remembering kamala

Girl’s education is accepted as a fait accompli in our day and age. However this was not so when my mother was young. Today on her 16th death anniversary I remember with fondness the way she told me about her early school days in Meerut in the early 1920s.

“When Raghunath Girl’s School opened there were no students. The teacher a Christian lady went around looking for students as her job was at stake! My father, after much persuasion by my mother and grandmother, two extremely modern women, accepted to let me go. Every morning the teacher used to come in a doli, carried by two men. The doli was placed in the inner veranda and the men left. I use to sit in it and the purdah (curtain) was then drawn. I was just 8 years old!

“When I sat for my class 6 examination I was very excited. I was made to wear a thick khadi sari over the long khadi shorts and shirt which used to be my usual attire. Belonging to a nationalist freedom fighter family, we all wore thick home spun khadi. While answering my paper the sari was in the way and I took it off. After the paper was over I ran home excited to show my answers to my father. I had forgotten all about the sari. Later the teacher brought it home.

“I managed to continue my studies with the support of my mother and grandmother. My father wanted me to stop but the two ladies would put up a great show. They would stand with long faces while papa had lunch and then would say “Kamala has not eaten, she is on hunger strike”. Needless to say papa would lose his appetite not knowing that I had been surreptitiously fed at night! A day or two later he would relent. I went on to do my matriculation, my BA and even my MA thanks to many well orchestrated hunger strikes!”

My mother, Kamala Goburdhun, nee Sinha [1917-1990] went from being a small town girl to an Ambassador’s wife. Along the way she even got her Doctorate. Much of what i am, is because of this special woman. You can read more about her life here.

excuse me saying this….

excuse me saying this….

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Excuse me saying this, but why don’t you sell this house.. imagine how many heart surgeries it would sponsor..
This is what a project why supporter and now friend said when he dropped on a Sunday to finally put a face to something he had till date known through the words I write.. One again I was faced with what I now call my moments of truth..

The obvious answer was that this ‘house’ was not quite mine as it was in custody for my children.. but the question perturbed me for a while as it was almost existential in nature and pertained to the very spirit of project why…

Even if the hosue was mine to do away with, did this act fall within the ambit of what pwhy set out to be.. A tough question I must confess as the answer could easily be miconstrued as an easy way out of an essential dilemna..

After much thought and soul searching, I realised that the answer would still be ‘no’, and that for many reasons. No matter how many open heart surgeries it could sponsor, it would be still a limited number and once depleted one woudl still find one’s self where one is today. But there was a deeper rationale to my refusal and that was that such action would against the very essnce of pwhy which aims at levelling and easing out differences and placing everyone on a common platform on the one end, and working out modes of functioning that can be replicated by one and all..

The aim is not giving up or liquidating an asset however big, but heping create assets, albeit tiny, for all.. leave alone the false sense of megalomania such an action would entail.. and above all one must not forget that charity – for want of a better word – has to be coupled with humility to retain any meaning… so begging bowl it is for now and always

my very special begging bowl

my very special begging bowl

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This morning I began the mail I sent to many friends and supporters with the words: here I am, begging bowl in hand.. and many answered with the words: please do not use phrases like begging bowl..

Most of the mails I write when I seek help are instinctive.. true that I have never used the word begging earlier … it was time for a bit of soul searching..

To beg means to ask for something earnestly and humbly says the dictionary.. quite true as gone are the days of anger and resentment when no help came.. now there is only gratitude for even the tiniest coin that drops by, as with it comes the love and care of a human heart, the precious moment spared to write a cheque or fill an on line form..

As I searched some more I remembered the Zen monk’s begging bowl: each day the monk would go out into the world with his empty bowl, and whatever was placed in his bowl by kind strangers would be his nourishment for the day. Nourishment can take more than one meaning and I realised that maybe I was like the Zen monk and my bowl got me so much: a heart fixed, a tear wiped, a child’s smile, a mother’s prayer answered, children remaining in school, a roof on someone’s head…

As I look with moist eyes at the picture above and see Manu in a classroom, intent in learning the new excercise and little Sapna looking up at him, my mind goes back to the Manu begging on the street and being fed like an animal and Sapna not able to hold her head, let alone stand on her own… and lok at them today… and all this has been made possible because so many of you dropped a bit of your heart in my begging bowl..

As long as I asked for a contribution in impersonal ways and resented the fact that it was not forthcoming nothing changed.. it is only when I was able to shed my misplaced arrogance and pride and humbly beg with my heart that my bowl filled slowly and miracles happened around me..

It is a very precious bowl I hold out as hidden in its depth is the key to a new heart, a new life, and many tomorrows filled with joy..

which one did he hear..

which one did he hear..

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Just when you sit back and think that you have done your bit, and maybe can take a break , someone decides otherwise and a tiny broken heart lands softly on your planet. One look at the trusting eyes and innocent face and your mind is already racing.

Deepak is 7 months old and requires open heart surgery. Though his face is plump his tiny body is proof of how difficult the simple task of breathing is for this child. The scribbled now familiar green card of the All India Institute lies in front of you..

70 000 rs with the added 4000 for the angiograpy.. how can little deepak’s daily wage labourer father ever put that money together.. and you ask yourself which one of the thousands of prayers his mom must have whispered, did he hear!

One has to stop and I think at the reality we often do not see. One the one hand India is shining and more and more of our countryPals are making it on the world’s richest men list.. Five start medical facilities now attract a new form of tourism. But no effort is being made towards medical care for the poor.

A TV network recently showed an old educated couple begging in the streets of Mumbay. The dignified old lady wore a placard around her neck saying she had lost her eyesight, breast and home to cancer and needs help.

Looking at those pictures I felt so small and inadequate and wondered where had we gone wrong in building our nation.. True that after the programme, help poured in and the couple is now comfortable. But many questions remained unanswered.. is it only after a story of human tragedy is aired on TV that people open their hearts and feel a sense of responsibility..? does our charitable side needs external prompts to awaken..?

In our 7 years of up market begging one has had to accept the sad reality that individual heart wrenching cases do get heeded, whereas long term and preventive projects are difficult to sell.. the person willing to come forward in individual cases, tiptoes away when asked for help in our every day work..

A flash of intuition or some hidden instinct pushed me to set up a community driven grass root project, and in our 7th year running and in spite of the innumerable setbacks and looming temptations, the tug is still very much there. No magical wand is going to create a perfect social system no matter how committed an administration we have. The magical wand lies in our ability to awaken the charitable side that lies dormant in each one of us, so that a network of support is created at the micro level and takes care of its own – the poor, the handicapped, the old, the sick – and ultimately this is the network that will create the bridge between national programmes and the end user.

How, is the question, and my answer remains the same: the one rupee a day model, where the one rupee could be translated as free space, time, skills and resources.. If each of our outreach programmes could be handled by the local community, we would see a quantum leap in the number of children helped..

I have always held that India’s solutions lie in addressing simultaneously the macro and the micro level till the day the meet and synergise.

Will that day dawn in our life span, I do not know, but in the spirit of what has been said, one has to continue with conviction in what one feels is right.

Deepak needs a new heart that is today’s challenge, tomorrow’s is to ensure that we are still around for all the other Jyotis and Deepaks in waiting!

no bananas for my mommy…

no bananas for my mommy…

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I lived a rare moment today.. one that I cannot truly describe as it was a kaleidoscope of emotions and feelings..

A late call yesterday night asked me to come and meet utpal’s mom who was in hospital with multiple problems.. they also asked me to bring utpal along.. So this morning, he wore his favourite T-shirt and we made the long journey to the hospital.. On the way he spoke a little, asking time and again whether we were bringing her home.. I told him that it would not be this time as she was ill..

As we entered the hospital ward, he clung to me and when he lay eyes on his mom he just looked away.. In spite of her efforts he did not go into her arms but talked a lot and then took the camera and starting taking a lot of pictures.. for a 4 year old the result was quite stunning..he even turned the lens and took one of himself! I

Then he set off with the radhey his friend and our driver, to get bananas and curds for his mom.. While he was away the counsellor came and told me about the fact that utpal’s mom was being difficult and needed to be talked to as her health was poor and that she had to make efforts and get rid of her tantrums.. that is when utpal came back and he must have heard some of the conversation, or at least sensed the mood..

He said nothing and sat on a chair waiting for us to finish… When it was time to leave he just picked up the bag of bananas saying that he was taking them back and after a quick forced hug he just walked away…

We dropped by the rehab centre where I had a few matters to settle, and utpal bonded with all the young counsellors happily sharing his precious bananas and walking quietly into many more hearts..

On the drive back he fell asleep, his little head on my lap and I sat wondering, trying to make sense of what had happened. Perhaps it was simply his way of telling his mom that he had kept his part of the deal while she had let him down..

Utpal’s mom has always been a difficult woman with too much attitude.. I just hope she is able to understand what her son tried to tell her as best he could!