some help, I could go far in life. I did not know what Shri Sunil Khobragade thought when he heard those words. He said little. When we reached Mallampodur crossing, I got down and continued towards home. At that time, I had no idea that the conversation would stay with him.

After the summer holidays, I returned to Gadchiroli for school. If I remember correctly, it was around 1998, and I was in the ninth standard. The journey from our area to the district headquarters took roughly six or seven hours. By chance, I travelled on the bus on which he was serving as conductor.

He gave me a ticket but did not take the fare from me. It was about one hundred rupees—a considerable amount for me then. I believe he paid it himself. I was happy that I could save that money for my educational expenses. I accepted his kindness without knowing that there was more to come.

When we reached Gadchiroli and I got down, he asked me to wait. I had a small tin box containing my books and two sets of school clothes. That box held what I needed for my life away from home. After completing his duty and handing over the fares he had collected, he asked me to come with him.

I picked up my box and followed. I did not know where we were going. He had not given me a long explanation, and I did not ask many questions. We walked until we reached his home.

His wife, whom I now call Kaku, welcomed us. She asked me to freshen up and gave me a meal. After the long journey, I ate to my heart’s content. Her welcome was simple and warm. I had arrived as a schoolboy whom her husband had brought home, but I was made comfortable without any fuss.

While speaking to him, I repeatedly addressed him as “Sir.” He was an adult who had helped me, and that seemed the proper way to show respect. After a while, he lovingly told me that he would not speak to me if I kept calling him Sir.

“Call me Kaka,” he said.

I began calling him Kaka, and that is who he has remained ever since.

It was a small change in how I addressed him, but it made a difference to how I felt. I could speak to him with less hesitation. He was offering me a place in his life, and I was beginning to understand that I could turn to him when I needed help.

Kaka asked about my studies and the difficulties I was facing. I told him that I had enrolled in a semi-English medium school. Until then, I had studied in Marathi medium at a small school in Bhamragad. Now, Science and Mathematics were taught in English, alongside English as a compulsory subject.

The change was difficult for me. I wanted to study well, but I was trying to learn subjects through a language in which I was not yet comfortable. Understanding the lesson and understanding the language became two tasks that I had to manage together. I knew I needed help, but paying for extra classes was difficult.

Kaka listened and asked how I could cope better. I told him that tuition outside school might help me understand the subjects. He did not immediately make a promise. Instead, he asked me to keep visiting his home, particularly on Sundays, when he would have a day off.

The next Sunday, I went to see him. After lunch, he told me that I could join tuition classes of my choice. He would pay the fees.

For a student with limited means, those words brought great relief. I could now seek the help I needed. I joined tuition, and his support made a considerable difference to my studies.

As a boy, I understood this mainly as help with fees. Today, I also understand the effort behind it. Kaka had his own household and family responsibilities. The money he offered came from his earnings. He had listened to a difficulty, considered what he could do and made room for my education within his own responsibilities.

He also continued to take an interest in my progress. As he came to know me better, he felt that I had the ability to pursue further studies. He introduced me to other people from our community and encouraged them to help. Some offered assistance, and some promises did not lead to much. But what I remember most is that Kaka was willing to speak for me. He wanted others to see possibilities in a boy whose circumstances might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

At that age, I did not fully appreciate how valuable such support could be. I was concerned with classes, books, examinations and the next expense. Looking back, I see that he helped make those worries manageable. He gave me practical assistance, but he also gave me the confidence to ask for help without feeling ashamed.

His home became a place I could visit with ease. Kaku’s care and Kaka’s interest in my studies made me feel that I belonged there. What began during a bus journey grew into a family relationship. I was no longer merely a passenger whose fare he had paid. I was a boy whose future mattered to him.

Over the years, my education took me far from those early journeys. I studied in Pune and later at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. I went on to work in the national capital and eventually became a teacher at the University of Delhi. At each stage, my own effort mattered. So did the help that had made it possible for me to reach the next stage.

When I think of those beginnings, I remember the small tin box, the long bus journey and the hundred rupees he helped me save. I remember following him to a house where I was given a full meal. Above all, I remember his words asking me to call him Kaka.

His kindness has shaped my understanding of social responsibility. Education, position and influence can give a person greater means to help others. But the willingness to help does not automatically come with them. Kaka was a working man who recognised a need and responded within his means. He did not wait until he had more money or a higher position.

Our shared community background helped bring us together. The police personnel’s words drew his attention to me. What followed, however, required a personal choice. Kaka could have listened and forgotten. Instead, he remembered, welcomed me home and supported my studies. Through those actions, he turned an acquaintance into a lasting bond.

I feel fortunate that I met him when I did. A young person may have hopes and ability, yet still need someone to help with the next practical step. For me, one of those steps was learning to cope with a change in the language of instruction. Kaka understood that difficulty and helped me through it.

I have been part of his family since those school days, and my gratitude has only deepened with time. The young boy who entered his home could not have imagined all the places life would take him. But he had found someone he could rely upon.

Whenever I look back at my journey, I return to that day in Gadchiroli. Kaka finished his duty, asked me to pick up my tin box and took me home. I thought I was going with a kind conductor who had helped me during a bus journey. By the time I left his house, I had a Kaka.

Sir and Ma'am: The Two Beautiful Souls Who Became My Second Parents

 

Some people enter our lives without announcement. They do not arrive knowing that they will change us, nor do we realise, when we first meet them, how important they will eventually become. Years later, when we look back at the long journey of life, we discover that their presence quietly altered its course. Sir and Ma'am are two such people in my life.

"Sir and Ma'am"—that is how I have always addressed them. I cannot remember ever thinking of them differently. To the world, they may be professionals who have excelled in their respective fields. To many, they may be mentors, friends or acquaintances. But somewhere along the journey of my life, they became something much more to me. I began looking up to them with the affection and reverence with which a child looks towards his parents.

I first met them when I was studying in Class IX. At that age, one hardly understands the significance of the people one encounters. We do not know which conversations will be forgotten and which will remain with us for a lifetime. Looking back today, however, I consider that meeting one of the most fortunate accidents of my life.

They nurtured me, cared for me, guided me and, above all, believed in me.

That last part mattered enormously.

There was a period when I was doing badly in my studies. In the world of a school-going child, marks can acquire a disproportionate importance. A report card can suddenly become a measure not merely of one's academic performance but, unfortunately, of one's worth. When you repeatedly fail to meet expectations, you slowly begin to internalise other people's assessment of you. The world starts calling you average, and eventually you begin calling yourself average too.

Sir and Ma'am refused to do that to me.

When the evidence available on my report cards perhaps gave them every reason to lower their expectations, they did exactly the opposite. They continued to repose an almost unreasonable amount of faith in me. They seemed to see possibilities in that struggling schoolboy which the boy himself could not see.

Their patience carried me through those years.

I particularly remember the letters Ma'am used to write to me when I was away. Whenever I felt low, defeated or unsure of myself, I would return to those letters. Long before motivational messages began arriving every morning on mobile phones, I had my own handwritten source of encouragement.

One sentence from one of those letters has remained with me all these years:

"You are not an average student and should never consider yourself as one. We both want to see you stretch your wings and fly as high as you can. We are there with you."

I do not know whether Ma'am remembers writing those words. For her, perhaps, they were words of encouragement written naturally to a child she cared about. For me, they became something else altogether.

They became a refuge.

There are moments in life when borrowed confidence keeps us alive until we can develop confidence of our own. Someone believes in us so persistently that, eventually, we begin to wonder whether perhaps they are right. Their faith becomes a bridge between the person we are and the person we might someday become.

Ma'am's words did precisely that for me.

Over the years, however, I learnt from Sir and Ma'am not merely through what they told me but also by watching the lives they themselves lived.

Ma'am's journey has always fascinated me. She completed her M.Sc. in Microbiology and could have chosen the comfort and predictability of a conventional career. Instead, she chose to work with an NGO dealing with health issues in Gadchiroli, one of India's remotest districts. It was there that she married her colleague—Sir.

Together they built their family and raised two daughters, Sampada and Sanchita, both of whom excelled in their studies and went on to pursue exceptional careers of their own.

In time, Sir and Ma'am established a pathological laboratory. For most people, that would have represented arrival—a profession, a family, a stable livelihood and a respectable place in society. One could have comfortably settled there.

Ma'am did not.

She went back to studying. She studied law, entered legal practice and established herself as a prominent lawyer in the Sessions Court at Gadchiroli. Even that achievement did not become her final destination. At a stage when she was already doing remarkably well in her legal profession, she once again chose uncertainty over comfort.

She prepared for the judicial examination, succeeded and entered the judiciary.

Today, she serves as a Principal District Judge. Along the way, she has held several important judicial responsibilities and, from everything I have witnessed and known of her, has attempted to do justice to every responsibility entrusted to her.

Her journey has had a profound influence on me because I watched much of it unfold while I myself was growing up. I saw someone refusing to allow an earlier achievement to become an excuse for intellectual stagnation.

From Ma'am, therefore, I learnt the meaning of those famous words associated with Steve Jobs: stay hungry, stay foolish.

For me, they do not mean perpetual dissatisfaction. They mean retaining the courage to remain a student of life. They mean refusing to believe that one's possibilities have been exhausted merely because one has achieved a degree of professional success. Ma'am taught me that there can always be another book to read, another examination to attempt, another road to explore and another version of oneself waiting to be discovered.

Sir taught me something equally valuable, but very different.

If Ma'am taught me aspiration, Sir taught me equilibrium.

He has always seemed to possess a certain groundedness—a belief in stability, simplicity and the ability to remain content without becoming complacent. Through him I gradually understood that not every ambition in life will be fulfilled, and that an unfulfilled ambition need not become a lifelong source of bitterness.

Life is not a race in which we must constantly look at the person ahead of us and lament the distance between them and us. There will always be people who have travelled farther. There will also be many who, for reasons of circumstance, opportunity or fate, have remained behind. Neither comparison should determine the worth of our own journey.

There is dignity in aspiration, but there is wisdom in contentment.

Sir embodies that balance for me.

He has now closed the pathological laboratory that he ran for years. These days, much of his happiness comes from the farm he lovingly nurtures. He has his own poetic vision for it. He dreams of developing it into a farmhouse where, after retirement, friends can come and stay with him—away from the noise and hurry of ordinary life, amidst green fields and trees, waking to the sound of birds.

There is something deeply beautiful about that dream.

We spend so much of our younger lives imagining success in terms of titles, positions, money and recognition. Perhaps with age we slowly discover that success can also mean having a patch of earth you love, a few trees whose growth you have watched, friends with whom silence is comfortable, and enough time to listen to birds in the morning.

In that sense, Sir and Ma'am have taught me two seemingly opposite but ultimately complementary lessons: never stop dreaming, and never postpone living.

Behind Ma'am's extraordinary professional journey, I have also watched Sir's quiet support. He never needed to occupy the centre stage. As she moved from microbiology to social work, from the pathological laboratory to law, and from advocacy to the judiciary, he stood beside her. Sometimes the most consequential contribution a person makes to another's success cannot be written on a résumé. It consists simply of saying: Go ahead. I am here.

Perhaps that is what companionship at its finest means.

As I look back today, I increasingly realise that human beings are never entirely self-made.

We often like the expression "self-made" because it celebrates effort, perseverance and individual agency. Those things certainly matter. But none of us is constructed out of our efforts alone. We are also made by the affection we receive, the opportunities someone creates for us, the teacher who refuses to give up on us, the friend who stays during difficult times, the stranger who opens a door, the parent who sacrifices silently, and sometimes by a handwritten letter telling a struggling child that he is capable of flying.

Our lives are made as much by encounters as by endeavours.

Perhaps that is why I think of Sir and Ma'am as one of the most beautiful accidents of my life.

They did not know, when they met a Class IX boy, what course his life would eventually take. Neither did I. They simply chose to care. They chose to encourage. They chose to remain patient when patience was needed most. And somewhere in that process, without consciously setting out to do so, they helped build a human being.

Years have passed. The schoolboy grew up. Life took him through many places, institutions, successes, disappointments and responsibilities. But some things remained.

Even today, speaking to Sir and Ma'am does something peculiar to me. Their words can still awaken the confidence of that teenager who once needed someone to tell him that his present difficulties did not define his future.

And Ma'am's old words remain with me:

"Stretch your wings and fly as high as you can. We are there with you."

Perhaps I have spent much of my life trying to live up to that faith.

Whatever little I have been able to achieve, whatever confidence I have gathered along the way, and whatever dreams I still dare to pursue contain, somewhere within them, a little of Sir and Ma'am.

Life teaches us that some debts cannot—and perhaps should not—be repaid. To repay a debt is to close an account. But how does one close an account of affection? How does one calculate the value of confidence given to a child when he had very little of his own?

Such debts are not repaid.

They are carried forward.

Perhaps the best way of honouring those who believed in us is to believe in someone else when their own faith is failing—to tell another struggling young person, with the same conviction with which Ma'am once told me:

You are capable of more than you presently imagine.

Sir and Ma'am entered my life as an accident.

They stayed as a blessing.

And if there is one thing I wish they always knew, it is simply this: the faith they placed in a struggling schoolboy was not lost. It travelled with him. It still does.

Shri Pravin More: The Police Officer Who Inspired Me

Shri Pravin More holds a special place in my memories and in my life. When I first met him, he was a young, handsome police officer, probably in his mid-twenties, if my memory serves me well. I was a village boy, curious about the world but unfamiliar with much of it. He had come to our village on official duty. What began as a brief conversation became a relationship of encouragement and affection that has lasted through many changes in our lives.

I grew up in Kukkameta, a small village near the dense forests of Abujhmarh, on the Maharashtra side of the border with what was then Madhya Pradesh and is now Chhattisgarh. The forest was part of our everyday life. It gave us fruits, familiar paths, places to play and a world to explore. But alongside those happy childhood memories, I also remember the presence of armed men and women. Naxalite activities affected our village and the surrounding areas, shaping village life in ways that we children could feel without fully understanding.

We called them Naxalwadis in those days. The name “Maoists” became more common in later conversations, particularly after the People’s War Group and the Maoist Communist Centre of India merged in September 2004 to form the Communist Party of India (Maoist). Their Maoist ideology, of course, existed before that merger. As a child, I knew little about these organisational names. I knew the people who came to our village, the guns they carried and the songs they sang. 

Only much later did I understand the strategic importance of the forests in which we lived. Under Kondapalli Seetharamaiah, the People’s War leadership sought to establish a rear base in the wider Dandakaranya region. The idea was to have forest areas where armed squads could take shelter, recover from pressure elsewhere and build their organisation. Accounts of the movement describe squads entering this region in 1980 as part of that strategy. Our village belonged to the wider forest belt into which this movement spread. What was home to us was, for an armed organisation, also a place of strategic value. 

During my childhood, however, none of this appeared to us as a strategy drawn up by distant leaders. It appeared as people walking into the village with weapons, calling meetings and speaking to our elders. Police presence was less extensive than it became in later years. In my memory, the Naxalites often moved through our surroundings with considerable confidence. Their arrival was something villagers recognised and responded to, sometimes with familiarity and sometimes with fear.

The men were commonly addressed as Dadas and the women as Akkas. These were familiar forms of address in our local surroundings. They made the visitors sound like people connected with village life. As children, we did not always feel the same immediate fear of them that we felt when policemen arrived. The Naxalites came repeatedly, spoke to people and sometimes interacted warmly with children. Familiarity affected the way we saw them, even though we knew they carried guns.

I have a memory of sitting and playing on the laps of some of the Naxalite women. It remains a strange and deeply personal part of my childhood. I did not know their histories or understand the choices that had brought them into an armed movement. I was simply a child receiving attention from an adult. Today, I can remember that moment of warmth while also understanding the violence and coercion associated with the organisation they served.

I also remember hearing adults speak about the difficulty of having children while living that underground life. Whether those conversations described particular women or a wider practice, I could not have known. What reached me was the idea that their lives allowed little room for an ordinary family. We heard accounts of squads travelling long distances through forests after encounters with the police, moving through the night to avoid another confrontation. To a child, these stories were both frightening and difficult to imagine.

There were also local people known as Sangam members. They acted as links between the Naxalites and villagers, carrying messages and helping maintain contact. Some acquired considerable influence through this role. In my recollection, certain people used it to intimidate others. They became local dadas in another sense—people whose displeasure villagers wished to avoid. Their authority did not come from any responsibility to the village as a whole, but from their association with armed men and women.

The Naxalites also used songs to attract attention and communicate their ideas. I remember gatherings where they sang about the red flag, exploitation and the conduct of officials. We children listened, sometimes remembering the tune more clearly than the words. The songs made their message easier to follow than a long political speech. They could be repeated, discussed and carried into everyday conversations.

One line has stayed faintly in my memory: “Yerra jhenda keyanta ro Madiya Dada.” I cannot now guarantee the exact wording or pronunciation. As I understood it then, the red flag was calling the Madiya people to come together. In later years, I connected its message with the familiar communist appeal for workers to unite. At the time, however, it was simply a song we heard in our village, addressed to people whose language and surroundings we knew.

Another song, which I remember as being in Telugu, sounded something like: “Sale tum, sale male tum … i polisalu maku cheptava, mamen timtava…” The remaining words are unclear in my memory. We understood its message to be that policemen abused villagers while also taking food or receiving hospitality from them. I offer this as a childhood recollection of its meaning, rather than an exact translation. What mattered locally was the accusation it carried: those who came with official authority could depend on villagers and still treat them badly.

I believe such songs found an audience partly because some people had experienced unnecessary interference by police or forest officials. An encounter that left a villager feeling humiliated could make the next speech against the state sound convincing. The Naxalites used those grievances to gain attention and support. They also urged people to oppose development activities, describing them as “jhute vikas karyakram”—false programmes of development. Looking back, I can see how actual grievances could be drawn into a political campaign that also discouraged opportunities villagers needed.

This was the atmosphere in which I met Shri Pravin More. We were afraid of the police, yet fascinated by their khaki uniforms, vehicles and weapons. Whenever policemen entered the village, we boys gathered at a little distance to watch. We wanted to see their guns closely, but their stern manner made us cautious. Our curiosity kept us nearby; our fear kept us from going too close.

He had come to investigate an incident in which one villager had attacked another with an axe. Fortunately, the injury had not been fatal. A group of us stood watching in our worn clothes. He noticed me and called me closer. I cannot say what caught his attention. Perhaps it was my curiosity, or perhaps the way I responded when he spoke.

In a firm voice, he asked which class I was studying in. I told him that I had appeared for my seventh-standard examination and planned to go to Gadchiroli, our district headquarters, for high school. I must have sounded confident despite my nervousness. He listened and asked me to meet him at the police station in Laheri, a somewhat larger village about six kilometres from Kukkameta.

I felt happy about that invitation. An officer whom I admired had taken an interest in my studies. I had heard that he was good to villagers and strict in dealing with Naxalites and their supporters. His personality left an immediate impression on me. I wanted to meet him again, although I did not yet understand what that simple wish might mean in the circumstances of our village.

Soon afterwards, I secured admission to the government boys’ hostel in Gadchiroli. Before leaving, I wanted to visit him. My father and other villagers advised me against it. They feared that the Naxalites might interpret a visit to the police station as evidence that I was an informer. Their concern was real. In an area affected by armed conflict, even an innocent meeting could create suspicion.

For me, however, the visit was about school, encouragement and a person I wanted to know better. I could not forget his invitation. Eventually, I went to Laheri and met him at the police station. I arrived with some hesitation, but he welcomed me warmly. The officer whose voice had first made me nervous was pleasant, cordial and caring.

He spoke about my education and several other matters, some of which I understood only partly. I was impressed by his manner. He gave me time and treated my hopes seriously. Before I left, he asked me to write to him regularly. I began doing so, and he replied to every letter I wrote.

Those replies meant more to me than I could have explained then. I was a boy studying away from home, trying to adjust to a different place. His letters assured me that someone remembered me and wanted me to do well. He had difficult responsibilities, yet he found time to respond. His encouragement became a steady presence in my school life.

In the eighth standard, I learned about the National Defence Academy at Khadakwasla, Pune. I became interested in preparing for its entrance examination and wrote to him about it. He replied with encouragement. He wanted to help me continue my education in Pune and prepare for that ambition. During Diwali and summer holidays, whenever I returned home, I made a point of meeting him. He was always welcoming, and I came away feeling more confident.

Then I appeared for my tenth-standard examination. I had promised him that I would score above ninety per cent, but I obtained around seventy per cent. Today, I would not describe those marks as a failure. At that age, however, the difference between my promise and my result weighed heavily on me. I felt embarrassed and thought that I had disappointed him.

Instead of writing honestly about what had happened, I stopped writing altogether. He had never made his care dependent on a percentage. That condition existed in my own mind. I was too young to understand that the people who encourage us often want to hear from us most when things have not gone according to plan.

Around that time, he was transferred, and I lost track of his posting. Through others, I heard that he was deeply involved in anti-Naxalite operations. Our contact ended, but my regard for him remained. Whenever I remembered the people who had encouraged me in my early years, I thought of the officer at Laheri who had answered my letters.

Much later, I found him through Facebook. By then, I had completed my M.A. and M.Phil. at Jawaharlal Nehru University and was working as a Private Secretary to a Member of Parliament. My life had taken me from a small forest village to the national capital. When we spoke again, he was happy to learn about my journey.

His warmth had not changed. There was no sense that I had to earn my place again after the long silence. But he did ask why I had not remained in touch. He told me that he could have helped me. Hearing that, I thought of the schoolboy who had hidden his result and stopped writing. I wished that boy had understood how much kindness was still available to him.

I was even more moved to discover that his family knew about me. His brothers, sisters and members of his extended family had heard of me during the years when we were out of contact. I had continued to think about him, but I had not realised that he also continued to remember and speak about me.

Meanwhile, his career had taken him into further responsibilities, including service with the United Nations and work as an Assistant Commissioner of Police in Maharashtra’s Anti-Corruption Bureau. I felt proud to learn of his service. Yet the qualities I admired most were already familiar: his confidence, his goodwill and his ability to make another person feel valued.

Today, I feel like a member of his family. When I look back at my childhood, I remember forests, friends, songs and the uneasiness of living amid armed conflict. Within those memories, his presence remains especially clear. He showed me a form of authority that could be firm and still be caring.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he had not called me out of that group of boys. Perhaps he saw the conversation as a small gesture. For me, it became a lasting source of encouragement. Shri Pravin More noticed a village child, listened to his hopes and asked him to write. Years later, when that child returned as a grown man, he welcomed him with the same affection.