Ever since I had my children," said the hostess over the hors d'oeuvres, "I've been wanting to emigrate." She put down her champagne flute and waved her hands disparagingly as if expecting the next gust of breeze to waft all seventy kilos of her away to a Promised Land. "Think about it. What does this country have to offer our kids? Filthy playgrounds. Crowded schools. I mean, what is the quality of our life?" I looked around. Liveried waiters wove discreetly between cocktail dresses with slices of pink smoked salmon on silver salvers. And there was pink champagne to match. Mrs P, I knew, rode around town in a chauffeur driven Honda. Her husband was regional director of an overseas bank. And her children went to Mumbai's most elite school. (Rumour had it that the lady had discreetly wangled a corporate seat, normally reserved for kids from charmed expat circles). Nonetheless, the lady was particularly disturbed about the country's education system, which, she said, was going to the dogs. "Today pre schoolers are expected to write and recite poetry for admission tests. You have to register them even before they are born. It's crazy." "But where would you like to go?" I asked, eyeing the salmon waltzing tantalisingly by and trying not to salivate. "We-ell," said my hostess slowly. "I myself would love to live in New York, but for the children's sake, it would have to be England. The British have the best education system in the world, you now. No school entrance tests, no examinations until fifth grade, no pressure to get into colleges." She paused. "That's what I love most about the West. No matter where you come from, you can live life with dignity. Everyone has an equal opportunity to..." I edged purposefully towards the groaning buffet tables. Like many of my countrymen who know what hunger is, I find it difficult to pontificate about the state of the nation on an empty stomach. But by the time I had started on the artichoke salad, my companion had vanished. Two months later I bumped into her at another do. "So" I said, after the usual pleasantries were pleasantly exchanged. "You must be happy about the New Education Policy." Mrs P looked at me blankly. New Education Policy? What New Education Policy? "Haven't you heard?" I said. "The education minister, Mr Sudhir Joshi, has just banned pre-school admission tests for toddlers." And if everything goes off smoothly, all schools will admit children on a first come first served basis with priority given to kids from the immediate neighbourhood. Just like they do in England. No pulling strings or giving donations. Or making sure your toddlers knows an oval from an eclipse. Mrs P looked devastated. "You mean our children will have to go to a third rate school just because they live near it?" She managed at last. "That's preposterous! No one will allow it." Here words turned out to be prophetic. A year later, the ban on pre-primary admissions was quietly withdrawn, after vociferous protests from elite missionary schools. And Mrs P is still very much in Mumbai. Diya Parakh is a frequent contributor to these pages.
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