Mirambika Crisis: Some parents begin a peaceful sit in protest opposite the Aurobindo Ashram Gate No. 6

Day Two

Due to JB and Sandeep being visible with the protesters, Mangu has asked long standing volunteer parents Mrs Huda and Mrs Behera not to come to the school any more. The coward has done so through hapless Diyas under his thumb. This has saddened most parents and almost all children who have received the love and guidance of Mrs Huda and Mrs Behera for long. Once Mangu has been legally forced to shift the school back to its pre 14/4 location, if the other trustees do not act to stop his dictatorial ways in the meanwhile,  these matters will be taken up by the protesters.

The peaceful protest continues even as it rains. Prabhat & JB refresh. Some reporters seen at site.

Mandakini, Jasmeet & Batra (pro SAES or neutrals) trooped over to discuss their doubts and the way forward. Ajay, Deepak & Harsh told them that the protesters only want Mirambika to move back to its pre 14/4 location and would request the petitioners to withdraw their petition simultaneously with such a move.

Dinesh active on MbkAll WhatsApp reasoning with Kunal & others to see the intention of protesters and support their cause.

Shikha came to talk to the protesters but claimed that she had not read the DDA documents. Hope she finds some time to read the result of months of dogged work by some parents to save Mirambika in the ecosystem blessed by the Mother.

If Mirambika does not move back into its rightful place, the protesters intend to start a relay fast.

Day One

Prabhat Garg, who earlier wrote the must read trailing email highlighting how the brutal 14/4 shift of Mirambika affected his child, began a peaceful sit in protest opposite the Aurobindo Ashram Gate No. 6  this morning. Through the day, he has been joined by Ajay, Richa, Ranjan, Daksha, Yun, Mona, Preeti, Asmita, Urvi, Pramila, Neta, Harsh,Vivek, Tony, Sandeep, Sameer, Amber, JB, Vinay, Suman, Tarun, Krishna and others. The protesters repeatedly sang ‘We shall overcome’, ‘Ambike – Mirambike’ and other songs to convey that they want Mirambika to shift back to its pre 14/4 premises given that documents obtained from DDA confirm that there is no threat of repossession of the land if Mirambika continues therefrom.

A TV crew covered the protest in the evening.

Many passersby, Sarvodaya residents, MIS children & parents have been interacting with the protesters. While a banner waving Dhatree almost forced her father, Siddharth, to stand in there, Kuhu and her mother, Monika, joined  the protesters for some time. Joe, Kunal, Ranbir & Dinesh also appeared at the protest site for a while.

Supporting parents have been providing satvik food & drinks to the protesters. Ajay and Prabhat were likely to stay overnight at the protest site in small tents but JB won over the former by offering to meditate through the night. This protest will continue 24/7 till Mirambika is restored to its rightful place.​

———- Forwarded message ———- From: Prabhat Garg <prabhatgarg@gmail.com> Date: Tue, May 19, 2015 at 9:46 PM Subject: {Mirambika All Parents} Finding Mirambika To: mirambika <mirambika@googlegroups.com> = 1 =

It’s been weeks. Or one year. There’s a web of distant memories: Nirvan runs down the sunlit path. He stops at the Aurobindo statue to talk with a few seniors. One girl has a guitar, she shows it to him. He skips and hops through the neem grove and into the lobby. He is describing the Rangoli to me, but I’m lost in the echoes of a flute. The duck pond glimmers in the morning sun. Faces of children. Through wide open doors I glimpse the banyan tree shimmering. A noisy train with colourful coaches runs around it, as another one pulls in. I bump into a few birds on strings as I walk. I try not to step on the splattered grains of sand, as a diya works a broom to bring them back home in the pit. A few kids run up the stairs, and I look to the voices above. Bright faces through open balconies, some legs hung over the wall, a few animated backs. In Nirvan’s group, Didi waits with open arms and a bright smile. He suddenly lets go of my finger and runs across to her. A spectacle unfolds: it’s a series of hugs and grins, one Didi after another. I see the green reflections in the open windows of the group. Stuck to one window pane is the scribble of a ship. That’s Nirvan’s. And there are others: rocket, banana, tree, dinosaur, clouds, dolphin, Ravan, duck pond, cycle. There’s a bowl of fresh flowers in front of The Mother’s photo.  Nirvan walks in and offers his latest model of a factory, to the photo. And then he’s off, a coach in another train, bound for a destination to be discovered. The train stops over at the library. The library is filled with galaxies of books hung in space; it’s tranquil. The auditorium stage is being prepped for an event later in the day. A few mikes are installed. A harmonium is being ushered in. Mirambika’s history is captured right there, on the walls of the library. And in the writings of the children to be found in some dusty old shelves. = 2 = I’m dreaming of Mirambika. On the sunlit path, a squirrel wants to sit on my shoe. The bird of paradise hangs loose on a nearby branch. Sri Aurobindo’s statue snoozes in the midday sun, unperturbed by the cawing of a crow perched on its shoulder. A loud bang suddenly shatters the silence. I rush to the lobby. The tremolo of an industrial drilling machine is causing ripples in the banyan tree. Several children have run into the lobby in confusion. “Something is happening in the hall of light!”, a fellow parent tells me as she passes. We rush towards the hall of light. The room of infinite possibilities. The space that has provided a venue for thought and self-expression for generations of Mirambika children. Today, I see wooden partitions from the floor to the ceiling. Rows of computer tables flank the windows. Racks of engineering books line up the hall. What’s happening here? The mind fails to process. “I protest”, I mutter weakly. He says: “You have no right to do anything. I will close the school. I will close the school.”. I am stunned by the words. I find myself arguing back in anger. In a daze, I walk across the hall of light to the rear wing of the building. I hover through corridors with locked rooms, plaques identifying them as ‘Seminar Room’, ‘Lecture Room’, other rooms. Rooms with new equipment and furniture meant for adults. The drilling machine is closer, louder. I can see it now, blowing holes in a wall. Chunks of concrete collapse to the ground below and disintegrate. I start walking down the stairs. On the wall I see the photos of The Mother and Sri Aurobindo. Tremors from the drilling machine have displaced them a bit. Dust rises in the air, heavy and thick. It settles on the photos. The drilling carries on. = 3 = Every autumn, the neem grove turns into boot camp zone. The rabbits in school dig a hole big enough for everyone to crawl through. Ropes, bamboos and pulleys weave together bridges that hang precariously over frothy rivers of mud and stone. A giant spider comes quietly at night to spin its web a dozen feet wide in every direction. A disgruntled truck driver leaves two wasted tyres to hang from a tall tree. You do not attempt the Ram or Laxman Jhoola without fear in your heart. Check the slipperiness of your sports shoes. Flex your fingers to revive mobility. Do a couple of sit-ups lest your knees may give in midstream. Hope that the seams of your newly acquired track-pants are strong. And climb the ladder. As you sway between the ropes with one leg sticking forward and the other desperately trying to catch up with the rest of your body, time stands still in the face of grievous harm. Why are you doing this? You could lose your limb. Or your body. You obviously lost your head already, or you wouldn’t be up here. You could land on the ground in Gandha Bherundasana mudra. Your clothes could tear from the worst place possible and then you would definitely lose your face. You want to crawl back into the cosy embrace of your fears. Where all will always be safe. Your property. Your land. Definitely a visit to the hospital. But while time is standing still for you, you know that little eyes are watching you in anticipation. You’re here now, in a tight spot. You shouldn’t have climbed the ladder in the first place. A few steps back could usher you to safety again. And now you could explain to them the conundrum: choosing safety versus that intangible something that matters to you more than the other stuff. A whistle blows and the basketball match between parents and children ends. The children win, again. Better cross the Laxman Jhoola and be done with it. Just a leap of faith. You’ll be in time for the tug-of-war. = 4 = A bird watches curiously from the sky. Humans of Mirambika are queuing up in front of the dining hall entrance. The serpentine queue suddenly ducks into the gymnasium, emerges, winds all the way back to where the great slide begins. Thanksgiving performances just got over. A steady stream of children embark on the slide from the first floor, after returning their instruments to the hallowed music room. The gymnasium is usually the sight for badminton matches. Or a series of little bicycles often used by first time cyclists. Nirvan’s is called Mill-Mill, for the two wheels that churn endlessly. He learnt to ride it on the sunlit path, but the part where he drags his bike to its rightful parking spot inside the gymnasium gives him great joy. Today, the gymnasium is a venue for a show of photographs. The various moods of Mirambika. Smiles. Tears. Laughter. Diyas and workers in school. Tagore celebrations. Parents on sports day. Children preparing for performances. Eating together. Eating together. Communion. Sharing a meal. Like a family. Hundreds of children, diyas, parents, and their friends and relatives. Today, we’re all breaking bread together. The dining hall is a beehive, teeming with all of us. = 5 = The play-fields are empty. Goal posts stand in silence. The trees are still. Flowers don’t drop to the ground any more, so that little children can collect them in their wicker baskets. A dusty sunlit path disappears into ghost town —where the geese waddle and peacocks open their feathers to dance. And where the sun still shines. The dominion of the children and diyas is lost. I hear echoes. A cacophony. “Failed experiment.” “150 kids, underutilisation of space.” “Engineering college. We’ll open it and close it.” “We want the truth.” “You love the building. You only love the building.” “We want justice.” “The spirit of Mirambika.” “We will close the school.” “Trust. Trust. Trust.” “We want to save Mirambika.” “The Divine.” “We will fight for our rights.” “You, you, you.” “I, I, I.” Nirvan wakes up and asks me: “Am I going to go to the old school today?” I tell him no, to which he says: “I’ll ask Didi today about this! When are we going back?” He will not ask her today. He hasn’t since April 14th. He probably doesn’t want to hear the answer. Amidst all the half truths, anger and sorrow, the children know. = 6 = Lest we forget. Real people walked the sunlit path. Real children ran across its courtyards. Real teachers made their workplace their home. Where has Mirambika gone? I see a fog where it used to stand. Will it reveal itself as the fog lifts? The fog may remain, and the Mirambika of our dreams may be frozen in time, in icy droplets. We shall attempt to enter the fog often, searching. We may never find what we’re looking for. On the other hand, our collective sunshine can diminish the fog. We need to talk to the inner child that watches and listens. The inner child has watched enough. It needs to talk now, to friends inside other angry adults. Those children need to meet, on a path that is sunlit again. They need to remember what got them here in the first place. And why they always come back to it. A foundation was laid once. A centre for learning and higher consciousness was born. It was nurtured lovingly by its leadership, and it grew into a big banyan tree of wisdom. We need to preserve this tree for future generations to come. As the children will scale this tree of wisdom, so will we. We must persist and go higher and higher on its branches. In my dreams, I see the fog lifting. A new Mirambika rises. == == == Prabhat (Nirvan, Green)

— — “The first principle of education is that nothing can be taught” – Sri Aurobindo ————————————————————————————————————— To post to this group, send email to mirambika@googlegroups.com For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.co.in/group/mirambika — You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups “mbkallgroups” group. To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to mirambika+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com. For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.