I’m trying to find a story, but it’s in vain because here there is no such thing. There is no mega narrative, no such concern that seems to encapsulate life or the imagination of its people. If at all there is but a murmur of a machinery grinding slowly, faltering here and again, but nevertheless asserting its monotonous rhythm. I’m sitting in a training centre located 30 kms from Jaipur city, barely 500 meters from the highway. The training is a prelude to the PAISA survey – tracking expenditures under the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan – that we will be undertaking in Jaipur. On the right of me as far as I can see are fields and what appears to be promises of tomorrow – nascent urban centers. They seem misplaced, almost as if they have been thrust into a space, which insidiously rejects them. Behind the training centre are more fields, here and there womankind makes jagged appearances, houses crop up in no discernible order.

In such a setting the only thing that captures the imagination is the setting itself, but slowly the stories tumble forth. Women hired as health workers, ASHA are being trained in a nearby room. At tea I begin a conversation with a couple of them. Their story is similar to the ones of so many others consecrated in acronyms but made to perform a service more taxing then the measly allowance they are paid. They are rancorous, claiming they cannot continue, Rs 200 per delivery is pittance, unjust and extractive. I’m forced to agree the cost of the position is more than the compensation. Concerned with their plight but aware of my own limitation I offer them the only solace I can – some namkeen, which they reject.

Act two, for our mock pilot we visit a nearby senior secondary school. As expected we reach early, and spend the first ten minutes watching the children cleaning their school, waiting for the Head Master (HM) to arrive. He finally does, and I am elated. We walk into the school once more and the HM invites us in. The volunteers take their places and I proceed to let them introduce themselves. They give him the letter of permission and he scans it and looks back at us awaiting what can only be a further explanation. They falter, but somehow manage and he appears convinced. The survey begins. The HM answers the first few questions with ease and I think it is going to be a breeze. Not quite, soon he drifts and we switch sections trying to keep up with the names of grants he begins to rattle off. The volunteers’ lose their way and I attempt to bring them back on track. I ask him the year in which he received the grant and he explains that it is for the last financial year. I’m relieved, and by now the volunteers also find their bearings. They take down the list of grants this time, but soon we realize that despite all his organization the HM is thoroughly confused. It is not his fault; the poor man cannot locate the passbook of the school account which makes it hard for him to tell us the amount that was deposited in school’s account and how much was withdrawn under each head. He nevertheless doesn’t share our lack of enthusiasm and continues, never faltering in losing the thread of his previous thought. Despite this all we manage to piece together the required information.

The oft-repeated story is recounted once again. We determine that the school received its share of grants in the last quarter of the financial year giving the HM very little time to incur expenditure. Consequently, most of the expenditure was incurred in the current financial year. The grants for this year were disbursed like the previous year in the month of November but until now the expenditure has not been incurred under any of the heads. One reason for this has been that the HM was not aware of the time when the grants were debited to the school account. Apart from the financial difficulties, the cropping up of a multitude of private schools it appears has had an impact on enrollment and retention. There were a total of 72 children from classes 1-8 with one child in class 4! Advantage – Neo liberals.

Act three, we visit a nearby KGBV, another acronym,  the love between bureaucrats and acronyms runs deep; the use of acronyms allows them to add however many names to a title, appeasing the leaders of today and those who have lost their relevance with the passage of time. KGBV’s or Kasturba Gandhi Balika Vidyalays are schools set up to encourage girls’ education, especially of those girls who cannot afford to travel long distances to attend schools. As such then, hostel facilities are also provided in each of these schools. Upon entering the gates we encounter a group of girls playing what I can only understand could be gulli danda. I’m struck how the term doesn’t seem to be too far from what it encapsulates, maybe the powers that be can take a lesson. Once we enter however the game abruptly ends, the girls crowd around us, greeting us but maintaining their distance, sporting their shy grins and hiding their faces every time one of us attempts to make eye contact. They invite us in, and we ceremoniously accept. This always strikes me about village life, if you look like an outsider, people always invite you in and then ask you where it is you are from. Credibility is rarely established on the threshold.

Once in the hostel we are struck by its very structure, it is likened to a large house with two floors and a spacious courtyard. The girls giggle all the while, they seem to be as amazed with us. Unconcerned with their giggles, we ask for their permission and begin our investigation. We visit each of the rooms, which the girls proudly showcase. They are large enough and the accommodation seems to adhere to standards, the toilets are reasonably clean like the kitchen which is also well stocked. Pleased with the state of affairs we chat a bit with the girls, humoring them and asking them a string of general knowledge questions. The girls respond animatedly, some of them shirking off their initial reticence. The games and questions carry on for another fifteen minutes and then with the first hint of dusk we scramble to leave. We bid them goodbye and take what now a symbolizes memory- a group picture. After urging them once again to study hard we finally bid them adieu.

I’m sitting in the training centre again, where time is somehow slower, staring at a curtain trying to establish if it truly is ghastly- they have a term for this cloth now which I’m forgetting, perry cotton or something to the effect- wondering if tomorrow the machine will creak as much.

Gayatri Sahgal is a Research Analyst with the Accountability Initiative.