In the village of Marenahalli Bunde — a settlement of quarry workers
supplying Bangalore with stone for its seemingly unceasing building boom
— I recently listened to 30-year-old Kayelveli (she uses one name), a
third standard dropout, who narrated how she toiled from daybreak to
dusk.
“It takes a week to bash a truckload of stone,” she told me on the
windswept bluff of the quarry, a giant, ugly gash about six storeys
deep.
Kayelveli, an energetic woman with jasmine in her hair and a smile on
her round face, was not unhappy with life. Though her husband died of a
heart attack three years ago, her 10-year-old daughter, Kirtishri, was a
fourth standard student at a school for poor, young achievers. The
Rs. 6,000
that Kayelveli earned every month was enough to buy food from local
farmers for herself and her younger daughter and install a
satellite-television dish on one of the sticks supporting her two-room
shack. Kayelveli does not have a ration card and is not officially
recognised as poor. “It’s a hard life, but it is better than before,”
she said, “And I know my children will escape this.”
No optimism was evident when, a few months earlier, I met 25-year-old
Rajkumar, a tired-looking, clean-shaven odd-jobs man — in other words,
unemployed — as he watched over his tuberculosis-afflicted wife, Rekha
(both use one name), in a spare hospital in a shabby backstreet of old
Gurgaon, a 20-minute drive from the chrome-and-steel towers of its
flashy, globalised avatar. Their only satisfaction was that Rekha was
getting free medical care, thanks to the National Health Insurance
Scheme, which charges
Rs. 30 and covers
medical expenses up to R30,000 for families with ration cards. “This
system works for people like us, but I do not know what will happen
now,” said Rajkumar, an 8th class pass. “I need a steady job more than
anything else, but I have no qualifications.”
As UPA chief Sonia Gandhi prepares to give her verdict next week on
the uproar over India’s official poverty line — declared as the ability
to spend
Rs. 32 every day in urban areas and
Rs. 26
in rural — the stories of Rajkumar and Kayelveli indicate that India’s
anti-poverty measures require rewiring and alignment with a word that
increasingly defines 21st-century India: aspiration.
Those on the left of the debate, including Sonia Gandhi, believe
India underestimates the numbers of the poor. The official figure is
about 400 million; the highest estimate is 800 million. They argue
welfare spending must rise in what is one of the world’s most unequal
nations. One way to do it is, some say, to withdraw tax exemptions to
India Inc, now worth
Rs. 4 lakh crore.
Those on the right, including the prime minister, believe that India
cannot afford to spend R4.5 lakh crore a year on the social sector. The
benefits are uncertain (about 60% of food subsidies never reach the
poor, for instance), at a time of slowing growth and a fiscal deficit
tipped to hit 5% this year, instead of the budget target of 4.6%.
Better, they say, to invest instead in India’s collapsing infrastructure
and push the most effective anti-poverty measure — growth.
The truth appears to be somewhere in between; it requires a step back
from established positions to create a blend of subsidies, investments
and re-imagined public services.
First, with growing uncertainties, economic and otherwise, safety
nets are vital. As a new study from the advocacy group Action Aid warns,
India is ranked seventh, ahead of Pakistan, Nigeria and 21 other
countries, for its vulnerability in growing food and feeding its poor.
So tenuous is the existence of those just above the poverty line, about
250 million people, that it takes just one health crisis to slip below,
says a 2010 report by the Independent Commission on Development and
Health in India. Yet, as Rajkumar explained, without a job, subsidised
food and basic health care were, at best, band aids. In his village, 16
km from Gurgaon, farming is receding and there is little on offer for a
semi-educated man.
Second, welfare spending cannot be India’s long-term fix. That can
only come from investments in infrastructure and agriculture. As data
from the world’s largest jobs-for-work programme, the Mahatma Gandhi
National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme, indicates, the rural poor
are better off than before, but digging ditches and ponds does not
create strong assets, skews the labour market and could slow growth
needed to generate real jobs.
Third, as Kayelveli’s story shows, India’s poor are willing and eager
to haul themselves up the ladder. In Marenahalli Bunde, the grim,
backbreaking job of smashing stones had delivered mobile phones and
satellite dishes to most of the village, even those in shacks.
Fourth, those moving up the ladder need access to basic public
services. As part of Hindustan Times’ and Mint’s ‘Tracking Hunger’
series, my colleague Pramit Bhattacharya recently chronicled the life of
‘Pipeline’, a precarious Mumbai slum — it literally sits atop a water
pipeline — home to maids, drivers and others just below the lower
middle-class. Most people here earn twice as much as the R32-cutoff, get
no doles and can afford food. But they have no health care and
sanitation. So, most children in ‘Pipeline’ are malnourished, as are
nearly 80,000 in India’s richest city.
This is not to suggest that the malnourished, in general, are rich
enough to buy food, especially at a time of record inflation. Poorer
slums and India’s most deprived tribal areas resemble a failed State
with millions consigned to real, grinding poverty. The common thread is
the failure to invest in public services.
With only 1% of its GDP spent on healthcare, India will continue to
house the greatest share of the earth’s malnourished people. So, too,
without more and better teachers, schools and universities, it will
continue to produce semi-educated young people — and the statistic that
only 15% of Indian graduates are employable. India must urgently decide
how it can better returns on its investments.