Thursday, June 14, 2012

Healthy Tasty Cake! Multi-Grain, Beetroot Orange-Peel Cake





This recipe is an improvisation.

The author of the original is Nutan Pandit, whose Natural Childbirth Classes I attended in expectation of the arrival of my child. Among the many friends who had recommended these classes, Arpita Chatterjee clinched the issue by telling me about the wonderfully satisfying cakes that were served there. So, I went along, gratefully ate the cakes thoughtfully dished out to the legitimately hungry women (and their spouses), in between taking notes and practising the breathing and other exercises, and requested Nutan to share the recipe.

Of course, I had been baking much before I attended these classes. In fact, cakes and soups were probably the only categories of food that I was good at making. With the reputation of being ‘bright’ at studies, nobody seriously expected me to enter the kitchen, even when I had finished school and college. So it was that, when I got married fairly soon after I was officially bestowed a Bachelor’s Degree in Architecture, my list of culinary accomplishments was rather short. My mother-in-law skilfully parried queries from her relations and friends about my abilities at making ‘sukto’, malai chingri’, alu-posto and other such Bengali delicacies, by elaborating on the range and quality of these two items that I could produce.

My cakes though good to eat, were the conventional butter-sugar-egg variety. Even though my Turkish friend, Gulfer Badak, a fellow-student at the Master of Arts Degree in Architectural Conservation in Leicester, regularly conjured up incredibly light and fluffy cakes in her house, I only-half believed her when she said she used yogurt. It was the cake at Nutan Pandit’s, which punctuated each two-hour class for the four-day sessions over the three-weeks of the Course, that led me to the alternatives of oil, curd and jaggery. Since then, I have become so much bolder in my experiments, that this recipe may not be easily recognisable as an off-shoot of the ones she served.

The two or three main ingredients that mark out my cakes – orange-peel, beetroot and the multi-grain flour mix – are small but key variations. In fact, the grated orange peel, which is the really brilliant part of the recipe, is not really my idea, but a contribution of my mother’s. It gives a fresh and lingering flavour, and also satisfies my concerns about reducing litter by usefully consuming the peel, which otherwise ends up in the waste-bin. If oranges are one of your favourite fruits, as they are ours, you will know what I mean. We hand-grind or grate fresh orange peel practically every day in the winters, and my cook is really pleased when the orange-season ends. My mother also dries orange peel and powders them, for use when fresh oranges are not available. 

As for the combination of various flours, I have hit upon it by dint of good intentions and bad planning. My bid to make each mouthful of the cake as wholesome and delicious as possible for my small and fastidious daughter, is coupled with an inherent reluctance to stick to strict instructions, and an impulsive temperament. So, when the wish to bake suddenly catches hold of me (as it often does), and I discover I am out of some standard ingredients; I happily search for an alternative in the kitchen. The addition of popped amaranth seeds (also called ramdana, chaulai dana) to the recipe, was the outcome of one such sudden baking effort.

Apart from various sorts of seeds and flours, I have also (with varying degrees of success) added to the cake-mixture, fruits and vegetables in season – grated beetroot/carrot, finely chopped apricot/mango, mashed bananas/dates/figs. I like to keep processed food-items to the minimum, which is why I do not as a rule add any essence or flavour. Freshly grated ginger (or even its dried and powdered form, saunth) and the addition of orange/lemon peel are healthy substitutes. Beetroot gives a rather delicious deep colour and texture, especially in combination with Madua (millet)[1] or Bhatt flour. So much so, that I had a hard time convincing my aunt’s neighbour when he dropped in on a cold night in December just in time to sample the freshly-baked cake for my cousin’s birthday, that it did not have any chocolate in it.

I had been toying with the idea of writing my version down, owing to the rather gratifying response that my experiments generally receive. My strictly vegetarian grandmother is pleased with the curd version of this recipe, since she does not eat eggs in any form. Indeed, visits to Dehra Dun to my extended family, are ritually accompanied by the carrying of home-made cakes to my grandmother, aunts and uncles, and a demonstration baking event at my eldest aunt’s house. Despite this, Saroj Mausi still calls up every other month to refresh her memory about the ingredients and the process, owing not entirely to her habit of writing down recipes (along other useful things such as important telephone numbers, details of art and craft that attract her attention, grocery lists etc.) on sundry scraps of paper. My tendency of constantly experimenting with the proportion and kinds of ingredients, and presenting her with a different sort of cake on each visit may also have something to do with her queries.

But the immediate provocation for noting down this recipe was the completely flattering request by my daughter’s good friend, Aniva Rao, who asked me if I would teach her to cook when she grew up, so that she could enter TV Cooking Contests. This, to someone who has been the subject of hysterical banter in the family when it comes to any domestic duties, was too good to be true. So, I decided to write this down before she changed her opinion.

1 ½ cups atta (wheat flour); ¼ cup madua (finger millet, also known as raagi, nachni); ¼ cup sooji
(If you do not have madua, you can replace it with black bhatt or soya flour – as I did on a midnight baking session in December at Saroj Mausi’s – or popped amaranth seeds; or if you want a slightly denser cake even with jhingora/jhangora [2](barnyard millet). If you do not have any of these or merely want to play it safe, stick to 2 cups atta. The addition of more than ¼ cup of madua/jhingora/ bhatt, will make the cake a little too heavy.)
1 tsp cinnamon/green cardamom powder (The cinnamon/ green cardamom powder can be expanded to include powdered nutmeg and cloves.)
1 ½ tsp soda bi carbonate
½ tsp baking powder[3]
a pinch of salt
MIX WELL TOGETHER (I sieve these four to five times)
ADD:
2/3 cup oil (sesame oil) (I used refined oil according to Nutan's recipe, but I have now stopped using refined oil completely in my kitchen; you can substitute the oil with white cow's milk butter too)
2 cups red sugar/grated gur (if you are out of these, and want to use ordinary white sugar, reduce quantity to 1 and 1/2 cups)
Grated orange peel/powdered Orange peel (approximately 3 tb.sps)
1 peeled and finely grated beetroot
1/2 cup hot water (add ½ tsp grated ginger for extra flavour) 
MIX TOGETHER and ADD
3 eggs or 1 cup curds (the Curd version should be more of a ‘dripping’ consistency than with the eggs.)
(Some of my friends swear by the 'cut and fold' technique with a spoon for the final mixing, though the chef at a demonstration baking session at ATTIC last Christmas claimed that the best way is to vigorously mix in a circular motion with a ladle or your hand. I use a combination, depending on what the size of the vessel I have chosen, allows.)

Ladle in to a greased baking dish – I have lately started using a lovely black earthenware dish from Kerala, courtesy Veni Mathew, a Kumaoni friend married into a Malayalee family. It is traditionally used to cook fish-curry or rice. But it works well as a baking dish too!
I generally bake in a pre-heated electric oven (25 minutes 220 degree, 25 minutes low (160 degrees); if you have a Gas oven, bake for 1 hour.

I sprinkle posto khus (poppy seeds) or brown til (sesame seeds) on top of the mixture for a light crunchy top, as the fancy takes me. Go ahead, try it. 
And feel free to improvise.



[1] A friend and fellow-architect, Siddhartha Misra told me that the origin of Millets is attributed to Vishwamitra, the king who became a sage. Through great tapasya, Vishwamitra gained the power to make counterparts to the Lord’s creations. These were aimed at the needs of the poor, such as the lumbering buffalo in response to the revered and deified cow and bull, and the hardy millets in response to water-intensive grains such as wheat and rice. Despite being less resource intensive and easier to cultivate and rear, these were never accorded a similar status by the higher caste-Hindus. Indeed, they are still looked down by many, (including my family) being branded as ‘poor man’s food’. Rotis made of madua, rich in calcium and other nutrients, were traditionally part of the staple diet in many parts of India, including my part of the country - the mountains of Kumaon and Garhwal in Uttarakhand.
[2] Jhingora or Jhangora is a specialty of Uttarakhand; it is generally cooked with milk as a kheer, but can also be eaten in a salty form, as an upma.
[3] A friend who bakes frequently, cautioned me about the health implications of additives in baking powder. I am not certain whether baking powder should be entirely replaced with soda bi carbonate, but I found these two sites useful: http://www.learningtoeatallergyfree.com/2011/01/baking-soda-versus-baking-powder.htmlhttp://www.joyofbaking.com/bakingsoda.html

Monday, June 4, 2012

The Village, Now and Then





My grandmother could not specify the location of their beginnings. It might be anywhere in the Southern Peninsula. She just mentioned it as ‘that village’, which conjures up a familiar pattern-a hundred houses scattered in four or five narrow streets, with pillared verandahs and pyols, massive front doors, inner courtyards, situated at the bend of a river or its tributary, mounds of garbage here and there, cattle everywhere, a temple tower looming over it all, the temple hall and corridor serving as a meeting ground for the entire population, and an annual festival attracting a big crowd from nearby hamlets – an occasion when a golden replica of the deity in the inner shrine was carried in a procession with pipes and drums around the village.

R. K. Narayan, Grandmother’s Tale


This ‘pattern’ of villages in a specific geographical area—the form and the layout of their houses, the social and religious ceremonies around which life revolved, the landmarks—were ‘familiar’ to most people even till the first half of the 20th century. The villages shared common features derived from the climate and culture of an area; names of individual villages were almost incidental. So it was that R. K. Narayan, one of the more enduring Indian writers of English, (whose famous admirers range from his contemporary author Graham Greene to the present-day popular writer Alexander Macall-Smith) could conjure up a perfectly detailed picture of the village in South India where his grandmother grew up, even while recalling his surprise at her not knowing the name of her mother’s village.
            Villages in earlier times in the Indian sub-continent managed their infrastructure in admirable ways, as evident from the archaeological findings in ancient sites of the Indus-Saraswati Civilization[1] as well as the historical records unearthed by the historian Dharampal[2] showing the continuity in such organisation of village life even till three centuries ago. Village dwellings and lifestyles perfected a response that kept their fragile ecosystems intact. This is most evident in areas such as the cold and dry desert of Ladakh, where even the manner in which villages managed and maintain waterworks, is a lesson in planning and cooperation.[3]
It is also the village that has through the ages sustained artists and artisans within a familiar environment that promises them the security of some level of relationship with their land and with its society. For most of us, bred to the superiority of city learning, it would doubtless be surprising to realize that we owe the existence of the world-renowned Jantar Mantars as much to a village priest of humble origins as to the famous Maharaja of Jaipur, Sawai Jai Singh. Sawai Jai Singh met Pandit Jagannath, a Brahmin village priest in the Deccan, whose knowledge of astronomy and religion was so manifest that it catalysed Jai Singh to take the priest back with him to Amber. Pandit Jagannath went on to become Jai Singh’s chief aide in his astronomy researches and in the theory and practical construction of his unique masonry instruments of astronomy. That we derive a wealth of meaning and identity from the rural landscape, is perhaps best exemplified in this poem, written 80 years ago for her son by an Englishwoman, Freda Bedi, who married an Indian and made a village in India her home. She was the first British woman to be jailed for participating in India’s freedom struggle against the British. In her evocative poem, the overriding image for an entire region—and even for heaven—is synonymous with an agricultural crop that is grown, cherished and harvested in villages.

Guru Nanak said to God
(White his beard as snow untrod)
‘Whatever tree or fruit it yields
Does mustard grow in the Heavenly fields’?

Curd from the pitcher, well-water sweet
Out in the fields a man must eat’
Whole wheat bread and mustard grant
The heart of Punjab is the sarson plant.

Where is the winter’s unsheathed lance?
Spring comes with a lyric and bhangra dance
My daughter has yellow veils in her dower
The heart of Punjab is the sarson flower.

‘Guru Baba Nanak, look
Tender your eyes like a country brook
Whatever tree or fruit it yields:
There’s a carpet of gold in the Heavenly Fields.’[4]

Despite the fact that villages have inspired some of the most beautiful imagery and most potent literature in our country; and that they have formed the backbone to our civilization, there is an almost complete disregard for rural cultures today. They are considered expendable, archaic, and regressive. SEZs replace them all over the country. The disruption in the traditional village organization caused by the deliberate breakdown of indigenous practices by the colonial incursion, has led to a steady degradation in village society. Manifested in the mounds of garbage recalled by R. K. Narayan even almost a century ago, the village environment across India today is now much, much worse. Between 2003 and 2008, according to research by P. Sainath, Rural Affairs Editor of The Hindu, on an average one farmer committed suicide roughly every 30 minutes, the outcome of a nationwide agrarian crisis. [5]
Among the questions that exercise me are, how should we, as designers, respond to the state of villages today? How can we positively build upon the invaluable knowledge of ecological and cultural systems embodied in village habitats? Are there ways that we can suggest which ensure that traditional farming practices and crafts—and the heightened aesthetics which still flourish in many villages—bring enough to rural communities to live without fear of starvation or eviction? 

Maldevta, A village in the DoonValley, Uttarakhand, 2009 , Photo: Snehanshu Mukherjee

Images © Anisha Shekhar Mukherji; Text © Anisha Shekhar Mukherji

[1] The Lost River, On the Trail of The Sarasvati, Michel Danino, Penguin Books 2010
[2] Indian Science and Technology in the Eighteenth Century
[3] Ancient Futures, Learning From Ladakh, Helena Norberg-Hodge; ‘The Economics of Happiness’, A film by Helena Norberg-Hodge, Steven Gorelick & John Page
[4] ‘Basant’, Rhymes for Ranga, p. 48, Freda Bedi, Random House India, 2010
[5] Agrarian Crisis and Farmer`s Suicide, P. Sainath, IIC Occasional Publication 22


Monday, April 30, 2012

Three Little Pigs


The Three Little Pigs and the Idea of a ‘Pucca’ House
Perpetuating a Stereotype






Our cook’s daughter accompanied her mother to our house some evenings. A bright child, she had studied in a school in her village in Bengal, where the medium of instruction was Bangla. Since her parents had moved to Noida, she had been unable to go to school, where most subjects were taught either in Hindi or English. I could only manage to teach her on a few days of the week, and both the mother and daughter were keen that she attended regular school. But the principal of Nayi Disha, a local school run by a charitable trust, told me that the child was overage for Class 1, and could not follow the level of teaching in Class 2. So she suggested that I teach Dulali at home, and if she was able to clear the First Term exams, they would give her admission.
The chapter on ‘Shelter’ in one of the school text books brought me up short. I was reading out the different types of houses shown there, when I came across this sentence under the picture of a thatched mud house: ‘Yeh ek mitti ka ghar hai. Aise gharon mein nimn jati ke aur garib log rahte hain’ (‘this is a mud house. Low-caste and poor people live in such houses’.) This categorization, in a book in schools in 21st century democratic India? Since Dulali could not read as proficiently as I could, I managed to skip this offensive statement without her noticing the fact of its presence. What did the teachers in class do, I wondered – especially in a school where most of the students would come from poor or rural backgrounds? Did they register how insensitive and incorrect this statement was?
Curious to see how my daughter’s text books dealt with this, I looked up her EVS book for class 1 in DPS Noida. It did not make the direct statement between mud and poverty, but categorised houses as ‘katcha’ and ‘pucca’. So much so, that the term katcha and pucca which dot our lexicon today, carry overtones of affluence and respectability - or the lack of it.
The prejudice against houses made of mud and thatch is inculcated in less obvious ways as well, from the time that our children are even younger. I renewed my acquaintance with the Three Little Pigs some years ago. As I read out the story to my daughter, I huffed and puffed with the Big Bad Wolf when he successfully blew down the house made of straw and the house made of stick, and was defeated by the house made of brick. Unstated Moral of the Story? Smart Pigs build their houses of bricks.
When I studied architecture two decades ago, in one of the leading schools of architecture in the country, the instruction then - as now - was heavily oriented towards making us smart pigs. Concrete, steel and brick construction was what we were taught to build in. Luckily, as part of the curriculum we also had to document and study vernacular homes and communities. So we experienced houses made of mud, straw, stone and sticks. And though we weren’t exactly encouraged to include traditional modes of construction in our design studios, the more adventurous students at least experimented with these ostensibly regressive materials.

So, are the Three Little Pigs a result of an imperialist industrialist mindset?  The Western mind seems to have become ill-disposed towards ‘katcha’ materials for at least the last three hundred years. Our disparagement for mud and straw is more recent. Before the British assumed ascendancy in the political, cultural and the economic landscape of India, mud was recognized and patronized by rural and urban alike, ruler and ruled. The current derogatory connotations of ‘katccha’ today are one of the relics of the Raj. The recollections of a Professor C. H. Reilly, who arrived in company with Sir Edwin Lutyens to India in 1928, to write the architectural part of a book on New Delhi, reveal this. Reilly, on his return to London, contributed - according to the editor of Architectural Design and Construction - ‘a wholly delightful chapter...with unequalled richness of reminiscence and acuteness of observation’ to its November 1934 issue. This is one of Reillys’ ‘acute observations’:
‘Everything of Lutyens is detailed with extraordinary care, and at Delhi some of his working drawings are dimensioned to three decimals of an inch. To Indian builders and craftsmen accustomed to their slipshod “kutcha” methods, such accuracy was a revelation and a very valuable one.’

The construction and majestic accuracy of indigenous Indian architecture—which Reilly could scarcely have missed seeing in Delhi, would never have been achieved by slipshod methods. In actuality, each material has the potential to be worked well or in a slipshod manner – it is as misguided to believe that all mud houses are inherently deficient as it is to believe that concrete is the panacea to all ills. The reflections of a better known traveler and writer who preceded Reilly by a few hundred years, Francois Bernier are interesting in this respect. Bernier travelled in India in the latter half of the 18th CE, a few years after the new Mughal capital of Shahjahanabad was established.
‘Amid these streets are dispersed the habitations of Mansabdars, or petty Omrahs, officers of justice, rich merchants, and others; many of which have a tolerable appearance. Very few are built entirely of brick or stone, and several are made only of clay or straw, yet they are airy and pleasant, most of them having courts and gardens, being commodious inside and containing good furniture. The thatched roof is supported by a layer of long, handsome, and strong canes, and the clay walls are covered with a fine white lime.
Intermixed with these different houses is an immense number of small ones, built of mud and thatched with straw, in which lodge the common troopers, and all that vast multitude of servants and camp-followers who follow the court and the army’.[1]

What is interesting in this description is that it is the spatial arrangement and workmanship that distinguishes the quality of a house, not its material. The associations of ‘mud’ solely with ‘poor people’ or ‘poor workmanship’ were entirely absent in the imperial city of Shahjahanabad, home to arguably the richest ruler of the medieval world.[2]

This is one of the points that our friends Vivek Rawal and Alka Palrecha have been trying to demonstrate in their work with communities affected by floods, earthquakes and other such disasters. However, their criteria in assessing the vulnerability of habitats where each building-type (whether mud, concrete, timber) was assigned a maximum rating of 10, was contested by government departments who were unwilling to accept that a mud house could have a rating of 10 in any circumstance. The belief that mud or wattle-and daub houses are inherently inferior to more ‘permanent’ materials echoes a Reilly-like colonial perception. For instance, the compensation to families affected by disasters if their houses were made of mud or ‘katcha’ materials, is 14 times less than the compensation to families whose houses were made of concrete. This bias, that makes distinctions between communities affected by disasters, solely on the construction-material of their dwellings, is shocking. It is also perplexing when it has been shown that houses made in concrete have generally performed badly in our country, not just in disasters but even in normal situations.

As I experience the effects of the ‘falling plaster’ of our barely twenty year old AWHO flat despite repeated repairs; as I witness the spalling concrete in the State Complex of Chandigarh, the Mecca of most ‘modern’ architects; as I look at what to me are unquestionably beautifully crafted and detailed bamboo and mud houses built by villagers in Kosi, as part of the Owner Driven Reconstruction Collaborative[3] Vivek and Alka have been associated with; as I see the beautiful qualities of light and space in the buildings made of rammed earth, thatch and stone with minimal use of concrete and steel, by our architect friends, Krishna and Anu at their Centre for Learning in Sittilingi village[4]; it seems to me it is more than time we stop being pig-headed and cease to perpetuate stereotypes.



Images © Anisha Shekhar Mukherji; Text © Anisha Shekhar Mukherji


[1] p. 246, Travels in the Mogul Empire 1656-1668, by Francois Bernier, eng. Trans by Archibald Constable based on Irving Brock’s Translation, Asian Educational Services, 1996, first published London 1891.

[2] Work done by various initiatives in Gujarat has shown: ‘It is not the choice of material but choice of house-building technology that is one of the main factors determining the scale and nature of earthquake impact. In reconstruction, therefore, the choice of technology should necessarily be based on multiple criteria, including self-reliance of the community, availability of the material, and earth-quake proofing technology.’ Reconstruction of earthquake affected areas of Gujarat www.pucl.org/reports/Gujarat/2001/quake4.html

[3] See March 2012, Architecture + Design, ‘The Story of Orlaha and Puraini in Bihar’, Sandeep Virmani and Vivek Rawal, pp. 48-58

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Liberal Education


Liberal Education in Arts, Sciences and Humanities: Status, Role and Future
Text of the paper delivered in the Seminar at the India International Centre on 13th April 2009
By Anisha Shekhar Mukherji

I would like to explore the role and relevance of liberal education in India today with my perspective of studying in nine schools in different parts of India, and my exposure to professional architectural study and practice. It is evident that our attitudes and our abilities as thinkers, policy makers, and politicians are inevitably shaped by the direction of the school education that we have received. As parents and teachers we orient our children to an unquestioning faith in ‘modern industrial’ technology and in a single-minded focus on jobs, so that most of them, like the post-graduate students to whom I teach ‘Research Paper’ in the Department of Industrial Design, grow up to be young adults with a stupefying belief that there are standard ‘correct’ solutions that they must ‘follow’. Conversely, I believe that architecture can be an important tool in tangibly communicating and making many aspects of basic education come alive, especially to school students.1 We may also draw direct parallels between school and architectural education - in both of which there are many things to teach, divided in different ‘subjects’ for ease of assimilation.
At first glance, formal architectural training as a specialized professional course dealing with the application of knowledge, seems to be far removed from the domain of liberal education as conventionally understood. However, if from the different definitions put forth, we consider Liberal as: ‘looking to the broad or general sense rather than the literal’2 such a criteria is already present in architecture - which is in a sense, a microcosm of different fields. This inherent strength of architectural education has been recognized in Italy. Though a small country, I am given to understand that at one time it had four institutions that taught architecture, each with ten thousand students. And what do these forty thousand graduates in architecture do? Only a fraction practice as architects or designers. The rest study architecture because they believe that it is the best education they can receive.
As undergraduate students at the well-known School of Planning and Architecture, we were taught many subjects, which left little time for leisure or boredom. Yet, practically all the emphasis was on transmitting skills or information such as: ‘how to draw perspectives, how to resolve issues of space and function in a building or a town, how to solve problems of load transmission in structures, how to describe the difference between North and South Indian temples, how to design with the principles of “modernist” architecture.’ And though the varied curriculum included art, science, and humanities, these disciplines did not tie up to a whole. I remember my inability to understand why we had to study sociology and the young Sociology Professor’s extreme discomfiture in trying to explain. Sociology was taught in isolation much like the joinery details which we planed and sandpapered in the carpentry workshop without ever using them to produce doors, windows, boxes or any object that demonstrated how they added up.
Also implicit was the contention that European or American ‘modernist’ methods of construction were desirable for students in India to learn, and that vernacular or classical Indian forms and spaces may be looked at as history, but have no place in contemporary architecture. As an instance, if we, after a study visit to the villages of Himachal Pradesh, visualized our designs in timber, this was lauded as an understanding of the context. But the timber details we were expected to follow were those standardized and set forth in British building manuals almost a hundred years ago, not local traditional wood details. Questions such as - ‘is the architecture we build appropriate to our culture, or is it elitist and redundant? Is there anything beyond the expression of our individuality and creativity that we need to consider?’ were posed sporadically, and more often in the student’s canteen than in the studios or lecture rooms. Today, they seem to have become even less of a concern than they were fifteen years ago. Thus, even with a scope of subjects that more nearly approaches ‘Liberal education’ than any other field of higher study, contemporary architectural training appears to comprise of ‘indoctrination’―a dangerous synonym of education―rather than fostering a discernment of fundamental principles and an engagement with ethics. Are these qualities relevant to architecture? This question, can be answered by looking at the environmental or climatic disasters that most contemporary buildings create today. The ornamental palms and stretches of lawn instead of the indigenous plants or shady trees that pass for landscape design; the size and form of cities which make them almost impossible to negotiate without the use of fuel-guzzling cars, the superficial and similar copies of popular international building trends – are all a reality before us.
Thus, it seems clear that though a wide-ranging curriculum beyond narrow specialized information should find a place in technical, vocational and management education, this by itself is not sufficient. We also need to redefine the concept of ‘liberal education’ - which as we commonly understand is something bequeathed to us by the Western world. A wide-ranging study of the Classics, the Arts or the Sciences untainted by obvious motives of profit, may not necessarily make us adhere to the true meaning of Liberal which is defined as ‘willing to respect and accept behaviour or opinions different from one’s own’3 or to its synonyms of ‘progressive, tolerant, unbiased, enlightened, impartial’.
Did we have a tradition of liberal education in India before the advent of western education and can we draw any lessons from it? It appears that we did, at both a primary and higher education level. According to the research of the Gandhian historian Dharampal,4 even in ‘the greatly damaged and disorganized India’ of 1800, indigenous teaching was more widespread and vastly superior to that of the British. The physical environment under which Indian schooling took place was less dingy and more natural. The methods were effectual and economical. The composition of the students in schools was inclusive, with Sudras and lower castes predominating. Though higher education in Theology, Metaphysics and Law seems to have been dominated by Brahmins in the nature of professional specialization, other subjects such as astronomy and medical science were studied by scholars from a variety of backgrounds and castes. The results of research and study appear to also have been quickly disseminated in many sections of society.
This, in many ways indicates the existence of a more liberal society than that of present times. What are the shortcomings that prevent us from achieving such objectives today? Considered in the light of architectural education, these are, briefly:
1.                            a method and content of teaching that is almost exclusively centred on a western modernist orientation, with a guiding principle that rejects the application of history as superfluous.
2.                            an inordinate emphasis on dissemination of skills to the detriment of knowledge or issues.
3.                            a stressing of abstract theories without encouraging their ‘application’.
4.                            a fragmented, linear and compartmentalized way of learning that prevents overall comprehension.
Is there a paradox here? First we say, that specialization is an incomplete and therefore unsatisfactory way of looking at the world and dealing with it. Yet when we attempt to teach many things, we separate them into different subjects for practical reasons. Therefore, can there be only two situations―one, to know in great detail about only one subject, or two, to know about a great many subjects but still as separate systems of knowledge? Is this true of other fields of education in university/schools too? The answers may be forthcoming, if we look at some of the questions we need to ask, with respect to conventional formal education:
1.       How do we teach?
2.       What do we teach?
3.       Who do we teach?
4.       Who teaches?
In all of the above, the common feature at present is the attempt at standardization. We teach students without awakening a holistic interest in learning or linking back individual ‘subjects’ at the level of understanding different world views. We emphasise one single, standard way to design/way to research/way to cure as the only correct way, in direct contrast to the idea of the liberal. We use a syllabus that we standardize, rejecting ‘pre-industrial’ social, spatial, scientific or artistic systems as ‘backward’ without even knowing their features. We enroll students from a ‘standard’ economic and social stratum and we employ teachers of a ‘standard’ profile. As the noted scientist J.B.S. Haldane – who himself did not have a degree in science – reminds us ‘…Srinivasa Ramanujan, India’s greatest mathematician since Aryabhatta, had no degree and would thus be disqualified from teaching in an Indian University were he alive today’.5 If our efforts are aimed at promoting standard products who replicate ‘standard’ answers, then how can we expect creative, independent-thinking and responsive children or adults? It appears that the first step then is to reform this ‘standardization’, which at best insulates, and at worst divorces us from our local contexts. It neither fosters respect for others nor for the natural environment, and not even the knowledge of our own strengths and weaknesses, which is the real basis for self-respect.
School education today, particularly the CBSE, stresses isolationistic instruction of theory to the exclusion of application. Despite the experiments in playway education in some mainstream ‘progressive’ schools, children are inundated with theoretical information from the earliest years of school or at the latest by class four or five. Even in Environmental Science - a compulsory subject of late - the method of assessment is to test knowledge about organizations such as the World Wildlife Fund, rather than on helping students to understand the implications of everyday actions on the environment. The overriding emphasis today on computer-assignments as an educational tool, is a part of the same isolationist view which cannot apply the lessons of environmental science to other subjects and certainly not to daily life! As an illustrative example, here I would quote the experience of a progressive and famous public-school, which sought professional advice from a leading energy-institution on how to reduce cooling costs and make its new buildings environmentally appropriate. The advice that the school received was impressively detailed and voluminous, with results from high-technology monitoring equipment and insulating techniques. But it incredibly did not mention the basic fact that the North-South orientation of the proposed buildings was incorrect, and till this was corrected they would inevitably absorb maximum heat! This reveals the absurd ‘blinding’ that such technocratic and isolationist attitudes breed.
            How should our education, technical, vocational or otherwise, remove such a ‘blinkered’ vision? Dr Zakir Hussain wrote an article in 1961 in the journal Nayee Talim,5 which may summarize all the objectives of a truly liberal vision for centers of education, ‘To train students for taking responsibilities of various social tasks…to expand the areas of knowledge…to include broad-mindedness in its students, to inspire the students to live a life of goodness and truth’. Thus, the national goal of education, whether we call it ‘liberal’ or anything else, should first open a method of enquiry for its students to judge situations, to formulate their actions, to evolve into good human beings, not to produce individuals whose sole aim is to earn more. The world is not standardized, it has unique solutions to different situations, which despite being different are all linked, and affected by all actions, great and small. The only way to understand the world is through self-realization which may begin with, but does not end, with formal education.
Is it possible to do all this by being primarily dependant on western systems of living and learning? No. Segregation and fragmentation, specialization and confrontation were inherent parts of the method of inquiry in the western tradition even before industrialization put this into more glaring view. As Chaturvedi Badrinath writes in The Mahabharata An Inquiry Into the Human Condition, a look at the history of philosophical thought in the West shows that ‘…when systematized into an ism, the various explanations of the human condition had fiercely rejected each other…But although fiercely rejecting each other, all these isms have one thing in common - a logic which fragments human attributes into irreconcilable polarities, and then assumes either the one or the other is the reality, and constructs its world view wholly on that, or the logic of either/or’.7
In fact, unlike much of western thought, indigenous methods of inquiry seem to lend themselves more easily to holistic and wholesome attitudes to learning. The difference between these two world views - the exclusionary and the inclusive - is manifest in the answer of some Brahmins three centuries ago. Asked a question on a subject as personal and emotional as religion, by the French traveler Francois Bernier, this is what they had to say:
We pretend not,’ they replied, ‘that our law is of universal application. God intended it only for us, and this is the reason we cannot receive a foreigner into our religion. We do not even say that yours is a false religion: it may be adapted to your wants and circumstances, God having, no doubt, appointed many different ways of going to heaven.’
Bernier on the other hand, could not understand this point of view. And this is what he had to say: ‘I found it impossible to convince them that the Christian faith was designed for the whole earth, and theirs was mere fable and gross fabrication’.8
So how does all this translate into education today? Does it mean a change in the method of teaching? In the content? In both? In our present assessment and evaluation procedures? Practical demands of time, space and resources imply that there will be some amount of specialization as one proceeds on the learning path, and it would never be possible to teach everything about everything. We must also recognize that in the learning curve of individuals, society and civilization, some amount of specialization is the natural path of evolution. A Benarasi weaver whose remarkable skill and creativity we treasure as heirlooms, does not learn pottery or till the land. Were he to do so, he would have neither the time nor the skill to fashion his intricate weaves. Yet, this specialization does not divorce him from his natural or cultural context or knowledge base. He traditionally operates within a societal framework, which creates a need for his skills and which provides him with sustenance to develop these. Today, such a societal and cultural framework is missing. It can only be regenerated if even in specialized training at any stage of education, the emphasis is general, and the composition of our curricula and our teachers is inclusive. Colleges in their dissemination of specialized education must encourage students in theoretical and practical instruction, which is balanced and engages with cultural and social issues. Such holistic education would help students obtain a more complete understanding of the world, and avoid mindsets like Bernier’s that reject everything unfamiliar, as false or untrue.
How shall we practically achieve this? By completely rejecting western systems of education or thought? By limiting study to only indigenous traditional systems? Certainly not, since that would be continuing the same exclusivist view that is the main deficiency of our education today. All education must develop an enjoyment of the process of learning, and an engagement with the natural world. The analogy may be likened to a baby, whose first efforts are aimed at resolving the objects seen, heard or felt in the immediate vicinity. This is how we are genetically coded to grow. A knowledge of local systems and sympathy with the natural world, will help to comprehend larger systems or those from other regions or cultures. As Winin Pereira clarifies in his book From Western Science to Liberation Technology, ‘It is the traditional methods of research, development, dissemination and use that are still relevant, not necessarily all brought forward pieces of knowledge’.9 Thus, primacy to indigenous traditional systems of learning in formative years, should help, not inhibit enquiry and direct experimentation in other systems–whether non-indigenous, non-mainstream, conventional or unconventional. The spirit of inquiry and analysis can be furthered and coupled with an understanding of the universal and natural worlds, to eventually lead to creative, contextual, humane theory and practice.
Thus the policy formulation with regard to liberal education should be that:
1. Theoretical instruction instead of remaining abstract, must link learning to real life, illustrated through stories and examples (most people, especially children love stories, and these are invaluable in explaining even complex notions of philosophy, conduct, etc. as the Mahabharata and much of our traditional literature demonstrate).
2. The proportion of practical instruction must be increased, and must connect to nature. Students should be encouraged to work with their hands, and learn by ‘doing’ so that satisfaction and a sense of achievement are the incentives to learn, not marks.
3. Both theoretical and practical instruction, must include dissemination and discussion on traditional and indigenous knowledge, through an active involvement of non-mainstream disciplines or cultures - such as folk artists, craftspeople, writers in indigenous languages - rather than just conventional academics and theoreticians. Educational experiments, such as the one where a flower-seller and her five year old daughter, were instructors to Class Six students in the Padma Seshadri Bala Bhawan in T. Nagar in Chennai for three days, as reported in The Hindu, should be widespread.10
4. There should be an optimum size beyond which the classroom and the educational institution must not grow. Large sizes and centralization necessitate standardization for ease of management, consume greater resources, and take away the emphasis from learning to administration.
5. The present system of evaluation, based on marks must be replaced by one based on grades.
 It is not as if these problems or the suggestions offered have not been recognized or enunciated before our time. The experiments in school and college education at SriNiketan and Santiniketan by Rabindranath Tagore and in national education as envisioned in Mahatma Gandhi’s NaiTalim, did this almost a hundred years ago. Why have these experiments failed? Why they been largely forgotten or sidelined by mainstream education? If individuals of such political, intellectual and moral stature such as Tagore and Gandhi were unable to make a difference despite actually setting up schools and universities that applied visionary principles, is it likely that we will be able to do so? Even today, there are some institutional and private efforts committed to unconventional or non-formal methods of learning. The reason that these efforts were and are unable to make a dent in society or permeate through larger sections of it, is largely due to the Government’s unwillingness to promote these as valid ways of learning. This sort of education does not fit the official notion of development. The idea of development as perceived by the government is still the Nehruvian one which in essence is the western industrialized model, a model which as argued earlier is incapable of accepting, like that of Bernier’s mindset, any other path to an alternative development option. Therefore, the only way for a change to happen, is for the Government, as the overall authority responsible for running the country, to realize that the present notion of development is flawed. It must, as must we all, recognise the necessity of liberal education and endorse holistic teaching and evaluation methods. Rather than setting up new competing institutions, we need to transform our existing institutions at every level and decentralize. This implies a great deal of consensus-building through interaction, discussion and cooperation which is no doubt difficult. But it is not impossible.
In my teaching of Research Paper, by no means sufficient in providing complete answers - especially when compared to the work of more experienced educationists - there has been a partial success in the students’ ability to link abstract design and real social issues or to express themselves openly with conviction. Most of the students comprehend that the state of the urban poor and homeless in our cities today, are as affected by the disappearance of traditional livelihoods as with the plastic or metal products designed such that they can only be made in large mechanized factories. The students also realize that ostensibly beneficiary schemes of large-scale export of handicrafts may actually hasten their extinction by promoting standardized production possible only in ‘factory-like’ situations. However, the focus of their lessons in other subjects or in design studios, even when actuated by themes such as ‘socially relevant design’ invariably leads them to modern, mechanized engineering industrial designs. Their site visits are to factories or large multi-national firms where they foresee themselves working in the future, not on an apprenticeship with master-craftsmen. Most typical urban professionals feel they have no other option, since alternative choices do not eventually assure them of economic security. Here again the government has a larger role to play, not in terms of subsidies or grants, but in recognizing indigenous economic structures as valid, inclusive and wholesome. This would be therefore “in-sync” if the government-supported education system would become more holistic.
I would like to end with a quote from Harsh Mander in an article on a different context, but which I believe can be a guide to what we hope to achieve from this seminar, or indeed any action we do, any work we contemplate, any change that we envison, whether in education or in life: ‘Gandhi offered us a “talisman” to use in moments of doubt and confusion. He asked us to recall the face of the poorest, most defenceless, powerless man we have encountered…We must ask ourselves whether what we are attempting has meaning for this person.’11

Acknowledgements;
The ideas expressed in this paper have been greatly clarified and extended by discussions with many people, particularly Snehanshu Mukherjee and Badri Narayanan, both insightful architects committed to teaching and learning. The experience and attitude of Chitra Dhariyal and Madhu Pandey, in dealing with the challenges of teaching secondary and high school students, and the optimism of the artist and writer Shakti Maira, transmitted as much in his conversation as in his writing about art and education, have made me rethink notions about how I deal with the development of my five year old daughter as well as my methods of teaching college students. Finally, I believe that we can only find answers to many of our challenges in education today, even in this greatly changed and changing world of the 21st century, if we look at the life and work of Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore, and many others of their generation.





Notes:
  1. Architecture gives an insight into the living conditions, methods and materials of construction, concepts of time and culture of previous generations. In fact, some countries in the world are already experimenting with using architecture as a tool for teaching school children.
  2. Chambers Dictionary
  3. Oxford Dictionary and Thesarus (Indian Edition)
  4. Dharampal, The Beautiful Tree, Indigenous Indian Education in the Eighteenth Century, First Published by Impex India 1971, Republished 2000 by Other India Press, Goa, in association with SIDH Society for Integrated Development of Himalayas, Mussoorie
  5. As quoted in Rabindranath Tagore, Philosophy of Education and Painting, Devi Prasad, National Book Trust, India, Creative Learning Series, First Edition 2001, New Delhi
  6. The Hindu Tuesday, April 7 2009, ‘Polymath who shared the fun of science’, Vidyanand Nanjundiah.
  7. The Mahabharata An Inquiry Into the Human Condition, Chaturvedi Badrinath, Orient Longman 2006, p.10-11.
  8. Francois Bernier, Travels in the Mughal Empire, p. 328
  9. Winin Pereira, From Western Science to Liberation Technology, Earthcare Books, Kolkata, first edition 1993
  10. The Hindu Tuesday, April 7 2009, ‘The hands that craft and create’, Priscilla Jebaraj. The report also mentions that CBSE has already worked out a syllabus in handicrafts for an elective course in Classes 11 and 12.
  11. The Hindu Sunday April 5, 2009, ‘BAREFOOT, The silent tragedy of hunger’.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

A Different Doctor



Treya Doctor Series (starring Treya as ‘Doctor’ and Anisha as ‘Patient’)
Episode One
Doctor: Good morning. What’s the matter?
Patient: I am feeling very tired, Doctor.
Doctor: Oh? Let me see, since when have you had fever?
Patient: No, Doctor, I don’t have fever, I am feeling very tired.
Doctor: Oh, that doesn’t mean anything.
Patient: But it does – I’m feeling very sleepy and I can’t work as much as I would like to.
Doctor: Oh, what did you eat in the morning?
Patient: Bread and cheese – and an egg. And milk.
Doctor: Hmmm. And was this before you had fever?
Patient: But I don’t have fever!
Doctor: Oh well, before you fell ill?
Patient: Yes.
Doctor: And after?
Patient: After what?
Doctor: After you fell ill?
Patient: What?
Doctor: What did you eat?
Patient: Nothing.
Doctor: And before?
Patient: Before what?
Doctor: Before you had fever?
Patient: But I don’t have fever.
Doctor: Oh all right. Before you fell ill, illish?
Patient: That’s all I’ve eaten since morning, Doctor.
Doctor: Hmmm. Well, when did you discover you had fever?
Patient: But I don’t have fever.
Doctor: Oh yes, you do.
Patient: Oh, all right, Doctor!
Doctor: And you also have worms.
Patient: Oh Doctor!
Doctor: Yes, you have to have vitemes and antebylex. Here is the electrician.
Patient: Here?
Doctor: Yes, it’s all noted down in the electrican. Here, Bye. Come every day.
Episode 2
Doctor: Come in! What happened?
Patient: I have a bad cough.
Doctor: Oh, what’s your name?
Patient: Anisha.
Doctor: Say something else.
Patient: Something else?
Doctor: Yes, like Snehanshu.
Patient: My name is Snehanshu.
Doctor: No, like Dumballo.
Patient: My name is Dumballo.
Doctor: Ha! Ha! What a funny name! I don’t think that can be your name. Ok, what are your names?
Patient: Kitchaloo.
Doctor: Can’t be. I’ll write Salda. What’s wrong with you?
Patient: I have a cough.
Doctor: Oh, you have a cough? Fine. Go home.
Episode 3
Doctor: So how did you get the cough?
Patient: I think I did not dry my hair properly after washing it.
Doctor: Oh, that’s nothing. What did you do after that?
Patient: I sat inside.
Doctor: Hmmm. You should have sat outside. Then what happened?
Patient: What happened?
Doctor: Yes, did you get a headache?
Patient: No.
Doctor: Oh no headache, then there’s nothing wrong with you.
Episode 4
Doctor: So, then what happened? Still no headache?
Patient: No.
Doctor: Oh say na, you have a headache.
Patient: OK. I have a headache.
Doctor: That means you are going to get a fever. You’ll have to have lots of medicines. I’ll write them down. (Taking out a hammer) Hmm. There’s an insect. Open your mouth.
Just a minute – this doesn’t work. Yes, open your mouth now. Yes, that’s right. There is an insect. We’ll have to take your temperature. Wow! Its 39! Hmmm.
(Taking out a stethoscope and placing it on the stomach, truimphantly) Yes! That’s where the fever comes from!