Towards protecting women

In the absence of whole-hearted steps to implement the provisions effectively, the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act 2005 is falling short of expectations.

The Delhi High Court ruled recently that a woman can also be held liable under the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act 2005. This the court did on the basis of the interpretation that ‘relatives' included not only male but also female members of a family. The absence of such a provision, it felt, could encourage men to instigate women members of a family to commit violence.

[caption id="attachment_547" align="aligncenter" width="550" caption="In this file photo women take part in a procession demanding effective implementation of the Domestic Violence Act. "][/caption]

The Act came about in response to decade-long pressure from international organisations and activists in India. But five years later, despite noble intentions, it remains an unviable proposition. Little thinking has gone into understanding the context in which spousal abuse overwhelmingly occurs in India. The ground realities have been ignored and the implementation aspects left woolly and unprovided for.

A senior lawyer in the Supreme Court, K.K. Rai, who is conversant with matrimonial cases, says: “The law just does not take into account the realities of the joint family system where female members of the family heap both physical and emotional aggression against a woman. We need guidelines and mechanisms which ensure continuance of the joint family ethos, yet cushion the woman against violence.”

Whereas domestic violence takes place in all social, economic and cultural settings worldwide, in India the difference is that families are conditioned to tolerate, allow, even rationalise domestic violence. Most of the violence takes place inside homes which should offer the woman maximum security. The 2005 law focusses on the prohibition of marital aggression, the issue of protection and maintenance orders against husbands and partners who abuse a woman emotionally, physically or economically. This sounds fine on paper, but a one-size-fits-all approach ignores women who need such protection the most.

The National Family Health Survey-3 (NFHS) shows that the prevalence of violence increases sharply in the absence of education and reduces by half in the case of women who have acquired 10 years of schooling. Both physical and sexual violence are highest among women in the poorest wealth quintile, and it declines steadily with increasing wealth. Given the scarcity of resources, the legislation should have initially focussed on the conditions in which illiterate and uneducated women reside in joint families. Instead, it has painted the subject with one broad brush, seeking to rely on the efficiency of the courts to decide such matters within 60 days.

Administratively, the Act requires each State government to appoint protection officers, register service providers and notify medical facilities for the implementation of the Act. While the Ministry of Women and Child Development and the Ministry of Home Affairs have issued advisories to State governments, with the exception of West Bengal and Delhi no State is known to have appointed independent protection officers even five years hence. Most States have fobbed off the requirement by giving “additional” responsibility to existing functionaries. Rajasthan, a high-prevalence State for domestic violence, has entrusted the already overburdened anganwadi workers who are striving to ensure the supply of nutrition to infants, children and lactating mothers, with the responsibility.

In Delhi where at least an attempt has been made to recruit independent protection officers, Yasmin Khan, a member of the State Women's Commission, laments that it is just not possible to appoint dedicated staff on a salary of Rs. 15,000 a month. “How can a newly recruited MSW [degree-holder], even if she agrees to join, visit homes, draw up reports, seek protection orders from magistrates, create and maintain legal documentation and pursue court directions when she has no help, no transport, no office and no training?”

Tabling figures regarding protection orders issued so far, Parliament was recently given information only in respect of a handful of States and Union Territories. Even here, nothing is known about what the majority of them are doing. The numbers, which have not crossed four figures in five years, are too sparse to inspire confidence. Looking to the findings of country-wide surveys that have shown that over 40 per cent of all married women had experienced physical or sexual violence, the Act does not touch even the fringe of the problem.

The experience of Rajasthan is vividly described by Kavita Srivastava, who represents the People's Union for Civil Liberties and who has been pursuing women's causes. According to her, while the protection officers are in acute need of legal training, the magistrates before whom the cases are presented also need orientation. She feels that scant regard is paid to the 60-day limit, and domestic violence matters are treated in a most routine manner — thus defeating the purpose for which the Act was made. Every case decided against the husband automatically goes up in appeal, and it becomes an unending story. Lawyers get busy converting practically all domestic violence cases into maintenance matters, in the process missing the point of preventing immediate assault and violence against the woman. In some instances, magistrates have issued contempt orders against the very protection officers who stand as a bridge between the woman and her aggressor. In such a climate, how can women expect immediate and sustained protection?

Unlike in the U.K. and the U.S., domestic violence has not been on the radar of the political executive, politicians in general, the police or the media in India. Such cases would seem to lack the sensationalism or ghoulish appeal of murder or rape cases. Repeated surveys have shown that in Indian society, both men and women believe that domestic violence can be tolerated in certain circumstances. These include being rude to the in-laws, not caring for children, preparing food badly or going out of the house without permission. If the vast majority of people accept that this is cause enough for domestic violence, it is doubtful if even the most rigorous protection officer would ever succeed in making inroads into a battered wife's household, leave alone haul up the husband before a district court.

The 2005 Act is impractical and consequently non-implementable in favour of those that need protection the most. Looking at the size of the country and the problem, it would be better to have a law that targets the poorest and the most uneducated and illiterate among women to start with, at least until the mechanisms to implement this nuclear family-lawyer dominated law are in place, if that is what the legislature wants. Until then, the plight of the poorest women — both rural and urban — who get repeatedly thrown out of their homes in the dead of night should be confronted. In the full knowledge of neighbours, thousands of the really poor and uneducated are repeatedly subjected to slapping, kicking, being dragged by their hair; twisted by the arm, forced to have sexual intercourse, even threatened with knives and household implements, as NFHS-3 surveys have vividly shown.

There is no use having a law that is meant for the whole country when there is no one to implement it. Until full-time and properly oriented protection officers are recruited — which seems to be an unattainable target now — a more practical way would be to prescribe summary disposal of cases through weekly courts organised at the tehsil or ward level. The protection officer's responsibility should be confined to giving a report before a mobile magistrate citing two witnesses from the neighbourhood. For every case where a protection order is issued, the protection officer and the witnesses should be compensated in recognition of having successfully brought forward the case for intervention. At the village level, the panchayats as well as the health, education and social welfare fieldworkers and non-governmental organisations could be permitted to voluntarily take on the role of protection officials, to be compensated for every case that ends in favour of a battered woman.

The U.K. took several years to train its police, its health workers and its judicial magistrates on handling the domestic violence law. Such a process has hardly happened in India. The mindset of those who deal which domestic violence has first to be changed before the law can subserve the interests of those for whom it was primarily intended. Until then, it is essential to protect those who have no voice and whose situation is well known to the entire neighbourhood. If the National Rural Health Mission's Accredited Social Health Activists can be compensated for accompanying a pregnant woman to hospital, why not those who accompany a battered woman and present her case before a magistrate? A separate section in the law that addresses the special needs of the most vulnerable would help change the focus of the Domestic Violence Act in their favour.

My mother is 101

Lilla Wagle Dhume is the oldest civil servant who worked for the Government of India. On her birthday today, her daughter Shailaja Chandra remembers her for her determination more than anything else Lilla Wagle Dhume turns 101 today. Many people have asked me the secret of her longevity and what she did to live that long. “You must write about it,” they all tell me. This then is not a perfect picture of a saintly woman. Rather, flashbacks from six decades of daughterhood. Despite a distinguished lineage — her grandfather was among the first graduates of Bombay University and her father was the first Indian Accountant General — she became fatherless at a very young age forcing her to find her own way in life. Today Mrs Dhume is the oldest civil servant that worked for the Government of India; the oldest Cambridge educated woman Professor of English; and the oldest living Principal of Lady Shri Ram College. For someone born in 1908 those are enormous achievements indeed. But today I remember my mother for her determination more than anything else. My earliest memories are of a vibrant, incredibly energetic woman who laughed a lot. Well-heeled in stylish brogues and matching leather bags, she looked comfortable sprinting into the ladies compartment of Bombay’s suburban trains on her way to deliver lectures to MA classes at top colleges in Bombay University. Her rendition of Shakespeare and Milton in mellifluous diction and intonation held her classes spell-bound for 13 long years. This was as recounted to me by top Ministers, civil servants, cricketers and lawyers who had been her students in Mumbai. In 1952 my father deposited my brother and me to live with my mother in Delhi. I was seven. My mother had left Bombay a year earlier having taken the courageous step of joining the civil service as a post-independence emergency recruit. We lived in a hutment in Kota house where we romped with scores of other children while my mother, far from feeling neglected, learnt to drive, to play Canasta and Mahjong. She was also one of the first owners of the new Fiat in which she drove herself to the Home Ministry every day. She stood out as something special in the early 50’s when educated women hardly worked, being content to be mere appendages of their husbands. Despite attending office all day and experiencing the travails of running a house in the days when the Primus stove cooked and heated our bath water, my mother still made the time to take us to plays, air displays, ice-skating shows and the matinee on Sunday afternoons. Grilled chicken sandwiches at Kwality’s and a drive to Tuglaquabad completed the outings. We were certainly not neglected, although I remember being constantly “poor-thinged” by stay-at-home mothers in the neighbourhood, which annoyed my mother no end. But I also remember what a strict disciplinarian my mother could be when it came to finishing things on time. Mealtimes were mealtimes. Getting into a night suit and brushing one’s teeth were enforced with military precision and I recall many a tight slap for not completing my homework and fibbing that none had been assigned. Later when I joined Miranda House, where I had the time of my life savouring the heady pleasures of performing on stage, I remember seeing a shining black Fiat outside the Principal’s office. My mother had taken leave from office and driven down to ask the Principal to end my forays into histrionics which were begetting third division marks. I hated my mother’s domination. Later I often wondered where I would have ended up had she not disciplined me, undaunted by my sulks and tantrums. She has always been deeply spiritual. Not a day has gone by when she has not lit the evening diya and recited aarti, her resonant voice now a mere wisp of what it once was. Visits to the Ramakrishna Mission, the Sai Baba Temple, and Thursday pujas were her passion. Readings from the Bhagwad Gita — mostly in Marathi — were essential to her life, no matter the pressures of running my household and managing my children. She spent hours translating Marathi spiritual books into English, for no one’s reading but her own. I now have crates full of those books and jottings, neatly covered in brown paper. In all honesty I cannot think of a single person who would read, imbibe and respect those books as she did. Something about her stupendous willpower. Within seven days of my father’s sudden death in 1962 she was back in office. The bad news had come abruptly through a terse trunk call from Bombay on a Diwali morning. She was suddenly left alone in the world with two teenagers yet to find their moorings, little wealth and no props. But it was her example and strong work ethic that was the best example and which became a passport into the Foreign Service for my brother and the IAS for me. She played no role in that: never pitying herself or goading us to sit for the examinations; her personal example did more than a thousand words could have. But the joy of seeing her children on track was short lived. A spinal tumour left her unexpectedly paralysed in a Bombay hospital when she visited me over Christmas vacation. She was then the very popular Principal of Lady Shri Ram College in Delhi and as she signed her resignation letter from the hospital bed I saw quiet tears but no remorse or rancour. I continued to watch her inert form every day, a crumpled shadow of her former self. After nearly five months in that motionless state, movement began slowly returning to her toes and then her feet. A year of intense physiotherapy followed, when sheer determination forced life back to those wasted muscles. Visiting friends and relatives and even hospital nurses stared at her like the dead coming back to life. Over several weeks she forced herself to sit, stand, walk and finally, on returning to Delhi one year later, to actually drive her Fiat once more. When I got married, she became a member of my family and accompanied us to Manipur, the Andaman & Nicobar Islands, even Swansea in Wales, making and keeping more friends than I did. She brought up my children with all the affection and care she was capable of. In more than a score years to follow she gave me the opportunity to stay as late in office as I needed to, to travel, to learn golf, and teach my children swimming by ridding me of the quotidian drudgery of domesticity that has grounded so many female careers. But once again an accident followed by fresh hospitalisation left her with a shortened leg that confined the rest of her life to a wheelchair. For the last 22 years I have heard no protest or complaint from her; not once. Instead she has used her captivity to read, to knit for my children, to write letters all over the world in flawless English and perfect handwriting and to telephone friends and relatives every day, chatting about anything from household hints to regional recipes. A combative game of Scrabble would absorb her for hours as she plied her opponent — anyone of her six grandchildren — with samosas and gulab jamuns from Bengali Market, pots of tea and vignettes about her life as it was more than half a century ago. With each passing year she lost something precious but it brought nothing more than a short-lived grimace to her smiling face. I remember the day when she could no longer hold a pen, sadly putting an end to one of her greatest joys: writing. The serial exodus of her beloved grandchildren to the land of no return, USA, created a void that for the first time showed the vulnerability she felt inside. Then, imperceptibly at first, came the blurring of vision making television more and more invisible. Yet even today she strains to watch Tendulkar score a century and perks up when Karan Thapar punctures arrogance. The maturing Shobhaa De — her one-time colleague’s daughter — still provokes a comment or two from her, as do some others. With each passing year the shock of becoming increasingly dependent on support systems and care-givers would have devastated stronger men and women. But not Lilla Dhume who has clasped life thus long because she did three things differently: first she sought and found solace in spirituality. Second, the capacity to find joy in the small pleasures of daily life — a telephone chat, a good cup of tea, a new recipe — were savoured until they became second nature. Most important of all she developed the capacity to bear no bitterness, no malice, no envy, all the while encouraging me to think the same way. Today, when we celebrate her 101st birthday, what will I be thinking of? Of course my love for my mother, but more importantly I salute her as the longest living icon of women’s emancipation, one who actually showed the world what will-power can single-handedly achieve in a man’s world, at a time when few women went to college and even fewer sustained careers. Lilla Wagle Dhume, has borne herself beyond the promise of her age, and has done, in the words of Shakespeare, “in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion.”

Needed, culture of ethics

Societal pressure forces us to exhibit success by society’s standards. It’s time we shun corrupt practices and realise that ethical principles lead to responsible business


I have often wondered why there exists a compulsive need in our society to display oneself and one’s family as always being on top of the world. Why is it necessary to make known, howsoever subtly that one has achieved more than one’s peers? Why is there a societal need to conceal failures — lost jobs, broken marriages, wayward children, financial difficulties, and career and post-retirement frustrations? Why is there a societal obligation and an internal pressure to conform, to compare, to judge and to comment on the performance of others, while suppressing what is murky in one’s own world?

Increasingly the world is looking for ways of admitting the truth, be it in viewing relationships at the level of the individual or the relationship of large multinationals with their clients. That being so, there is a need to think differently about so-called successes and achievements and to take a look at how efforts are being made elsewhere to face the truth and build a climate of trust.

Recently I was asked by a French television company that had been conducting thousands of interviews around the world to participate in an impromptu interview. First I saw the preview. It could be a farmer in Cambodia, a scarfed Sudanese student, a French grandfather or a Swiss fisherman. All the interviews were recorded straight into the camera and the questions were extremely basic but actually seeking answers to what people across the world were asking to be told. Because no one had ever asked these questions of me and because I was certain none of my friends and acquaintances would ever see the photo exhibition, I found myself opening up to a complete stranger and the camera.

The questions went like this: What is your earliest memory? What does family mean to you? Which was the happiest day in your life? Which was the saddest day in your life? What is the meaning of love for you? Did you feel inferior to your husband when you were working? Did you feel superior? Is there someone you have never forgiven in life? Do you feel that your life has been happier than your parents’?

The idea of such video-based interviews was to capture what people actually thought and how they responded when asked personal questions when the mask was down. Unexpectedly I found myself answering what I would never have admitted, face to face. Because all of us are conditioned to fall into stereo-types and wear a mask of contentedness before the outside world; because there is societal pressure to exhibit success by society’s standards of success. And because I knew I was not being judged by viewers across the globe, and there was little likelihood that anyone in India would ever see my responses, I spoke from the heart and truthfully.

And soon thereafter another unrelated but relevant experience came my way. I was a part of a conference on Re-Introducing Integrity and Trust in Business held at the Asian Plateau at Panchgani. Again I heard a constant plea to shun the mask that businesses don in the quest for winning the battle to lose the war. The managing director of Siemens, Mr Armin Bruck and Mr JJ Irani from the House of Tata shared the dilemmas that had beset their companies and laid bare examples of how success pegged to unethical practices was ultimately a disgrace to the company and no success at all. Attended by participants from Japan and a few other countries the underlying theme stressed the need to stop judging success by man-made standards and instead nurture more trustful relationships. Because in the ultimate analysis ethical principles lead to responsible business — companies that respect not just shareholders but a wider world of stakeholders. In the long run, adherence to principles was shown to have earned respect and better business.

The conference highlighted how in 75 countries covering over 2,50,000 employees, the strength of ethical culture was being reassessed. ‘Tone at the top’ openness of communication, whether unethical behaviour was addressed quickly and fairly, comfort levels in speaking up had become the new benchmarks to judge the integrity quotient of companies-not cutting corners for quick profit making.

In this it was important to understand what misconduct in business included. Harassment, inappropriate behaviour, fraud, stealing company property, accounting irregularities and business information violations were higher across Asia than overall in the world. On the other hand Asian countries fared better than the rest of the world when it came to aspects like avoiding conflict of interest, following health and safety policies, avoiding alcohol and drug abuse and insider trading. So there were cultural differences in attitudes to conducting business which ultimately stood rooted in individual behaviour.

It is evident that there is now an effort both at the individual and collective level to respect frankness and truth over subterfuge. It will take decades if not centuries for this ethos to percolate into politics. But in everyday life it is possible to salute honesty and integrity when we see it. Only then can these attributes get the nourishment they need to grow and spread.

Make babus accountable

The current system of endless procedural delay in deciding whether a Government employee has violated rules or indulged in corrupt practices ensures that the guilty are never punished. Often honest employees are needlessly harassed. We need a new system

If anything infuriates citizens, it is the absence of accountability among Government employees. Confronted with examples of this almost everyday, it is assumed that corruption within the system allows wrong-doers to get away. The real reason is because the disciplinary rules that govern the conduct of Government servants require impossibly long and cumbersome procedures to be observed, in the name of natural justice, leaving loopholes galore. The result: Not even a fraction of those that deserve punishments ever get penalised; instead a number of honest officers get stigmatised by remaining under investigation for years together. A simple, sensible and fair system of dealing with misconduct is badly needed.

The second Administrative Reforms Commission lamented that “dilatory disciplinary proceedings make a mockery of any attempt to instill discipline and accountability”. But the Commission instead of suggesting a workable alternative capable of immediate adoption grandiloquently recommended the repeal of Article 311 of the Constitution; also adding a new legislation under Article 309 to its wish-list.

First the history: Sardar Patel independent India’s first Home Minister favoured giving civil servants protection to enable them to be frank and impartial. So Article 311(which embargoes the dismissal, removal or reduction in rank of a Government employee without enquiry) came into being and has remained in the Constitution ever since. The ARC felt that the protection given by the offending Article had bred a false sense of security and given excessive protection to Government servants. Hence the recommendation that Article 311 be repealed — a step which was not attempted even during Emergency when the Article was amended to provide for specific situations when an enquiry could be dispensed with.

The recommendation to repeal Article 311 is just hot air. First there is the implausibility of Opposition parties ever unifying to pass a constitutional amendment and that when it is clearly anti-sarkari mulaazim. Second, the amendment process would require the co-operation of State Governments in respect of the All-India services which will never come. Third, the possibility that the repeal of Article 311 might be seen as an attempt to alter the basic structure of the Constitution (shades of Keshavanand Bharti) cannot be ruled out. Besides it is no one’s case that an enquiry should not be held at all. That would be untenable in a democracy and would straightaway militate against the principles of natural justice.

Instead, the ARC should have suggested urgent modification in the existing disciplinary rules. These rules notified in 1965 draw their authority from Article 309 of the Constitution and not Article 311. It is there that change is needed. If there is one thing that terrifies Government employees it is the fear of getting caught in the web of a vigilance enquiry — a predicament which by itself is worse than being penalised. It suspends the official’s chances of getting promoted or posted in a position of significance for years together — decades in several cases. The situation has a catastrophic effect on the social standing of the officer, distresses his family, and worst of all, it deters him and numerous others from displaying any initiative — ‘better safe than sorry’ as the saying goes.

But the more dangerous fallout of the vigilance enquiry phobia is the proliferation of the committee culture. Files and decisions move higher and higher up the hierarchy and in the process the purchase of essential equipment critically needed for defence, infrastructure needs, and health gets deferred, often causing irretrievable harm to our preparedness on vital fronts.

An overhaul of the CCS CCA Rules 1965 is, therefore, urgently required. Since the Rules draw their strength from Article 309 of the Constitution and not Article 311, the modifications can be effected straightaway through an executive order; as neither Parliament nor State Governments can or will impede the process.

All enquiries should start with the issue of a written chargesheet, and proceed to the consideration of the charged officer’s response before an interview board, (this is the system in the UK and has been mentioned by ARC also.) The present judicial kind of enquiry should only be preferred if at the end of the meeting the interview panel feels that the facts and officer’s defence points to something serious, which could result in dismissal, removal from service or reduction in rank.

For all other cases, the finding of the panel on the culpability of the officer or his exoneration as also the quantum of punishment to be meted out should be final — allowing one appeal where the appellate authority would have powers to mitigate, but also to enhance the punishment, if warranted.

By bringing in a new set of disciplinary rules under Article 309, the Government can change the way its officers perform. It would boost the morale of honest officers and restore lost initiative. Prompt punishment if given to a few will immediately instill a fear of wrong-doing and a respect for discipline-attributes which have become anachronisms in our feudal systems. When the upright can be dangled as criminals while culpable courtiers can get rewarded, where is the encouragement to demonstrate probity in public life?

Going against the grain

As the Alumni Association of Miranda House chose to honour three of its former students, new generations continue to graduate as indomitable women with minds of their own, unshackled from the stereotype of ‘Indian womanhood’ that the founder sought to mould

Last week the Alumni Association of Miranda House chose to award three of its former students, resurrecting two of them from the 1960s and one from the 1970s. This article recapitulates a few earthy gems that shone before a hall packed with faculty, students and alumni of Miranda House.

But first a little background about Miranda House. This college for women was the dream-child of Sir Maurice Gwyer, Delhi University’s first Vice Chancellor. The then principal recalled three reasons Sir Maurice gave for naming the college Miranda: First, Carmen Miranda was his favourite actress; second, his daughter’s name was Miranda; third, Shakespeare’s Miranda would be a good example for the young women passing out from the college. Miranda is the lone female character in Shakespeare’s play The Tempest the very embodiment of purity and goodness, undefiled by the (male) world outside.

This year the youngest recipient of the Alumnae Award was Anita Pratap the first Indian woman to become a television journalist with CNN and an intrepid war reporter. Dressed in a closely fitted silk jacket in flaming red she dazzled onlookers — as far removed from pictures of the virtuous Miranda as was conceivable.

Anita began by describing hostel life in Miranda House where she roomed in close vicinity to the feisty film director (to be) — Mira Nair whom she described as a compelling senior, her flashing eyes commandeering complete obeisance from the hoi polloi of female undergraduates. The intensity of a single look made her targets cower and scamper from sight, so overpowering was her personality even then. Recounted Anita Pratap, “One night Mira sent for me. I was scared stiff” she continued, “but there being no alternative I lugged myself to the drama queen’s room not knowing what to expect. Mira was reclining on the bed in Begum like splendour as she beckoned me with two raised fingers to come and sit by her.”

Mira leaned over and asked, “Do you like boys?”

“I don’t know,” the 16-year-old Anita replied. She recalled then what Mira had sighed in response: “I like girls.”

The audience exploded as Anita’s eyes glinted with mischief and mirth. (How, now Sir Maurice?)

Ms Indira Rajaraman, one of India’s leading economists and the only woman member of the present Finance Commission (and perhaps its one dozen predecessor Commissions too,) stood behind the podium next, dressed in a non-designer sari, no make-up but still looking as she had some 45 years earlier — the same earnest, thoughtful face and the same soft, but blunt way of talking complete sense. In her speech she decried the fact that men (in office) spent so much time doing absolutely nothing, obsessed with cricket scores and similar trivia. She spoke passionately about hurdles that women encountered in a chauvinistic world where men’s attitudes had changed not a jot.

Her daily experience of 18 years as one sardine packed in the front half of the Karnataka State Transport bus while commuting to IIM-Bangalore where she was a faculty member, had exposed her to the throbbing realities of a world of illiterate, peasant women and their brood of bawling infants; but it was there that she imbibed lessons about the strength of togetherness and compassion, something her pristine education had never prepared her for.

As first among the speakers I regaled the audience with my status as Miranda’s Prima Donna on stage and how from bagging one leading role to another, I found myself in the dream role of the goddess Hera in a hilarious comedy titled The Rape of the Belt. I recounted how as I ascended the dais from one end of the stage, I scrutinised a gangly youth seated on Zeus’ throne at the other end. His gloomy face and long legs and ‘pap’ white pants made him look even gawkier. I tossed my long, thick plait behind me and asked my female co-star snootily, “Who is that ugly fellow? I have never seen him in Stephen’s before.” With similar disdain she replied, “He’s some guy from Kirorimal yaar — his name is Amitabh Bachchan.”

That brought the roof down but even more so when I told them that after three rehearsals, I was yanked off the stage when my mother confronted the principal with my third division marks in the terminal examination. Alas there was no option but to renew reciting Paradise Lost.

Drawing on experiences from my long career in public administration I encouraged the students not to equate a career in the civil services with babugiri or boredom. Working on a scale in public service could open opportunities to improve not just hundreds, but millions of lives. Given perseverance, stable domestic arrangements and a little luck, success was assured, no matter what people who could never clear the civil service examinations might say.

Sir Maurice Gwyer’s Victorian ideal of the perfect female figurine inside a gilded box was shattered long ago. New generations of Mirandians continue to graduate as indomitable women with minds of their own, unshackled from the fixed stereotype of ‘Indian womanhood’ that Gwyer sought to mould.

Needed, helping hands

Instead of creating a sub-caste of rural doctors that will willy-nilly opt for the allurement of urban medical practice sooner than later and abandon the rural populace, the licentiate system of creating a cadre of non-doctors authorised to conduct limited professional practice must be revived

The Medical Council of India has recently decided to address the glaring shortage of doctors in rural India. As early as 1996 the Central Council for Health and Family Welfare, had unanimously decided to make rural medical service compulsory for new doctors. For 14 long years every Health Minister has repeated this aspiration, only to have the idea trounced by MCI as ‘unfeasible’. The council has consistently argued that doctors cannot function in the absence of “proper infrastructure”. Hence the recent decision of MCI to confront the shortage of rural medical manpower by creating a new stream of doctors drawn from rural areas, for rural areas comes as a surprise.

According to reports, these doctors would undergo a four-year course as against the five-and-half-a-year degree course prescribed for MBBS graduates. District hospitals would be used for medical training and the entrance eligibility of candidates would hinge upon continuous residence in a rural area. This way MCI hopes to catch 12th pass science students from rural secondary schools and convert them into ‘basic doctors’ and keep them rooted there. Is this fair? Is there an option?

There are 6,00,000 villages in the country, tens of thousands of which are located at a distance of more than 10 km from a Primary Health Centre and devoid of traversable roads. The amalgamation of GIS maps and census data portrayed on the website of the National Population Stabilisation Fund shows how PHC’s established in more than 300 districts out of 620 districts remain clustered in privileged talukas, even as interminable lists of villages with populations running into hundreds of thousands remain without reachable medical cover. In the foreseeable future it is unlikely that new PHCs would get established to cover the gigantic gaps that exist in the spatial distribution of rural health facilities, particularly in the Hindi belt states. It is even more improbable that new doctors moulded from the rural hinterland would agree to cater to such remote areas for long before the lure of urban practice entices them.

President of MCI Dr Ketan Desai is sanguine that “such doctors would not be interested in learning about kidney transplants and angioplasties and would instead concentrate on local diseases and basic health problems of villages.” The inequity of sculpting a second class set of doctors only for rural areas does not seem to have struck the council. As to how overworked, poorly staffed, undeveloped district hospitals that cater to thousands of patients and exist as such in more than half the districts of the country can become training ground for doctors remains doubtful. Training imparted in this milieu can hardly convey the essentials of anatomy, pathology, microbiology and pharmacology which are essential to secure grounding in medicine.

It would have been far more practical to have revived the idea of licentiates a system that was very much in practice in India, before it was abhorred by Sir Joseph Bhore in 1946, who despite strong dissension from several Indian members of his committee abolished the scheme forever. The Western medicine doctors that came into being then became the only source of medical care.

The revival of the licentiate system — preparing a cadre of non-doctors authorised to conduct limited professional practice — was recommended by the National Health Policy 2002 and later by a Task Force on Medical Education in 2007. Nurse practitioners, and medical assistants handle patients in rural areas in Canada, parts of the US and the UK even today. Policymakers in India have not considered this alternative seriously because they are influenced hugely by what the MCI and the Indian Medical Association think and want. The licentiate idea is an anathema to the MCI and the IMA, because both the bodies are strongly political and the only way to maintain and expand the constituency of voting doctors is to keep medical practice confined to doctors. Witness the brouhaha created each time there is a move to involve even the five-and-a-half-year degree holders of Indian medicine.

The way the health infrastructure is clustered in more than half the districts in India, the needs of people living there would continue to be disregarded if a workable alternative is not found. Were licentiates to be re-introduced, they would be akin to diploma holders on the engineering side. They would be eminently suited to give the first line of medical advice, provide basic treatment and to make referrals. They would have no claim to be called doctors but would function as a strong bridge, particularly if the advantages of telemedicine and mobile phones are used imaginatively. Looking at the scale of deprivation that exists in rural areas, there is an urgent need to establish a separate council to regulate the education and practice of such licentiates.

Before Joseph Bhore, two thirds of the practitioners in India were licentiates. We need to reconstruct that bridge instead of creating a sub-caste of rural doctors that will willy-nilly opt for the allurement of urban medical practice sooner than later, leaving the rural populace where they are.

The elite’s naïveté

It is not enough to berate politicians and blame them for all our problems. The solution lies in engaging senior leaders in serious debates and force them to take a public stand on a slew of reforms. Then hold them to their commitment and make them accountable

A spate of editorials and articles has been warning us against spearheading hate campaigns against politicians. Mr S Gurumurthy writing for the New Indian Express admonished channels for championing ‘Page 3’ protesters as representatives of public reaction. He cautioned against targeting politicians as a class thereby shifting accountability from those directly answerable for the 26/11 intelligence and security failures. Second, by demanding Army rule the very foundation on which democracy rests is being questioned — a dangerous trend indeed.

In a similar vein Mr Shekhar Gupta ran a leader in which he cautioned the upper crust (of which he admits being a part) that only because it has successfully managed its own private health care, schooling, electricity, water and what not, to think carefully before attempting to manage law and order which is an altogether different story. He harks back to South Africa where the Whites despite being armed with automatic weapons and the authority to shoot (Blacks) at sight, only ended up becoming detainees in their own homes.

Mr Vir Sanghvi was more direct when he said that he was appalled by the emerging rubbish from the ‘Frangipani-Vetro set’ — “don’t pay taxes; give up democracy; hand the country over to the Army; refuse to vote”.

There is near universal unhappiness with the ‘Page 3’ chatteratti having been given an outsized platform to expose their naïveté and elitist solidarity. Until the shootout of 26/11 this mollycoddled set had enjoyed charmed lives which they constantly remind the world they had earned or inherited and are now free to enjoy. They had pretty much escaped contact with human bodies in smelly polyester glued together in suburban trains — the obvious targets for terror attacks. It was inconceivable that pristine Taj and Oberoi snuggling next to the Arabian Sea would ever become targets, leave alone harbour terrorist desperados. Butchery inside those aristocratic interiors that had hosted the most memorable weddings, celebrations and rendezvous was unthinkable. Therefore, when the attacks did occur in those seemingly impregnable social fortresses, the rich and famous sprang back like injured leopards using the idiot box to bare their teeth.

In the ensuing public purging of emotion, the extent of ignorance about basic tenets of the Constitution of India became shockingly clear. Complex issues involved in fighting terrorism in a federal system of Government were ignored as the English-speaking glitterati ranted on. Without an iota of understanding about the nature of the Indian polity, the seeds of unrest were scattered over impressionable viewers. The result? Digression from the core concerns of fixing responsibility and extracting a commitment on drastic reforms that have long been overdue.

So what can now be done? To begin with hasten investigation, identify and punish those that despite having access to information (which could have made the difference between life and death) fiddled away. Today after more than a fortnight there is no news on that front. Apologising is just not enough. It is expected that security concerns must be placed above buddy rights and visible punishment meted out not just to vindicate those who need not have died but because this alone would ensure that things are better if this happens again.

At the same time democracy must be strengthened rather than scrapped. Unless we improve the quality of our leadership, lapses in governance such as those that marked the debacle in Mumbai will not end. At the same time, all politicians must not be clubbed with a handful of jerks whose conduct has been crass. By overplaying the misdeeds and individual shenanigans of a few, the electoral system should not be castigated unfairly. That is India’s biggest USP and no one — least of all ignoramuses — should be allowed to belittle it. Maximum concentration should be placed on removing the root cause of bad governance not on dumping the political process itself.

With Lok Sabha elections upon us, this is also an opportunity for the voters to demand change. Should MPs that represent only 20 to 30 per cent of voter share and often half that be considered as having the mandate to represent over a million people in a constituency? Should coalition politics be allowed to hold governance to ransom? The existing provisions of the Constitution and election laws have catapulted most parliamentarians where they are today. As direct beneficiaries of such a system they will hardly be persuaded to bring change. Incumbent Governments can do it if political parties reach an understanding, but who is to motivate them?

Since all political parties are bothered about how they look on television and get reported in print, instead of giving space to the enervated voices and predictable arguments of party spokesmen, why not engage senior party leaders in serious debates and force them to take a public stand on a slew of reforms? Let the public see what each party stands for on vital issues that impact negatively on elections, governance and security. Ask the leader of every important party to explain his party’s stand on specific reforms. We need leaders of political parties, including regional ones to be publicly confronted with the urgency with which change is needed. On handling internal security, on financing elections, on letting party MPs vote on critical national issues by conscience, on prescribing minimum standards of education for candidates and a minimum threshold of voter representation to get elected.

The tipping point has come. Monday’s assembly results have demolished all forecasts. There is evidence now that people want good governance. Sheila Dikshit has won not simply because of her personal warmth, but because the effect of what she was doing was visible with each passing day. Voters did not want progress to be disrupted. Uma Bharati, despite her formidable record as a vote-getter, lost because her ideas and passion for cows do not denote progress.

Both women’s agendas were well-known. One won, another lost. In both cases the voter knew in advance what the aspirants intended to do on things that affected them. Today only TV channels have the power to extract commitments from political leaders on major issues displayed on millions of screens. The time to confront the leaders is now.