"Why is it important to support Sonam Wangchuk?" I asked her during our routine morning walk today. 

The scientist, social reformer, and educationist has been on an indefinite hunger strike for the past 20 days, literally sitting at Jantar Mantar in New Delhi, waiting for an arrogant Indian Government to budge on a corrupt administration—and, more importantly, the politically dominant education minister, Dharmendra Pradhan, who has the audacity to stay in power while ignoring the cries of students across the country.

"So that you do not get treated by an incompetent doctor who is the product of a rich, nepotistic father" she replied. "And so that you do not die in a car accident after hitting a pothole," she continued.

Paper leaks in competitive exams have been a growing cause of unrest in India. Peaceful protests by students are one way of venting this frustration.

"Doesn't it follow the law of Karma?" I asked.

"Of course it does. It is hard to explain, but I want my kids to be part of a fair education system. Sonam Wangchuk is the name given to this urge for a clean education system that parents of numerous Indian children aspire to," she said.

A man like Sonam is built of divine soil. Governance in India has miserably failed while political leaders shamelessly strive to fulfill their vested interests. Education is power; it shapes the human ability to think rationally and question the regime. It hurts to see the people of India failing to act on these serious issues, while a handful of them, blindly going against their own conscience, support falsehoods and ideologies harmful to national integrity.

Sonam is a phenomenon that was bound to occur. When evil tries to overpower, the good emerges and shines.

India has no idea what a great loss it would be to lose a man like Sonam Wangchuk. Indians are living in an era of blindness, utterly ignorant and quiet about how fools are spending their tax money—and this is exactly the kind of apathy a bad education system will foster.

When an internationally respected innovator, educator, and Magsaysay awardee has to starve himself on the streets of the capital for three weeks just to ask for fair examinations and basic educational reform, the silence of mainstream media channels isn't accidental. It is a designed, calculated absence.

Some people enter your life not as visitors but as lifelines. One such name, forever etched into the fabric of my existence, is Nerkar Taai. I owe my life to her — not in metaphor, but in the most literal sense. This post is not just a recollection of the past; it is a bow of gratitude to the woman who stepped in when everything else collapsed.

With Nerkar Appa & Taai in 2005

The incident dates back to the early 1980s. I was just a baby — barely a few months old, too small to fill a pair of arms, fragile and helpless. My father had just started his career as a banker in Mumbai. With limited means and even more limited financial planning, he had managed to secure a modest one-room-kitchen home for himself and my mother. While that may sound like a humble yet hopeful beginning, the reality was anything but.

Papa, driven by a sense of duty to his own father in the village, would money-order most of his salary home. What remained was barely enough to keep our own home running. Groceries were a challenge. Medical emergencies? Unthinkable.

And then, the unimaginable happened.

One blurry afternoon — a memory more like a faint shadow in my mind — I fell. A hard fall on my head. I had fainted. Blood loss, panic, the kind of silence that fills a house louder than any scream. Both my parents were home. And yet, no immediate action was taken. There I lay, a baby in critical condition, while my father stood frozen, his eyes speaking what his lips couldn’t — I don’t have the money.

Time became a cruel joke. Seconds dragged like hours, minutes like days. My mother, a homemaker with no resources of her own, looked into his eyes and saw no hope, no plan, no lifeline. In that moment of raw maternal desperation, only one name surfaced in her mind — Nerkar Taai. With no slippers on her feet and me bleeding in her arms, she ran. Ran to Taai’s door. She didn’t knock — she cried. Placed my tiny, bloodied body on the floor and pleaded, “The life of my child is now in your hands, Taai.”

What followed might seem harsh, but it was the spark that reignited hope. One tight slap. Taai slapped my mother — not out of contempt, but out of frustration, anger, urgency. “It’s not the money, it’s the time that matters right now,” she snapped. And without another word, she scooped me up and ran to the hospital.

I was saved.

I was reborn that day, not just by medical intervention but by the sheer will of a woman who chose action over excuse. Nerkar Taai and her husband, late Aapa, were my saviours. Their courage and instinct gave me a second chance at life — one I continue to live with a heart full of gratitude and a mind full of unanswered questions.

Even today, I struggle to reconcile with that moment in my father’s life. Was his hesitation a sign of helplessness or apathy? Is it ever justifiable for a parent to freeze — to let worry about money outweigh the instinct to protect their child? These are questions I may never be able to fully resolve.

But what remains crystal clear is the weight of gratitude I carry for Nerkar Taai. When I visited her in 2005 to express my heartfelt thanks, she responded in her usual understated way:

“I just did the right thing.”

Today, tragedy struck again on Mumbai’s lifeline — the suburban railway — as over five commuters fell off an overcrowded local train near Mumbra. This is not an isolated incident; it is a recurring nightmare for millions who brave these trains every single day.

As a child, I remember dreading the moment my father left for work each morning. Every evening, he’d return with tales of near-misses — of the unbearable crush, the breathlessness inside the compartment, of shoes lost and toes stepped on, of being dragged involuntarily by the crowd. And sometimes, the story ended with someone not coming back at all.

Today’s accident is a continuation of that grim legacy. Despite countless lives lost, despite public outcry, the system remains broken. The minister remains indifferent. And the daily gamble with death continues for Mumbai’s commuters.

By Neeraj Shinde
Bangalore, India
http://shindeneeraj.blogspot.com/

It’s not even a year passed with the rowdy bus conductor episode I’d encountered with one of the bus conductors in the Navi Mumbai Municipal Transport, NMMT. Actually, I always wanted to include the whole story of this rowdy bus conductor in my Blog. But, the newspaper stories spoke it all. I am whole-heartedly grateful to the Daily News & Analysis, DNA Team for placing the shocking incident that took place with me in the form of a good, social-awakening story in their news-paper.

But this is not what this post is all about. I am in Bangalore now and have not given up traveling in the local city buses. I usually prefer to travel in BMTC buses to and fro my office and home. And what I’ve noticed is that the bus conductors are smarter than the ones in Mumbai. They have developed a unique way to earn some extra income in their profession.

Well, let me explain this. A bus conductor deferring the return of the money to the passengers due to unavailability of change is not at all new to most of us. I think this must be common to all the places around India. Most of us forget to ask back and forget the money thus, leaving the bus conductor with a profit for which he is knowingly or unknowingly waiting for. The money goes to his pocket; doubtless! This is a common phenomenon and I don’t feel a need to blame the bus conductors here. But certainly, if conductors are denying returning your money immediately despite having enough change then it’s for sure he deserves blame.

The recent bus conductors I met here in Bangalore are further smarter. This is how it goes! Everyday I travel from JP Nagar to Dairy circle in the local BMTC buses. It costs me Five rupees per journey. One fine day when I was on my return journey from my office, I gave a five rupee coin to the Bus conductor. Surprisingly, he gave me a Two rupee coin back. I wondered. Certainly, it’s surprising to discover that the bus fares had slashed down overnight Esp. in this age of inflation. I thought of asking him back to get a confirmation. He nodded and walked away murmuring some words in Kannada. But what was more important here was not the reduced fare, but the fact that I was not given a ticket. And by the time I could see this guy back, I’d got down from the bus. May be he forgot, I thought.

The story doesn’t end here. I was even more surprised when I met another conductor probably, of the same species who gave me a Two rupee coin back and sneaked away without giving me a ticket. I resisted and this time asked for a ticket. Initially, my words were ignored but later considered when I insisted. He asked me back for the Two rupee coin upon which I got a ticket issued. The story was now making some sense. Passengers have an option of traveling a distance worth Five bucks by either paying the entire cost, getting a ticket issued or by paying just Three bucks without a ticket. Smart, isn’t it? This principle is based on ‘mutual co-ordination’ in which the bus conductor earns a couple of rupees more per passenger whereas, the passenger saves a couple of bucks per journey. And this works very well if the passenger is traveling for short distances. Believe me! On the contrary to the mutual co-ordination principle, the conductor would not bother to pay you back your ill-deserved Two rupees if you seem to be very naïve or non-resident of the city. That makes the conductor further richer by Two rupees. Who the heck bothers about BMTC? Seriously, bus conductors of the other cities have lot more to learn from these.

No matter it’s very hard to sustain such instances in our day to day life. Most of the times it makes sense to ignore such occurrences instead of quibbling over things you don’t have your control upon. Esp. when we are aware that there’s lots more happening above mere bus conductors and drives; I prefer not to name them. Still I wish I would have fought here, bringing this clandestine to light; but I don’t want to get featured in the newspaper headlines, again. :(