
Pre-primary teachers, ayahs seek equal pay for equal work
The Hindu
The teachers and ayahs, under the banner of the Kerala Pre-primary Teachers’ and Ayas’ Association, banged empty coconut shells against each other to highlight the alleged neglect meted out to them by the government.
Pre-primary teachers and ayahs in government schools who have been on a round-the-clock agitation in front of the Secretariat for the past one week held a novel protest on Sunday, Easter day, to draw attention to their demands.
The teachers and ayahs, under the banner of the Kerala Pre-primary Teachers’ and Ayas’ Association, banged empty coconut shells against each other to highlight the alleged neglect meted out to them by the government.
The teachers have been demanding pay and service conditions similar to that enjoyed by other school teachers. Teachers and ayahs with more than 10 years of service get paid ₹12,500 and ₹7,500, respectively, while those with service less than that get slightly less. This is less than the minimum wages in many sectors, say the teachers who are on an indefinite strike.
T. Vimala Manohar, general secretary of the association, says they were appointed in government schools by parent-teacher associations back in 1998 on government orders when the number of children in government schools began to fall. Though pre-primary classes are a reason why there is no division fall in Class 1, the government does not give them any consideration.
The teachers say that on a case filed by them, the High Court had in 2012 directed that they be given temporary pay, but this was changed by the government to honorarium. This resulted in them being denied any benefits. Another significant increase in honorarium came only the recommendations of the 10th Pay Commission. Minor increases were effected in between, but there had been none in the past two years.
Even the paltry honorarium they get is delayed by months. This puts their families to much hardship, they allege. Even if the funds arrive, some Assistant Education Officers decide it is not an immediate priority and delay payments. “We are treated as a thorn in their flesh, and denied our basic right to wages.”
Minister for General Education V. Sivankutty was president of the association for a decade. “He had promised that our demands would be met, but no action has been taken yet. The Minister’s office keeps citing slashing of Union government funds for the current situation,” they say.

“He travels fastest who travels alone”. M.V. Murthy has substantiated that thought from Rudyard Kipling. In 12 years, he has set 8,125 saplings in soil and seen them through to maturity. He has gone it alone — at multiple levels. No volunteers to work shoulder to shoulder with. No fundraising to support the purchase of native-tree saplings and tree guards. The only “volunteer” who tags along with Murthy on every tree-planting spree is his steadfastly loyal Honda Activa. The only source of funding is his wallet. At 5.30 a.m., when people are snoozing alarms, Pasumai Murthy (as he is popularly known) ranges around some Chennai neighbourhood, a plastic pot filled with water lodged in the wide floorboard of his step-through scooter After serving the saplings their “breakfast”, he gets his own, and around 9 a.m., the Activa is headed to his workplace, which lacks a fixed address. An assistant manager with Ramaniyam Builders, he is not desk-bound, his brief requiring him to visit construction sites. While strapping on the ratchet-type safety helmet, he puts on an invisible green cap. During the visits to those work sites, his mind maps spots where the Chennai sun stings the hardest, shadows being scarce. These are stark landscapes devoid of trees to offer respite from a glaring sun. In May 2013, at Vannanthurai junction, not far from his diggings in Vannanthurai in Adyar, the absence of something familiar made him acutely aware of it. A stand of trees had been removed on account of road expansion. A couple of children ran barefoot on baking tar. Elders leaned helplessly against sun-scorched compound walls. “That moment hit me,” he says. “If we can cut down trees in a day, why not grow them with equal urgency?” On August 15 that year, at Adyar Junction, he hoisted the national flag, distributed sweets, and planted 15 saplings. He was not doing anything radical, only following a rule that seldom budges from the paper it is printed on. For every tree that is felled on account of development, ten others need to be planted. People could process tree-planting exercises by groups, but not by a lone wolf. Sneers came his way; he smiled them off. He recalls being ridiculed by visitors to a Corporation gym while planting saplings at Besant Nagar beach. Now, he counts those same faces among his host of supporters, his consistent efforts to plant saplings and water them earning him their admiration. The admiration derives in part from the fact that he digs into his own pocket to keep this service going — well, growing. At a time, he buys a bundle of net-type material costing ₹1,700 out of which 25 tree guards can be made, on an average. For support to those tree guards, he buys 50 iron rods (thick and six feet long) which set him back by anywhere between ₹5000 and ₹6,000 depending on their weight. And he buys saplings from a nursery in Akkarai where he is assured of a discount by virtue of being a long-time buyer. Obviously, given the financial sacrifice all of this entails, he has got buy-in from his family to do this service. Being reasonable in the allocation of time has helped him win them over: the first half of every Sunday he reserves for tree-planting and the course of the second half is scripted by his wife Maria Priya and his daughter Meha M. He has received a doctorate degree from the The Academy of Universal Global Peace for this work.