One morning in March, in a packed classroom in a free coaching centre in the village of Kuchai in Jharkhand’s Saraikela district, Sombari Munda raised her hand when asked whether there were any young people who were going to vote for the first time. “In the last few years, I have taken a good look at what life is like in my village, and I have already made a decision about my vote,” said the 18-year-old. “We got electricity a few years ago, and now we also have water. But the quality of education is still very bad. When I enter the polling booth, I am going to hit NOTA (none of the above).” The room erupted in a ripple of laughter. “Why should I give my vote to someone who has done nothing for us?”
As I listened to this young woman, an admirer of the fiction of Premchand and the poetry of Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, elaborate on her carefully considered thumbs down to the entire political class, I was reminded of why youth—spiky and soulful, hopeful and discontent, perceptive and profound— is thought to be the greatest of life’s seasons, even (perhaps, especially) by those who have left its station. I thought of Premchand and Ambedkar and Gandhi and the scores of anonymous democratisers of the 75 years of the Indian republic, and how, for different reasons, they would all have enjoyed such a moment. And I was glad for this chance to go back to school, literally and metaphorically, for a month, to get a sense of the aspirations of the youth of India, and to what extent they had faith in politics and the vote as a way of addressing them.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 31, 2024 من THE WEEK India.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 8500 مجلة وصحيفة.
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هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 31, 2024 من THE WEEK India.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 8500 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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