Friday, 17 June 2016

Discontinued

There is a due process to someone’s leaving.
There is a farewell,
An expectation of return,
Or a recognition of the finality of going.

Even in a farce, you see,
Or any kind of act, for that matter,
Exits for characters are marked as clearly
As their entry.

But when they are lifted out of scenes by aerialists,
Transported through false ceilings
And kept behind cage doors no one knows about,

The act, the actors and the audience are frozen
In perpetuity.

First published in The Kashmir Walla, June 2016.


Tuesday, 14 June 2016

Vaccination

'Let some torment happen,'
A friend prescribes,
A cure to my writer's block.
He's new to the metropolis,
Still with back-of-beyond small town hangovers,
And I am sympathetic that he doesn't understand.
This is not the age of three-day fevers
When you were left to feel breathless delirium,
When your grandmother served you your steel plate (your name reassuringly etched on it) of food and went back to the kitchen
And you treated her with the silence of the betrayed upon returning, for having left you in the first place
At which she frowned and said she had other chores, other people to attend to
Leaving you sheepish about her impatience with the nobility of your tragedy.
(When work relented a bit she would come back to run calloused hands over you and cook something you liked.)
This is a now with no relation to the then
When you waited for your grandfather to come and speak gently while he touched your forehead and announced your temperature without the tedium of a thermometer
(In a manner distinct from when he asked you to translate long Hindi sentences into English)
And you left your head hanging at the end of your bed, inviting a blood rush and a dance of all the stain demons on the walls
As you picked the first song in your head and sang it in a tone that was also a letting out, of a little agony and a lot of ennui
So it hung about in the room long after you had stopped, an awkward guest unsure of its place or the way out
Like the watery dal trail that started from the kitchen and ended in your room
Because of the steel plate of food carried by wobbly hands and knobbly knees.
 
This is not the age of three-day fevers.
This is the age of instant, disease-proof vaccination.
This is not the time for ‘those days’ and ‘those times’, 
To wallow in glorified nostalgia for a not-completely-uncontested-past. 
 
This, today, my friend, I intend to tell him, is the day of 'no matter what; get up, dress up and show up' status messages.
This is when you get vaccines for all the fevers of the season,
Not a three-day leave to watch a fever die of boredom.
That privilege has to be saved for a resort holiday or an 'emergency'.
So pill-popping readies you, dusts the limp pillow that you've become and starches you
For your desk where you sit proud of your victory,
With a stiff approving nod for the figure in the chair that sips coffee but keeps her eyes trained on the screen, alert not to waste a lazy moment.

So, no, I can't just let the torment happen
When there are senior citizens to look after,
When freelancing cannot be allowed to crumble into indiscipline,
When neighbours have to be tackled over parking lot tug-of-wars,
When the gaze has to be returned to leery eyes.

At the first sign of it, torment has to be tackled head on, demolished through immunized determination.
One doesn't just let it happen.
One readies against it,
Prevention being better than cure.
The cure for writer's block
Can be sought through a creative-writing workshop or what have you,
Not through inviting another malady called torment.
 
This is the vaccinated age
Where the pill wins over the will.

First published in 40 under 40: an anthology of Post-Globalisation Poetry, June 2016.

 

Thursday, 9 June 2016

Men have a future, women have a past

A couple of years ago, three of my girlfriends had come over to my place for a sleepover. After chatting late into the night, we were looking forward to waking up leisurely. But around 6 in the morning, I was rudely woken up by the sound of someone banging at the door and shouting. When I came out of my room, my grandmother told me that earlier that morning when she had gone to keep the trash out, she saw someone sleeping with his shirt off outside the door. She took him to be some drunkard who would wake up and walk away in some time.

Apart from what she told me, I knew nothing about this man who was violently banging at my door and shouting loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. I did not know who he was, what he wanted, or whether he was armed. I called the police immediately, along with my driving trainer who lived not too far off. After over an hour of this high drama when all of us in the house were extremely tense, the banging stopped. I opened my wooden door (beyond which was a grilled, iron one) and there was nobody outside. I also contacted my neighbours to ask if they knew anything. Some smirked and said they thought he might have been a "friend" of mine. Another said he had seen him get into an auto, and went to follow him.

By the time the police arrived, having taken their own sweet time as usual, the neighbour had found the guy. Two of my friends stayed with my grandmother at home, and I and another friend went to the police station. We found out that the guy was someone on the run after having crashed his car into an auto in his inebriated state. The meaning of being "wasted" had never struck me so literally; he was so drunk that he had come to my house, taking it to be his own, and was banging to be let in. Even when he became conscious he remained impervious to his surroundings. When he finally came to his senses, he took an auto and ran again.

At the police station, looking at the sunk-in front of his tall and shiny, now squashed car, the police started tch-tching about what a pity it was that such a thing should happen to an "achche ghar ka ladka", "a 'boy' (who was really a full grown man and not a juvenile delinquent) from a good home". Upon seeing me there, the culprit sarcastically said, "Here comes the harassed lady." And his friend started explaining why the guy was deserving of my sympathy, immediately resorting to his friend's sarcasm when I refused to indulge him. My neighbour, who had found the guy, called up my sister saying she should ask me not to file a complaint (my sister said I should go ahead and do whatever I wanted), and the police started asking if I really wanted to get into the "chakkar", the hassle of it all. At this, I lost it and told the police that this was exactly the kind of response that tells men they can get away with anything and discourages women from complaining. They finally registered my complaint, though nothing came of it eventually, and of course no thoughts were spared for the auto driver whose vehicle had been badly hit in the accident.

I was reminded of this incident when reading about the Standford rape case because in a case of sexual harassment, it is easy for people to completely deflect attention from the crime to questions that put the survivor in the dock. But the truth is that impunity to men is not restricted to sexual offences. The "boys will be boys" culture extends to condoning each crime they commit (unless, maybe, they come from an underprivileged background) and anyone who dares to condemn it is seen as cruelly destroying the golden future these "boys" were born to have.

In my case, while the man's glaring action in the present was getting him everyone's sympathies, my "history" of a woman living alone in a neighbourhood of "family people" was the cause of muffled laughter, which assumed that a man who sounded like he was ready to break down my door could be my "friend". (Not too long before this incident, a male colleague had told me that when he asked someone the way to my house, a neighbour had pointed to my place saying it must be the one because "men keep going there".) When it comes to taking a stand on crimes against women, we are reminded each time that women have pasts that would be used and twisted to damn them, while men have a future waiting anxiously to roll out the red carpet for them, under which can be brushed all the wrongs they commit.

First published in DailyO, 9 June 2016.


Monday, 6 June 2016

Tangled Threads: The Uncertain Future of Sualkuchi Silk Weaving

A mekhela chador being tested for authenticity.
North of the Brahmaputra, about 35 kilometres from the capital city of Guwahati, in Assam’s Kamrup district is Sualkuchi. With narrow lanes that open onto built roads, this place between village and town has been known and admired for its silk weaving, especially for the eri, muga and pat silk varieties.
Looms are a common feature in homes here. Mekhela chadors, saris, gamusas – all are produced on the town’s handlooms, using cardboard cards punched with intricate designs that remind one of Braille. Assam has many silk weaving centres. But the reputation Sualkuchi has earned over the years – it was famously visited and appreciated by Gandhi once – for its quality, design and technique sets it apart. Its proximity to the state capital is an advantage, as it adds to its accessibility.
But like other artisan communities in the country, Sualkuchi too has not been able to remain indifferent to the strong winds of free market economics. Customers who value authenticity and tradition still exist, but overall sales have inevitably been affected by cheap substitutes. This trend in turn affects wages while the cost of the raw material, the silk that is woven, continues to rise.
My visit to Sualkuchi in November 2015 aimed to understand how its workers have coped with this difficult transition.
In my prior experiences documenting labour conditions in different sectors, workers would pour forth torrents of information on issues they wanted to share and on which they wanted to be heard. Whether they were hopeful that my documentary efforts would help spread the word about their concerns or whether they remained cynical about the usefulness of the documentation of their lives, they spoke freely and passionately.
Sualkuchi proved to be different from those other places I had studied in that it mostly refused to indulge me, a phenomenon that underlined the limits of my experience. The workers I interviewed were patient and cooperative but did not seem overly interested in sharing information beyond answering the questions I asked. Their answers were also measured and to the point.
Earlier during my trip to Assam, in Guwahati, I met Sriparna Baruah, head of the Indian Institute of Entrepreneurship (IIE), an autonomous organisation under the Ministry of Skill Development and Entrepreneurship. “The weavers are not so aware of market realities. When they do participate in the market tie-ups and training sessions we provide, they are simply grateful,” she said, with concern in her voice. The IIE’s work involves credit linkages, capacity building of weavers, development of value-added products and providing a market for the woven goods. The institute recognises that while elsewhere in Assam weaving may be a part-time occupation alongside other occupations like agriculture, in Sualkuchi it is mostly a full-time vocation and therefore, the needs and struggles of the practitioners have to be understood and evaluated accordingly. Baruah continued, “Our endeavour is that the weavers realise the true worth, the market value of their products. We connect them to entrepreneurs, help them participate in international fairs and introduce start-up funds, for instance, 15,000 rupees for a loom.”
The first place I entered in Sualkuchi was a weaving centre. It was a big hall with a mud floor housed in an ordinary building and had around eight looms. It was called a ‘factory’ by the weavers and the owner, but it looked nothing like the factories I have seen in cities, in which signs of constant, cardiac arrest-inducing anxiety abound. It was around lunch-time and a couple weavers, both women, were chopping vegetables for their meal. The owner told me that the workers enjoy the benefit of flexible schedules and take breaks when they need it, sometimes leaving for a little while during the day, at other times working late into the evening. He added that factory owners have their own problems, when workers ask for a part of their salary or the whole of it as an “advance,” take leave and sometimes never come back, because of which some of them, the smaller business owners, lose all their money. Since I did not know of advance payments as a common practice in employer-worker relations, I asked him more. He explained that since people are poor and regular wages often do not allow them to make ends meet, it is difficult for the employer to refuse when an employee asks for an advance.
A worker in a weaving "factory"
A weaver in her mid-thirties who has been working there for several years slowed her weaving down so I could understand the process. But the coordination of the multiple levels of interconnected threads, the hand and foot movement and the punched patterns on the cardboard sheets was far too complex for me. Each time a pattern emerged on the cloth I couldn’t help but marvel at the result.
Next on my itinerary were some household centres, where often all the adult members of the household take turns at a single loom or work simultaneously at multiple looms.
I asked them about how business was going and they shrugged, saying that it was all right, that one had to make do. In one of the homes, a small, makeshift hut in which the walls, corners and the floor beneath the bed were being used to store possessions, the sole resident was a woman in her seventies. She told me that because she is no longer able to bend over the loom for hours at a stretch, she does not weave elaborate silk mekhelas but only simple cotton products like gamusas. When I asked her if she had any I could buy, she told me that she makes them only on order; after a few are ready a middleman buys them from her and sells them elsewhere.
For an elderly worker, weaving gamusas is the least strenuous option.
In order to resolve some of the issues the handloom industry faces, the government initiated the Weavers’ Service Centre, back in 1978. Its office in Guwahati has a signboard that greets visitors with the message, ‘Hindi bhasha, sabki bhasha’ (literally, “the Hindi language, everyone’s language”).
Somewhat surprised to find such a message in Assam, where Hindi is not the first language, I headed to director Sunder Lal Singh’s office. Inviting me to sit down, he wondered aloud if he should call a technical officer to answer my questions. Sensing his wariness, I clarified that my questions were not particularly technical and proceeded to ask him about the centre’s work. The director said that the number of handloom weavers has been steadily decreasing; the younger generation especially did not want to practice this craft because other jobs generate better incomes. This reminded me of my conversation with a junior government officer in Sualkuchi who spoke with pain and bitterness about how the previous generation in his family, who all wove or did associated work, had struggled to survive and raise their children, and how he would never want to go back to weaving himself.
The government has several schemes, said Singh, implemented through block-level handloom clusters. The service centre imparts training (in designing, weaving, dyeing) and skill upgradation. The trainers are often skilled weavers from the same block. This training is given in accordance with new design trends and demands emerging in the market.
Singh also said that workers could be supported financially through government loans.
While he patiently entertained my questions, I got a sense of vagueness about and distance from the issues being discussed. The forthrightness that ensues from a passionate involvement in the issues being discussed was missing here.
I also tried to contact other government officers, but many of them were unavailable because of impending state holidays, while others referred me to certain books and papers on the subject.
Everyone knows that schemes exist on paper, but when it comes to implementation there is many a slip between the cup and the lip. Mahua Bhattacharjee talks about these failings in her paper Gender in the Silk Industry. She points out that these schemes are often not advertised widely enough for weavers to become aware of them. Then there are malpractices, like the raw silk yarn being bought in the name of weavers and sold instead to the market.
An assortment of popular mekhela designs.
When I returned to Delhi and visited the Assam Emporium, one of the sales assistants there, Dipali Sharma, said that a weaver easily deserves to earn 1000 rupees per day rather than the standard 200-500 rupees per day. This discrepancy happens, she said, because weavers are unable to market their own products. “I am from Assam and I can tell you about this material. But can I really describe it better than the weavers who made it? No. The workers need to be brought to the cities by the government through exhibitions and also get training and experience in salesmanship.” She added that in her opinion, if there had been greater freedom and mobility in terms of marrying people from outside the weaver community in Sualkuchi, the art would probably have spread to other places and grown much more, commercially.
But this appearance of all being quiet on the eastern front, of Sualkuchi weavers having resigned themselves to fate and accepting whatever came their way, was badly shaken in April 2013.
Banarasi silk products, complete with the traditional motifs of Assam, had entered the Assamese market and were being sold locally, at much lower prices than their Assamese counterparts. This was a push-comes-to-shove moment for the already struggling indigenous weaving community. There were massive protests against this imitation and infiltration, and the foreign silk was forcibly taken out of many shops and burnt. At one point the agitation grew violent; the army came in, a curfew was imposed and there were arrests. One of the main demands from the state government was to put a ban on the sale of the Banarasi products.
In one of the factories I visited in Sualkuchi, where all the weavers are men, the memory of the betrayal by fellow weavers and business owners who sold the Assamese designs to Banarasi markets was still fresh. The weavers’ stand was unequivocal, as was their unapologetic assertion of their association with the protests. “What was happening was a death blow to our work and lives,” was what several of them said. Their conviction probably also came from being part of a collective, the Tat Silpa Unnayan Samiti, which fights against imitations entering the market and for the stamping of all authentic silk with the government-approved silk mark.
The silk mark laboratory in Sualkuchi was small, but well-equipped and organised. It is an initiative of the Silk Mark Organisation of India, which operates under the Central Silk Board, Ministry of Textiles. Customers of silk can get their buys vetted here, too. Samples of different varieties of silk, both cocoon and yarn, are displayed. The trained personnel in the lab do not want to divulge the minutiae of the testing process but broadly explain how samples are checked either through microscopic examination of cross sections or by burning and then testing the resultant fibres and odour. The challenge is to spread awareness among the general public so they do not buy products that have not been duly certified through this process.

When Sualkuchi was established in the 17th century by the Ahom kings, it enjoyed the patronage of the rulers, who especially favoured muga, the most expensive variety of silk. Sualkuchi today will no doubt have to come up with options that suit a more mixed market, and to cater to customers who value and are willing to pay for the more expensive varieties both in India and outside, the traditional material will probably have to take new avatars.
Nihar Ranjan Kalita, who teaches at SBMS College, Sualkuchi, and is associated with the Unnayan Samiti, feels that this can be done with government interest and participation. To ensure the weavers get a fair price for their handmade goods, Sriparna Baruah said: “The ultimate answer is cooperatives or producer companies.”
E-commerce is another area that has not been explored enough. Kalita explained to me how many of the schemes that exist do not work so well for Sualkuchi because they are designed generally for the entire state of Assam. It must be recognised, he said, that many Sualkuchi weavers are still weaving because that is their traditional familial occupation, and also that they may not have the necessary modern techniques and market acumen to make it a sustainable profession. The government’s focus is more on self-help groups and individual entrepreneurs. “It may be possible for an individual to get a loan for a loom. But what if a person wants to establish his own workshop with twenty looms?” Kalita pointed out. Apart from training in skills, workers need to know more about marketing, accountancy and distribution. Kalita added that for the migrant workers in Sualkuchi, there should be guidelines to ensure they are not deprived of their social security rights as below-poverty-line or food distribution beneficiaries.
Issues faced by the weaversPossible solutions
Lack of awareness about government schemesAds in multiple media, local languages and remote areas
Sale of cheap imitations in marketUse of silk mark by sellers and verification by buyers
Limited information about rightsFormation of workers’ collectives to understand rights and demand implementation
Lack of market acumenTraining in marketing and distribution
Access only to local markets or middlemenParticipation in national/international exhibitions with governmental help
Low or minimum profit marginsProducer companies/cooperatives facilitating direct sale without middlemen
Sualkuchi weavers have been the subject of many research papers and surveys by textile and design students. Apart from reports of the agitation against Banarasi imitations, however, there has not been much documentation that captures the voices of the weavers themselves. One hopes that both governments and non-profit organisations will work more in this direction, by putting their ear to the ground, and that in the coming years there will be multiple workers’ collectives who will be able to make themselves heard. If this old and valuable part of Assamese heritage is to be preserved, its creators and guardians – the weavers – will have to be given their due.
First published in Eclectic Northeast, April 2016. Subsequently published in The Wire, 4 June 2016. Photos: Uddipta Sankar Pathak.

Thursday, 5 May 2016

This mother's day give motherhood a break, and a lounging chair

'God could not be everywhere, so he created mothers.' Reading a popular quote like this makes me feel like yet another nail has been driven into the cross mothers have been made to bear for centuries. Some men have irritably responded to this observation by saying, 'It’s true that you can never make a woman happy. Assign divinity to her and she would still find a reason to crib.'

Well, to begin with, women don’t want to be ‘assigned’ a status. All they want is to be able to breathe free as people. Since women are often accused of substituting logic with sentiment, let us try to view the argument in as quantifiable a manner as possible. 

Given: Motherhood=Godhood

To prove: A straight-backed chair is more comfortable than a pedestal.


Proof: These are a few tasks gods are supposed to perform:

-to give what is asked for, without asking back.

-to remember that to err is human, to forgive divine; to never falter, to always forgive.

-to never speak/complain, despite what you are forced to take/is flung upon you . . . incessant chanting like the buzzing of mosquitoes into your ears, sticky sweets, canker-ridden flowers, the nauseatingly strong smoke of incense sticks. 

-to get used to being taken for granted, to stay forgotten until you are needed.

As a corollary, the mother-goddess must also perform the above-mentioned functions. Maybe it should be made mandatory for all mothers to undergo acrobatic training, so that cakewalks like these can be managed with perfect ease. Women are damned if they do it and would still rot in limbo if they do not. QED.

My aunt in Bihar once disapprovingly told me of a woman who had reported her son to the police. The son was an old alcoholic and used to beat up his mother regularly. This act of hers turned the whole neighbourhood against her, who failed to fathom the mystery of the ‘kind’ of mother she was. As if they acknowledge the existence of more than one kind! Would the mother’s ‘forgiving and forgetting’ her son’s dastardly behaviour really have been the best thing to do?

One doesn't intend to chip away at the bond that exists between a mother and her child. But is constant self-effacement the only way to prove this love? If a mother wants to partake of the small pleasures of life, it is often seen as a mark of disloyalty towards her role as a giver. Once she has slipped into this part, at no times must she endeavour to shed this suit and live as just another being? And this, when men often cry foul saying that women should ask for what they want, instead of expecting men to understand all their wishes.

Motherhood might mean fulfilment for a number of women. But why can’t other women be let alone to find this completion in whatever else they like? Why should anyone else take decisions about what use we put our body to? It is pitiable when women who have entered the state of motherhood grow to be derisive of other women. They are seen as devoid of all emotions, irreverent about the importance of a ‘family life’. These are perceived not just as lesser gods but also as lesser women, the ones who would never be ‘complete’. It is this attitude which is mirrored in the vehement moral-religious furore raised against abortion rights. 'Vamps' in soaps and films are condemned if they do not want to be mothers, while the heroine is ready to die or have her spouse marry another woman as long as the house gets populated with a pack of robust cherubs.

Under such pressure, even those women who are not ready to meet the demands of motherhood yield and are then left to make regular guilt trips. Golda Meir remarks, 'At work, you think of the children you have left home. At home, you think of the work you have left unfinished.' That working women make incapable mothers is another bizarre, much-peddled myth. Such stereotypical pressures and the accompanying bitterness, on a few occasions, comes through in their relationships with the rest of the family, including the child. Or, as happens more often, there is a rise in the level of expectations she has from the family for which she has put the rest of her life on hold, which they are naturally unable to satisfy. It is not coincidence when women in these situations undergo nervous disorders and clinical depressions.

In The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir has rightly identified the problem, 'The woman who enjoys the richest individual life will have the most to give her children and will demand less from them . . . ' So should ‘mum’ really be the word of the day?

First published in DailyO, 5 May 2016.



Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Are you there, god? It's me, woman.

What is fit to be a sobering moment? A lurking suspicion of whether the rubber left anything inside you? A suspicion that will last till, and if, you menstruate next. Is that life’s way of reminding you that you were going over-the-top with your happy-go-luckiness and needed to be pulled down a peg or two? Is that its way of reminding you of the other side of life, something you aren't completely unfamiliar with, that needs to be dealt with, the side so many other people have to face daily? People who cannot afford to be heady with reckless joy like yours. Actually, it is a sad idea of a joke, a horrible idea of a punishment if devised by some god. ‘Ah! Now comes the time to remind the woman that her body has been designed for torture, not pleasure.’ A sick idea of teaching someone a lesson. 

And what can you do? Get a surgery done and be done with the possibility of ever conceiving, even if you later decide to? Take pills? How many and for how long? Will you always know if something wasn't left behind insidiously, to remind yourself of your place in the world? To remind you that you are supposed to be the pleasure giver and not the pleasure recipient? True, you can end up getting ‘knocked up’ even if you are not getting any pleasure out of the act. But if you accept the role of the giver and accept sex as a price for the protection of holy matrimony, then you also accept the possible consequences of being quick or not so quick with child, depending on when the wheels of time stop turning on your menstrual cycle. 

But bitches that we are, we go on taking risks with our bodies. We go out at night, or in the day, and risk getting raped. We don't just let the slimy gaze of the lecher slither down us but dare him to look us in the eye and bear the heat of the embers. We have protected sex and risk the one per cent chance of it not being protective enough despite the warnings of condom companies. Even when in unconditional love, we make an exception and have one condition, that we won't put our self-respect at stake.

Such are we. We will laugh, we will throw back our heads to register defiance and coolly gaze at god with smouldering eyes, to let him know that we are existing, surviving, living, actually, despite everything as much as because of everything. We won't beg and plead, for we remember and know that we have only ourselves to fall back upon. But we still hope that he (we agreed long back ‘she’ couldn't have been half as unjust) is up there. For we want him to be listening.


First published in DailyO, 27 Apr 2016.






Tuesday, 19 April 2016

What #ResistCapitalism says about our place in the system

Last week #ResistCapitalism trended on Twitter. Twitter’s naughtiness in offering a misspelt C-word set the facile tone of the debate when the opposers of capitalism were accused of not having their spellings right, a sad example of the elitism whose slithering glove capitalism uses to cover its strangulatory hands. Distorting things to this simplistic level went on when those forming the resistance chain were stereotyped as no-questions-asked bouncers for communism and socialism, quoting *yawn* the examples of Russia and China. One does believe that many of these people genuinely want a better world for all and more’s the pity then that such limited approaches’ paroxysms killed the chance of conversations around alternate systems, visions of other isms.
A ‘comeback’ to #ResistCapitalism that kept reappearing with the smugness of a Jack in the box was that the resisters are using advanced technology to tweet and therefore, “haha gotcha”, were actually standing up to a system they were operating within. This arrogance that technology can only be birthed by capitalism negates human intelligence and the entire history of humankind that evolved through discoveries and preserved itself by relying on communal wisdom. Even if capitalism facilitates technology, if we are committing ourselves to saying that the users of technology have no right to oppose capitalism, and that those who do not have access to it should reach out for the gag tape themselves, then the American presidential elections must have seduced us into hosting the death wish that manifests itself as bulldozing brazenness.

Shaming each other for complicity in a system we are trying to resist is not new to us. But it is important to differentiate between a preacher who does not practise from one who is in chains but can see them and is trying to move, between questioning and damning. If shame does not come externally, we take to self-flagellation, which is the masochistic version of navel gazing. Both kinds of humiliation, the type that is externally imposed and the one internalised, divide us and distract us from our collective struggle, for the self can be centred both on the notion of one’s greatness and diminutiveness. And this throwing of punches at the mirror suits our captors just fine.
We lose ourselves in theories, trying to defend the ‘high’ education we had believed in and repeating what it had taught us about ‘merit’-based growth, by first making itself a rare ‘commodity’ and then presenting itself as an award that we hadn't just earned through hard work but had received from a generous benefactor for being the loyalist who suffered many undeserved punishments silently. We use what was supposed to empower us to disenfranchise others, though our own power boosts us only to the extent that we learn to fool ourselves as well as anyone else.
And all this while, the only questions that needed asking were, “Do you feel happy and fulfilled in the present system, no matter what the system’s scientific or household name may be?” If even one voice answers in the negative, it should be cause enough to take another look at the structure.

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