My room with a view

Their names were Mamta and Munna, she said, when I asked. Minutes later, a gaunt young woman appeared, staggering under the weight of a heavy sandbag. The baby squealed with delight while his sister clung to her filthy, threadbare saree.

A school bus drove up, plush and spotless on the dusty road. Two children got out. The younger one leaped into my arms, the older hugged my waist. I glanced over their heads to find the young woman smiling shyly at me. I smiled back, and for a moment, we both inhabited the special space that only mothers share.

Then the spell was broken. I went back to my third floor apartment, while Sunanda8212;for that was her name8212;went back to hers, a six-by-six-foot shanty on the pavement opposite our house.

Tomorrow morning, my kids will get into their fancy school bus and go to their fancy school. To prepare, someday, for a seat in a fancy college; maybe earn a fancy salary. And Sunanda8217;s kids? They will grow up on the streets, following their parents to the next construction site.

Perhaps, if they are lucky, they will study at a municipal school. There is also the remote possibility that they just might make the cut8212;think Babasaheb Ambedkar, PL Deshpande8212;and, if Mr Arjun Singh has his way, bag a college seat on a caste quota. Or claim a reserved job in a private sector company, thanks to Dr Manmohan Singh8217;s newfound socialist agenda.

But that wouldn8217;t be fair, would it? Because, while Mamta and Munna are handed degrees and jobs on a platter, all our children will have to compete on their own merit. Now surely this is against our fundamental right to equal opportunity! Like it or not, it is folks like us8212;the honest, tax-paying, middle-classes8212;who are the intellectual capital of this country, so we deserve better, right?

Right. Then why do I feel this pang of remorse when I peep through my curtains and see those two little children playing in the dust?

I shouldn8217;t. After all, as leading industrialist Mr Rahul Bajaj has rightly pointed out, our country cannot be expected to compete globally if we are forced to reserve jobs for these incompetent, backward people. And you don8217;t have to be a financial analyst to figure out that capitalism, not socialism, is making India a superpower. Or to conclude that a nine per cent growth rate, an euphoric stock market, and a robust economy are not built by those who repair our roads. Yet our Prime Minister wants 8220;us8221; to share the fruits of economic growth with 8220;them.8221;

Sunanda, no doubt, would have agreed with him, if only she could read! Maybe she would also have suspected that with four states going to the polls, Dr Manmohan Singh8217;s rather impetuous social conscience was probably motivated by good old opportunism.

She might even have told him that asking the private sector to take on the public responsibility of social justice was a bit like asking me to raise her kids. Officially idealistic, but suspiciously like passing the buck.

Besides, if the government was really serious about helping Mamta and Munna, maybe it could begin by reviving its public schools, callously neglected and virtually abandoned by every state education department. Don8217;t forget, you need to learn your ABC before you can go to IIT. Even Sunanda knows that!

Meanwhile, the Confederation of Indian Industry has reluctantly followed the PM8217;s cue, and proffered 8220;scholarship and skills development8221; to 8220;empower the underprivileged.8221; Why go down the slippery path of legalising reservations when there are more, well, civilized ways of doing things? Like the South African Model of using carrots and sticks to encourage the weaker sections to stand on their own feet. And the American Model of Affirmative Action to make them more 8220;competitive8221;8212;an idea that Mr Narayana Murthy, helmsman of India Inc, seems particularly fond of.

My friend Sunanda doesn8217;t understand all this. Please excuse her. Where she comes from, half a kilo of watery dal is more real than promises of a future banquet. And although 27 per cent is just another number, guaranteeing a job for her children sounds much more plausible than making them 8220;competitive.8221; True, Sunanda is shortsighted8212;but then, her life is not exactly visionary.

That night, I planned my own affirmative action. Yanked out the kids8217; old toys, books and clothes, and stuffed them into a capacious shopping bag. Then I went to the window to identify my two little beneficiaries. Yes, there they were8212;surrounded by about twenty other comrades I had never even noticed before. I put the bag away. There wasn8217;t enough in it for all of them. Besides, charity encourages beggary. It would tempt them to sell the things, or take advantage of us.

So here it is again, that 8220;us8221; and 8220;them.8221; The invisible boundary that runs through our country, separating me from Sunanda. And Indian from fellow Indian. It is my belief that when we erase this line and make every citizen count, India will be truly able to realize its full potential. Yet, even to my own ears, that sounds too hopelessly romantic, too distantly utopian. And so, I must switch off my light, and draw my curtain.