On censorship, surveillance and dystopia

Cynics often take stances that are dark, pessimistic and leave little room for what sociologically could be called an ‘agency’-based approach. Censorship is one such area. Invocations of Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World, conspiracy theories, surveillance societies, are inevitable and unavoidable. Reality, however, to disappoint many, is far more complex and nuanced than ‘governments-out-to-get-us’. But then again, governments are getting us—artists, journalists, or activists, who express dissenting opinions, or upset the status-quo; people who question governments and regimes—both, dictatorships and democracies. The media and culture industries are stronger and more insidious than ever: not only are they manufacturing consent, they also manufacture conscience, often from a moral high-ground. Conversely, there’s also a new wave of media that destabilises these assumptions, with credible and commendable critiques. The picture, to put it in simpler words, is horribly complicated. And because we’re very used to a debate configured in binaries, his often disappoints cynics and their critics.

Last Thursday night, I had the opportunity to attend a panel discussion on 'Censorship and Society', organised by Asia Society India and OPEN magazine. The panel, moderated by Supreme Court advocate, Madhavi Goradia Divan, consisted of brilliant speakers, like Mahesh Murthy, Neville Taraporewalla and Anjum Rajabali. Thus, their expertise ranged from media laws, new and social media, scriptwriting, and cinema. The arguments, therefore, covered a diverse range of topics, many of them discussing the nuances of the right to free speech, freedom of expression, and the right to information, and, of course, the media.

However, this post is not a report of last night’s debate; although, many of the arguments from it shall be the foci of my analyses of censorship, it shall not be limited to the same. In the following segments, I will review some of the pertinent points from last night, and proffer analyses of points which the panel missed out, or did not engage with adequately.  

I

In India, in the past year or more, we have seen an insidious culture of censorship and surveillance. Last year alone, several cases have highlighted this: a Jadhavpur University professor was arrested for circulating a satirical cartoon on Mamata Banerjee; Aseem Trivedi, an activist-cartoonist with India Against Corruption, was charged with sedition for “disrespecting” the national emblem and Parliament; in November, two young women from Palghar were arrested for criticising the virtual shutdown of thecity following Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray’s high profile funeral. At the heart of these cases was the infamous Information Technology Act (2008), and the equally infamous Section 66 A—which according to Divan, is “grossly disproportionate”. The “phenomenal diversity” of the media and the internet, she said, presents a paradox: it is both a liberating medium and an inhibiting one. According to Neville Taraporewalla, while the new hyper-media in India is “extremely volatile”, we still are “a pretty free country”. The need to adapt to these new environments, he felt, is still very important. Mahesh Murthy said that, with the IT Act and liability act, the government has potential deniability as individuals can now decide what is offensive and may issue takedown notices for the same. In most cases, the question is largely about power and political clout, rather than hurting the sentiments of people. Earlier this year, Murthy was charged with defamation along others, by IIPM head Arindam Chaudhury, for posting critical opinions against the institute. 

Anjum Rajabali, who wrote the scripts for movies like Aarakshan, Rajneeti, and the critically acclaimed The Legend of Bhagat Singh, suggested that we be more passionate about our liberties and expression. He cited the cases where films in India have been banned, or censored often under the threat of violence made by fringe groups. In many cases, like Kamal Hasan’s Vishwaroopam, films are banned even when passed by the CBFC. He said that the film community is a fairly strong and powerful group; but producers, instead of challenging these calls for bans and censorships, immediately buckle. The government defending the peoples’ liberties, he said, is a pipe dream.

Censorship, then, covers a myriad range of issues and concerns, and it’s nearly impossible to give justice to—or even list out—all of them. From the panel’s discussion, however, it seemed clear that Murthy and, to a lesser extent, Taraporewalla, were of the notion that we don’t need censorship. Murthy’s arguments included the idea that more repression would lead to the Streisand Effect. We, according to Murthy—and this included politicians, public, fringe groups, etc.—need to “develop thicker skins”; that we “need to protect ourselves from offense”, and not expect the state to do so. Murthy, in my opinion, explained instances of censorship as aberrations: how imbalanced and immature society, and the political class is, to react to criticisms (to his credit, he also said that no society is ever mature). However, this is problematic on two accounts.

Firstly, the media is deeply political; access to media, and the access to representation itself is imbalanced, warped and contingent (this was made clear by Rajabali’s response to Murthy). So, to suggest that Muslims should not take offense at drawings of the Prophet ignores the complex geopolitical configurations in which debates on Islam are embedded and embroiled in. It is, also, a hegemonic system: Muslims may not have equal access to representation without reductionist debates defining what Islam is and how violent it is (see, as an example, the Intelligence Squared debate ‘Islam is a Religion of Peace’, especially Maajid Nawaz’s interventions). One need only look at ground breaking studies on media and culture industries, like Theodore Adorno and Max Horkheimer’s Culture Industry or Noam Chomsky’s Media Control, Necessary Illusions and Manufacturing Consent (co-authored by Edward Herman), for an understanding of how imbalanced, misplaced and biased media representation can be.

Secondly, with the advent of the new media, conventional media has come under intense scrutiny. As Murthy pointed out, the new media (which, he claims is us) has outmoded the conventional media; far more Indians now rely on the web for information dissemination, and access to it; express their opinions on it, and so forth. Thus, any critique of media in the 21^st century has to be a discursive critique, not an objective one. With the sheer complexity of the media, this task has become difficult, if not entirely impossible. And formulating a critique of this shall be my concern in the proceeding paragraphs.

II

According to the Internet World Stats,as of June 30, 2012, there are around 137 million internet users in India, which is 11.4% penetration. And it is only a specific demographic group that has access to the internet, and thus, avenues for representation. Critics of the social media often point this out, but my concern here is with the quality of user generated content. Of course, with limited resources, I can hardly construct trends. But this does not change the fact that there is a lot of hatred, anti-Muslim and anti-Dalit sentiments, misogyny out there on the web.

For instance, the recent phenomenon of ‘Internet Hindus’, and steady rise in Hindutva, is a case in point, brilliantly highlighted by Ramachandra Guha in his book Patriots and Partisans. Misogyny is another worrisome trend. Two particular cases come to mind. A report on BBC Hindi revealed how journalist and CNN-IBN news anchor, Sagarika Ghose and women’s activists, Kavita Krishnan and Meena Kandaswamy were victims of sexist and misogynistic attacks online. Ghose, who was abused on Twitter by right wing nationalists, was called a “high class prostitute”; Krishnan was speaking at a Rediff.com online discussion when someone with the handle @RAPIST posted abusive comments, and asked where he could “rape her using a condom”. Despite the harassment, the chat was not moderated and the handle was not blocked by the site administrators. An apology was later issued to Krishnan (I urge you to read Anja Kovacs' post on what Rediff could have done to support Kavita Krishnan against rape threats).

A plea for more censorship in these cases is very problematic, and often unfeasible. For one, what would constitute censorship here: the fact that members of the public are trying to censure women? Or that we, the more liberal, secular voices, want more regulation? Both these questions only deal with the symptoms: the latter is difficult because most abusers use anonymous profiles or handles, which are notoriously difficult to track. Moreover, the fact that the police and law enforcement agencies simply do not care exacerbates things. Tragically, this leads to public intellectuals and journalists, like Ghose and Krishnan, to self-censor. It is unacceptable that any self-respecting activist or writer, irrespective of their gender and political leanings, ignore such slander and threats, or “have thick skins”, as Murthy suggested.

The deeper problem here is that there is no discipline in using the new media and the internet. While we may celebrate anonymity and anarchy on the web, every time a group like Anonymous or Op India hacks a government webpage (merely a cosmetic exercise in my view), there is no deeper or meaningful engagement with the politics of the internet. Most comments on websites like CNN IBN, or NDTV, or Hindustan Times are trolls, often lampooning the “sickular” nature of writers and journalists. If, as Murthy put it, the internet is a mirror to society, then we are, largely, a very awful society, no?

III

The semantics of censorship, then, can configure our debates and discussion in limited ways. Not that this was a major flaw in the panel; it would be ridiculous to assume that. But it is also equally important that we pay attention to the theme of surveillance. Hugely popular in sociological and cultural studies literature, the theme of surveillance and policing gained prominence with the influential works of Michel Foucault, mainly his book, Discipline and Punish. The radical notion proposed by Foucault was using Jeremy Bentham’s ‘panopticon’ as a metaphor for the policing everyone engages in. Thus, peoples’ sexualities, their health, opinions, and other facets come to be policed by soft institutions, like the market, the health and medical industries. It is important to note that Foucault was wary of configuring panopticism and surveillance in rigid binaries; power, for him, is fluid, and exists in micro spaces and “capillaries”, and wherever there is power, there is also resistance to it. Thus, he recommends that we “cut off the head of the king”; that is, look at power configurations as more fluid and complex, rather than emanating from one particular source, like the government or oligarchies.

Following Foucault, surveillance, then, has a lot of ramifications for debates on censorship: one, there is both abject apathy and brutal repression on the part of the state in defining what dissent or offense is, which influences its response: thus, the women at Palghar were arrested promptly, but women who file complaints receive no action altogether. To put it in simple words: ‘society’ should be as much the subject of interrogation, as ‘censorship’ is.

In an earlier post, I had argued that the arrests of Aseem Trivedi and the Jadhavpur University professor, and the government’s crackdown on the protesters in India Gate after the brutal gang-rape and murder incident, are the result of (what I called) a ‘governance of paranoia’. That is, politicians’ and the political class’ fear of dissent is fuelled by the fact that political leadership in the country has become fragile, tenuous, and must reassert, to use philosopher Slavoj Žižek’s terms, “that the emperor is clothed”. In simpler words, the information society we are living in is more opaque than transparent; information is more readily accessible than its credentials. This makes slander a great political tool. Unfortunately, the real victims of slander—Ghose, Krishnan and the millions of other women—are conspicuously left out.

The debate, thus, must focus on not if we need more or less censorship and regulation, but critically examine the dynamics of the same.  That is, we must constantly be wary of censorship/surveillance of freedom of expression, and of censorship/surveillance of our access to information. It is in the latter that we are often failing.

Education and pedagogy are areas where censorship is most operational. One reason for this, perhaps, is because the link between pedagogy and propaganda is most direct: we saw this in Nazi Germany. China is experimenting on this presently; even in India, the teaching (and writing) of history often reasserts moral values rather than a critical interrogation of the same. But who is it that decides what students should study and what they should not? More importantly, on what grounds are these decisions made? This question: of censorship in education, was the one I posed to the panel. Unfortunately, their response was less than adequate.

There are three particular instances I had in mind while framing my question: one, the Yuva Sena-led protests following which the Vice Chancellor of Mumbai University deleted Rohinton Mistry’s Such a Long Journey from the English Literature curriculum; two, Mamata Banerjee’s move to delete references to Karl Marx from the state board texts, and banning English language dailies from libraries in West Bengal; third, a more general point, that is, assault against scholars for “offending sentiments” rather than the nature or credibility of their work. The examples of the GoI denying historian Peter Heehs' visa renewal, and the Sambhaji Brigade’s ransacking of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute also come to mind. Of course, I concede that I only mentioned the first example, which informed the responses of the panellists.

Nevertheless, Neville Taraporewalla’s reply, where he said we need to agitate more, and, curiously, that we have failed the Anna Hazare movement, was completely beside the point. (In my opinion, the Anna Hazare movement failed itself; as did Anjum Rajabali, if I remember correctly. Do read this post I wrote during the peak of the movement). Madhavi Divan’s response was more articulate, when she said that we need to speak up against such street censorship. However, Mamata Banerjee’s ban on Marx and the newspapers was not street censorship; it was one initiated by the political executive. So was the detoxifying of syllabi by Arjun Singh in 2004. And, if you bear with me, so is the Delhi University’s ambitious plan of the four year undergraduate programme (FYUP)—and I say so because not only does this overburden students with less-than-required courses, but because the poor quality of the same would fail to instill any sense of criticality in them (see Gautham Bhan's excellent review of the FYUP on Kafila). 

IV

As with most discussions I’ve had the fortune of attending, this one, too was enlightening. Certainly, there were several perspectives I came across, many of which I wasn’t aware of, or never considered. At the same time, I was also fortunate enough to find an engaging forum to express and apply ideas I already had.

On a more personal note, censorship is something about which I have very strong sentiments: not because, as someone aspiring to be in the expressing-ideas vocation, I wish to ensure that the creeping political influence is kept in check. But, because by denying access to newer ideas, and spaces for debate and discussion, I believe that we’re inching closer to a kind of dystopia—or, as Francis Fukuyama would have it, a tale of “two dystopia”—where our opinions and ideas would either lead to persecution, or self-censorship, both of which are unacceptable to me. For, as I mentioned earlier, it’s not only the censorship of opinion/expression that we must be worried about, but also that of our access to informed, free, and credible opinions and ideas. 

Notes & Acknowledgements: For the comments made by the panelists, I have, to the best of my abilities, provided quotes, and summaries of the general gist of the discussions. And I take full responsibility of any misquotes, and am more than willing to change them, if credible corrections are pointed out. My arguments, of course, are my own, and I believe I have done enough to specify the same. 

There are several ideas, some covered by the panel and some not, that I have missed out entirely; for instance, Wikileaks, the on-going trial of Bradley Manning, or the United States government’s incessant surveillance of journalists, and even the debate on copy-right infringement and intellectual property rights (like the Delhi University photocopying case). These examples clearly can, and need to, be addressed by any discussion on censorship. 

I am thankful to Nolina Minj, Malathi Jogi, Natasha Patel and Alex Thomas for their reviews of this essay. Unfortunately, due to certain logistical constraints, I haven't been able to make the all changes they recommended. I shall do my best to do so in the next blog update.

Education is sinking India: Some reflections on the state of education in India

Bloomberg TV’s The Outsider, featuring veteran journalist Tim Sebastian (of BBC’s HARDTalk fame), has undoubtedly been one of the more intellectually rigorous TV shows on Indian television in the last year. The episodes covered a wide variety of issues—dynastic politics, women’s rights, education, corruption, and so forth. However, since it is nearly impossible to do justice to The Outsider’s oeuvre in one piece, I shall restrict the scope of this paper to one of their motions: ‘Education is Sinking India’.

Education has always been an area that has intrigued me, both personally as well as sociologically; and being a part of this ‘system’—and I still am—I believed that questioning it from time to time was imperative; not necessarily to formulate answers, but to figure out what’s wrong with it.

The debate on The Outsider brought out some interesting insights; but it was, I felt, also terribly blinkered. For one, Mohandas Pai, who spoke for the motion, kept throwing Chinese figures and statistics, and lamented India’s lost “potential”, blissfully side-stepping the cultural and social repression that the Chinese state forces on creativity and critical thought. The panellists speaking against the motion, on the other hand, just had optimism on their side—or as Pramath Raj Sinha put it, in very clichéd terms: looking at the glass half full.

Education, just like most of the topic covered in previous episodes of The Outsider, in an incredibly complex issue; it is a systemic problem—intersecting with politics, governance, public policy, and infrastructure (issues covered by the panellists). But, it is more than just that: it is also an equally social and cultural problematic, embedded in discourses of inequality, power and hegemony. My argument is that the formulation of the motion itself is erroneous; that, it is imperative we identify the deeper problems in education, and not merely address the symptoms. My focus, therefore, is on three specific areas: the structural problems of higher learning; hierarchy among the so-called “streams” and constructed aspirations; and, finally, the impediments posed by state and political ideologies.

I

Firstly, it is important to look at education in totality, i.e., inclusive of infrastructure, ideology, state policy and culture. For instance, in the debate, Mohandas Pai, in his rather verbose style, threw a lot of names and figures (quite a few of them Chinese statistics), and he did make a lot of sense—particularly his idea of “cramming schools”, like Kota, which train, coach, and brainwash kids in the name of IIT-JEE (Indian Institute of Technology-Joint Entrance Exams) preparations. While Pai’s analysis is incredibly insightful and pertinent, it also runs the risk of being symptomatic. We know that 500,000 students apply for 500 seats. But it is equally important to ask why. I think I may have a part of that answer.

It is important to underscore the fact that education is embedded in cultural and social discourses. As a culture, we tend to give more value to a means-end education, which is one of the reasons why engineering and medicine (and to an extent, commerce as a “stream”) are so popular among the India’s middle-class: it is presumed that these courses come with a built-in industry that can absorb students once they’re done with “education”. In my school batch, out of a hundred-and-thirty odd students, I was among the five who opted for the “arts”—and that too voluntarily. Thus, in the social and cultural discourse, there is a predisposition towards categorising education in these “streams”, each with a predetermined trajectory, and internalised by the student as he/she grows up. The fact that so many lakhs apply to engineering and vocational courses—and not a bachelor’s or master’s course—is indicative of an extremely warped mentality among the general Indian public. Add to this the abysmal condition and lack of institutions for higher education in the social sciences and humanities, and to an extent, the natural sciences—although we do have Indian Institute of Sciences—and, the answer grimly presents itself.

Before I discuss the structural problems in depth, I would like to complicate this argument a bit more. Look at the general attitude towards what can be called alternative educational models, like applied arts or sports. The wider cultural and social system is rigged to continually discourage the student who wishes to make a career in any of these two broad fields. I know people who are slugging away in third-class engineering colleges (if they ever attend college, that is) who did not—were not allowed to, more appropriately—pursue arts or sports despite having tremendous potential.  On a social level, excellence in arts and sports does enhance the cultural capital of the student; but most parents are not very keen that their children pursue these interests professionally—indicative of this nice, little beautiful idea we have of “cultured beings”, who, at the end of the day, would conform and have nine-to-five jobs. Yes, there is a larger systemic fault as well, but I am underscoring the importance of the cultural and social systems precisely because I maintain that subjective interest can be equally empowering for the child.

II

Another important reason why I think education has hit abysmal levels in India is because of two reasons: one, the utter neglect of the teaching profession; and two, the increasing dissonance between schools and institutions of higher learning. One such glaring contradiction is that the term ‘education’, or ‘reforms in education’ fail to address teachers’ education, and the problems of the same. There are tremendous pitfalls and pressures on school-level teaching in the country, particularly the state of Maharashtra. In the course of the academic year, teachers are tasked with bureaucratic functions—within and outside formal academics—like census enumeration, election duty, an ever-changing syllabi and ridiculous pay packets. The majority of teachers, then, hardly have any incentive to engage in meaningful teaching activity (see my arguments in an earlier post).

Higher education, too, apart from a few select institutions and universities, does not attract talent; one reason is the relatively weak theoretical and research-based outlook in academia itself (or, an overemphasis on either); an excessively competitive model; and of course, red-tape, like UGC guidelines on appointing faculty staff—which is why many wealthy families find it more convenient to send their children to less competitive universities abroad, than have then study in, say, a place like Delhi. In order to address this problem, there needs to be an intervention at the schooling level itself; there is a need for flexibility in colleges and universities, which fosters critical thinking; an active pursuit of the re-integration of research and teaching activities. However, it is not merely structural problems that hinder the realisation of this vision for Indian education.

III

The largest and the most glaring failure, finally, is that we have allowed education to be subject to erratic control by political ideology. We are still entangled in the literacy-versus-education debate, failing to see what can be called alternative modes of education; we are also terribly enmeshed in these discourses and constraints: partly because it can be a very powerful tool of state propaganda, as we saw in Nazi Germany and still see in China; and mostly, as one of cultural and social orientation (read: training us as consumers in the capitalistic political-economy). That said, the arbitrariness of political control over education—like chief ministers and vice-chancellors banning specific theorists and authors from syllabi; or newspapers from libraries; or, of political parties “detoxifying” syllabi; or, in political families appointing heads of public institutions—is indicative of paranoia which seeks to affirm political hegemony by stifling the criticality of education (see Avalok Langer's brilliant critique of education in 21st century India; also, see the Delhi University’s latest move to reduce its ‘Indian History and Culture’ course to a “utility toolkit”, which [is] propaganda masquerading as history).

As cynical as we might be, the space of educational institutions still remains one where resistance to political ideology can be articulated. While criticality and creativity are very important points that education has managed to foster in individuals, there is also a need to contextualise “critical” thought, and dismantle its elitist connotations. The criticality of education should extend both outside, and within in. For example, a farmer in Vidarbha may have crucial and critical insights into the workings of state machinery and irrigation policies—better than most bureaucrats. But we do not see him on a show like The Outsider. Education must, therefore, alongside fostering criticality, also participate in an exercise of inclusion.

IV

It goes without saying that there is a pressing need for education to diversify; that it traverses both theoretical and practical planes, and aids in what social sciences call knowledge production—this time, free of ridiculous regulation; because, even with ideological restraints, and “cramming schools”, education may still contribute to the GDP or GNP (as it does in China, we should inform Mr Pai). But I do not think that is a future most of us should envisage for India—a point I cannot seem to underscore enough. Paradoxically, we must work towards problematising education; dismantle the hegemony of elite institutions, and between the so-called “streams”; and address the cultural and social problems. Only then will we be able to make the necessary steps towards constructively helping education to first, aid itself, and then, the country.

Note: This post has been modified since it's first draft, last year, on the occasion of Teacher's Day. The core arguments, however, remain the same. And as I am currently working in a reading intervention in primary school, where most students are from lower SES families, I have realised the need for a sustained argument on education - as a discourse, a profession, and increasing attempts to make it into an industry.

I do think that the question of primary education is most crucial in a country like ours, where many simply do not have access to education, or even that space of learning. Many inequalities, like that of caste, class or social stratification can be addressed more meaningfully and effectively in the space of primary education.

Putting one over the other does not get us anywhere. The failures of higher education can be traced to the failures in basic, primary education; and, our institutions of higher education are also responsible for the multiple failures and shortcomings in the most basic institutions on learning.

The Noble Profession

The classrooms across the city and many of its suburbs are set to wear a deserted look. The children, for one, aren't really complaining. Their teachers, on the other hand, are; not complaining, exactly, but are voicing their concerns over the impending census duty. And, they have every right to protest this "national duty", as I shall discuss it in detail in this essay.

For those who're unaware (yes, I believe there are quite a few), the Census of India takes place every 10 years, to not only gauge the increase in the total population, but to also note the changes in the standard of living, birth rate, family patterns etc. And to carry out this mammoth task, the Government of India and the Census Board delegates this work to the local municipal bodies--in over six hundred districts throughout the country--who in turn employ, or rather enlist the services of civic employees, school teachers etc.

So far so good, right? I mean, this is a duty of national significance and not to mention, of great magnitude. And it is the job of government employees to aid the Government in any such undertaking. This is precisely where the authorities make a mistake.

Enlisting civic body employees is not restricted to a handful of them, being sent to every god-forsaken corner of their respective wards; it usually requires a great percentage of the work force to engage in enumeration, often as high as 60-70% of a municipality's full workforce. To add to it, the teachers, in both aided and non-aided schools are roped in for enumeration. This is not the first instance where teachers are compulsorily roped in for such activities--election duty during the Lok Sabha, State elections as well as the municipality are extremely common, and are, at times, carried out for three years in succession. 

So, who bears the brunt of these "national duties"? The students? Yes, of course; but they're not complaining. Nor are they directly facing any of these hardships, other than perhaps a significant delay in the completion of their syllabus. It's the teachers who're directly, and most affected by such "duties". 

In any democratic nation, people's participation in such processes strengthens democracy, firstly; and then, the people as responsible citizens. But, by what right does a democratic nation 'compel' its people to perform such duties? The very fact of the country being a 'democracy', and the 'compulsion' it has on its people is a paradox. But for the government, these duties are 'justified', as they do not consider 'teaching' a valuable profession; all this as India is on the threshold of implementing much-needed reforms in education, including the Right to Education. 

The potential of any nation is calculated by the quality of its youth, more so, the students, especially in primary and secondary school. And the quality of these crucial school years is directly related to the quality of teaching. The point is: reforms in the education sector are incomplete without key policies affecting teachers' well-being. Many, like the government, are of the opinion that teaching is not a challenging, or a productive profession. Such misguided, and callous, remarks sadly illustrate the real 'illiteracy' prevalent in India. 

With extracurricular duties, like Census enumeration and election duty, both private and public schools teachers are diverted from their school duties, and are even threatened with heavy fines and possible incarceration. The teaching force, thus is stressed from both ends; on one side, they have their official responsibilities in schools, catering to over 60-70 children in each class, along with examinations; on another side, they're coerced into doing these 'national duties'- often during the academic year or even the vacation--whatever little they get. 

I have seen first hand what many teachers (and other enumerators) have to go through, each having to visit about 140-150 households; in one area if lucky, or worse, spread out. Then, there's the language barrier. It's funny how a 'national duty' has its forms printed in the regional language, and requests for these forms in English, or even in Hindi, is laughed off like a humourless joke. To add to their woes, the public who're being enumerated have absolutely no clue about the dates of birth of their spouses, parents etc. and are often very hostile and uncooperative. Even worse is that teachers are paid a pittance, if they're paid at all, that is.

All in the name of national duty.

What I fail to understand is: why doesn't the government employ people, who are currently unemployed, registered in the Employment Exchanges, and, in many cases, are adequately qualified. I often resort to cynicism because of such stark paradoxes: a group of professionals being overburdened, unnecessarily while another group stays unemployed. This is democratic India, I suppose. 

One might say I'm motivated by a personal agenda; my mother's a teacher in a local private school. To that, I say: yes, I am. I know what a teacher has to go through even in regular academic years. Added to that are these duties, and of course, lack of motivation and proper work conditions are a constant issue.

So, is there a solution to this? As always, there is a solution. All that the government and administrative bodies/agencies need is a little creativity, some sensitivity and most importantly, the political will to implement reforms meaningfully for them to make maximum impact. 

Until then, I guess, teaching will remain the "noble" profession that it always has been, in this great nation of ours.