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| Geetanjali Krishna: Nobility, with a rider |
| Geetanjali Krishna / New Delhi Dec 27, 2008, 00:04 IST |
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The other day, I opened my door to find three stout schoolmarmish ladies. “Do you have children under five?” one said with a scowl, while the others scanned whatever they could see of my home with beady eyes. “No,” I asked, mystified, “but why do you ask?” They ignored my question like it had never been asked. “Are there any other children in this building under five?” they demanded to know next. “There are,” said I, “two on the second floor…but will you please tell me why you want to know?” The women looked at each other in dismay: “second floor….whose chance is it to climb so many stairs?” The beady-eyed one suddenly looked tired: “For a pittance of Rs 75 a day, I’d not expected to work so hard…” she said.
Finally sensing a lull in the so far one-sided conversation, I asked for the third time who they were and why they were looking for children under five. “We’re Anganwadi workers,” they chorused, “who’re working for the Pulse Polio Campaign, going door-to-door to see if there are any children who missed their polio drops on Sunday.” I am a great admirer of this campaign, as it has tackled what looked like a near impossible task with excellent results. As a result, I found myself looking at them with new eyes, and offered them some water before they began their weary way forward.
“It’s wonderful,” said I, “that you all have administered the polio vaccine to each and every child under five in this locality…you’re heroes!” The ladies looked at each other doubtfully. “You may be right,” said they, “but its hard and not very well-paid work…” Anganwadi workers, they said, got paid around Rs 700 per month and the Pulse Polio door-to-door drive gave them the opportunity to make Rs 75 a day over that. “But you know, most colonies have multi-storeyed buildings and climbing so many stairs has been really hard!” they complained. Also, they said, they weren’t always well-received wherever they went…
Why then, I wondered, did they do the work they did? Was it because it was a noble cause? It couldn’t be the money, for they could probably earn better doing domestic work. One lady stopped to catch her breath, and so I plied her with a cup of tea and all these questions. Her name was Lata, and she was from a village close to Ballabhgarh. Her mother-in-law had been an Anganwadi worker for thirty years, and she for three. “Although I could have got better paying jobs as I’ve completed school, I decided to work here as there’s a chance that we’re made permanent…” said she. “The security of a permanent government job is something people like I only dream of,” said she. This dream, of course, was what sustained her as she climbed thousands of stairs to put two drops of polio vaccine into oft-thankless mouths.
What were the odds, said I, that the government would make the hundreds of temporary Anganwadi workers it employed, permanent? Lata shrugged: “My mother-in-law said that some really senior Anganwadi workers have filed a court petition that the government must grant them permanent status keeping their long years of service in mind…we’re all waiting for the outcome,” said she, adding, “and if the Pay Commission recommendations come through, our salaries will go up substantially…”
Whatever happens, said I, the fact remains that she and her associates were performing sterling social service. Lata smiled as she took her leave, “I’m happy being called a social worker…provided they give me a permanent job!”
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