by Anuradha Bakshi | Jan 11, 2009 | Uncategorized
It was Sunday afternoon. The air was a chilly though a watery sun was trying to break through the fog. The roads were empty. I normally do not venture out on Sunday. This Sunday however I took the road I take every morning to work. At the red light near the flyover close to my home lives a posse of beggars. Normally when we pass them by every morning at eight, they are still waking up. Some of them are still huddled under their blankets, others are brushing their teeth on the road side, some women are busy making tea on their makeshift stove. At that time of day you are rarely solicited for alms. Their working day has not begun.
This day was different. The space under the flyover normally teeming with beggars was empty. The only reminder of their existence was a heap of grubby bundles and bags carefully piled up in a corner. Everyone had left to take their positions at different spots.
We reached the red light and stopped. Out of nowhere sprung a little girl. She must have been two. Her feet were bare and she wore a tattered skirt and blouse that could not have kept her warm. She approached the three wheeler her tiny hand held out. I looked up at her and saw the most beautiful child I could imagine. Her eyes sparkled and were full of mischief as she enticed you into a game. She had almost perfect features and plump cheeks and looked a far cry from any beggar child I had ever seen. She looked more like the children you see on picture postcards or glitzy ads.
You could make out that she had been taught the right gestures and actions for her trade: the hand held out, the little chubby legs running from one vehicle to the other, the rehearsed speech. But that was were it ended. Was it her innocence that turned the sordid drama into a game she played with aplomb and glee. Her handler sat on the curb watching the child. She was much older and it looked as if she was assigned the task of training her. The child did run back to her often , as if she were seeking approval and encouragement. The light turned green and we moved on. As we left the little girl gave us the most endearing smile and waved merrily.
I had thought that I was totally inured to the menace of the beggar child after years of facing them at every red light you cross. I often carry biscuits and hand them over to the child that proffers his of her little hand. But the sight of this little girl changed it all. Something snapped inside me. Perhaps it was the walls I had carefully built to enable me to withstand the sight of the innumerable beggar children one comes across each day. Or perhaps was if the fact that usually, the children one comes across are either half drugged babes in arms or pesky kids well honed in the art of begging. But this little girl still had all the innocence of a child and looked at you as if you were an equal, one willing to be part of the new game she had been taught. The world I had shut away willingly had once again become real. No child, no matter how pesky should be used and abused in this way. And yet it happens each day and we just pass by.
Had I too become hardened or had I simply drawn false comfort from the fact that I was doing a great job. Was I not helping so many poor children! The sight of that tiny little girl made me feel very small and inconsequential. The work that seemed till that very instant fairly laudable looked pitiful. It would be weeks or at best months before the tiny girl lost her innocence and became one the pesky children and another still in the arms would be seen learning the tricks of the trade. But the question that needed to be asked was whether anything could be done.
Some years ago we had tried to do something for the children under this very flyover. Our idea was to run a one hour outreach programme where we wanted to try and give these kids some basic education, but we found out that this was not to be as the children formed an essential part of the begging trade as they were the ones most likely to bring in the moolah. We were rudely sent way by the rather forbidding leaders of the pack. This was a serious albeit disdainful well organised commercial activity and the children had to sing for their supper. Needless to say we left sheepishly with our great ideas and plans.
We have all heard about the sordid tales that underlie the world of beggars be it the child maimed or the ones hired for the day. Even I wrote my posts dutifully expressing my rage and then moved on. Somehow one had shut this world away as it seemed hopeless. The sight of the little beggar girl who was so different from her brood raised many uncomfortable questions.
Each one of us are in some way or the other responsible for the fact that this little girl is today learning this despicable trade. We are all guilty of dropping that fateful coin in the proffered hand and thus giving this trade some credibility and support. I know it is the easiest way of getting rid of the annoying child that knocks at your window or trails you mercilessly. But then as long as we continue doing this we give our tacit approval to the trade. These children are also citizens of this land and hence protected by its constitution and yet every single right of theirs is hijacked. They are simply a menace we have learnt to live with. We cannot remain silent and see more children’s lives destroyed. We need to act now!
by Anuradha Bakshi | Jan 11, 2009 | Uncategorized
I was wondering what I would blog about this morning. Writing a post is almost therapeutic for me and has a cathartic effect as it enables me to share what otherwise would remain bottled inside and threaten to choke me and cloud my functioning.
This morning I opened my mailbox not expecting much, it being a Sunday. A mail from the editor of a site named views point sat patiently waiting to be opened. Not knowing the sender I may have deleted in on another morning but not today. I opened it and found that it asked one to share ones’ opinion about the Satyam Scandal.
I had not planned to talk about this as I am a complete dodo with financial issues and corporate sagas. I barely find my way in the plus and minuses of the tiny project I run. I must confess that in spite of my poor grasp of things, the size of the swindle was mind blogging: 5000 crores and plus. I read the article I had been solicited to comment upon.
The article raised many issues that I have touched upon in my years of blogging: corruption, the lure of money, political nexuses and above all the need of apportioning responsibility. The author highlights the need for introspection and that is what I have tried to do and often urged others to follow.
You do not need a Satyam kind of scandal to find that we are living in an impossible imbroglio. My experience of corruption, political nexuses and greed is bases on my experience with a very tiny part of India, one that remains invisible and voiceless, where scandals go unnoticed because they are too small to increase TRPs or touch people too scared to voice their plight.
I do not know whether the real perpetrators of the Satyam scandal will be punished or whether another masterpiece in whitewashing will occur and a few fall guys will face a token punishment after an interminable legal drama. I must confess that based on my experience of the past I do not hold much hope. The Satyam scandal affects thousands of innocent hard working employees and millions of trusting investors -was not Satyam one of the no risk company-?
The nameless and faceless scandal I refer to is the one that touches scores of millions of people each day as they set out on another day of survival: the weekly tithe to be paid to the local beat cop so that one can set up one’s tea stall or food cart; the wad of now crumpled notes saved over months that need to be handed over to the wily tout to secure a coveted job in some remote government department, a job that will never come your way, only the size of the wad increases; the other wad of money borrowed at some astronomical rate from the local money lender so that one’s drunk husband can be released from the police station and so on. The list is endless. Corruption is rampant and has reached the tiniest crevices of society.
Can I dare hope that the Satyam scandal will perhaps awaken us of our slumber and our ataxia and make us say enough is enough. For only when each one of us mouthes those words will things begin to change. And that means not paying a bribe to the traffic cop when you bust the red light but accepting to go to the court and pay your fine and so on. The list is again endless and in each case the price to pay heavy! But I am convinced that corruption can be defeated only when each one of us agree to do so and stop wanting to cut corners. Looks daunting and almost impossible. That is where the need for introspection lies.
The Satyam scandal raises another question: the lure of money and the extent of one’s greed. How much is enough. That is again a question begging for an answer. I can easily say that I have curtailed my needs to a bare minimum since I embarked on the pwhy journey. The flip side is that I am constantly panhandling to meet the need of others. I guess the bottom line here is that the sky the the limit provided you go about garnering your wealth with honesty and hard toil. Sadly the consumer society we live in, the lure of materialistic ware aptly promoted by the idiot box and the access to credit makes it all very difficult and quasi impossible. So where does wisdom lie, or rather how does one build the right set of values in each one of us? More questions that need urgent answers and yet there seems no one who can give them.
I normally am not a cynic. If I were I would never have created pwhy. But faced with the present scandal I cannot but say that I have scant hope that anything will happen. Memories are short, and soon everything will be forgotten as another scandal aptly fanned by TV channels will replace this one. Life will just continue as always and I will go back into my world trying to change one life and then another hoping against hope that a miracle will come our way.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Jan 9, 2009 | Uncategorized
Yesterday was one of those strange days when a quirk of fate makes you come to face with both end of a spectrum. I am not one to readily accept a lunch invitation to the latest place in town, but a dear friend and supporter of pwhy insisted I come. I could not refuse. So there I was peeking into my wardrobe for an appropriate attire and getting ready to travel to a part of the town I had not visited for as long as I could remember. I was about to leave when a distressed and seemingly agitated pair entered the room: Rani and Shamika had just returned from a visit to Radha’s home.
Though visibly perturbed, the girls took a long time to find the words to express what they were feeling. After some time they shared their angst in almost incoherent phrases : You will not believe, you have to crawl in, the child was practically naked..there was nothing in the house… and so on.
I sat quietly listening to them. What till yesterday had simply been second hand information had today become real. You can raise your eyebrows in horror when you are told about a dwelling whose roof is four feet high, or that is barely 8 square feet, you can try and imagine what life can be in such conditions, but nothing prepares you for what you feel when it hits you in the face, even your 9 years of toiling in slums. The two young women had experienced just that. And I knew that it was something they would not forget for long and that may even hold their hand back the next time they set out on one of their wild shopping sprees.
It was time for me to leave. On my long ride in the chilly wind (three wheelers do not have windows) I kept thinking of Radha’s family and of all those who faced similar situations in this heartless city. A multitude of questions came to mind, each left unanswered. I reached my destination and finally the famous cafe where my friend awaited me. It was a swanky place, which made you wonder where you were, as there was very little of India there: the staff was all from the North East, even the clocks on the wall showed the time in about 5 different time zones. The crowd was mostly expatriate with a sprinkling of very westernised country mates, who even spoke with the accent acquired on their last trip abroad. No vernacular please.
My friend, also an expat was waiting on a terrace table and we were soon lost in conversation. Still filled with images of Radha’s world, the conversation soon turned to the plight of the poor and the ever increasing gap between the two Indias. One thing led to the other. My friend told me how shocked she was at the contempt with which the rich people she frequented talked about the poor, even those who worked for them. I simply listened. We talked about the lack of compassion in the young and the violence that was growing at an alarming rate. The gang rape of the young student was high on your minds. That the perpetrators were barely out of their teens made us wonder what was it that was missing in today’s nurturing of the young. And what was it that had been different in our days. We both agreed on the fact that no matter how privileged you were, in earlier times there were boundaries that we all respected: controlled spending money, respect of values, fixed time tables and so on. Today’s youth seemed rudderless and the only value instilled in them was that of money be it with the rich or the not so rich.
It was time to leave. I must confess that I had felt a tad uncomfortable sitting in that almost alien place. The ride back was even more chilling: was it the wind that had turned colder or my thoughts more disturbed. The day passed and I went to bed still perturbed.
This morning a mail dropped in my inbox. It gave me a link to a blog post entitled even these least, a post about in the words of the author: the bleeding heart stuff. It is an incisive and thought provoking tirade about why one gives to another. The author makes some interesting remarks and shares some real experiences. He writes: I’m not a bleeding heart, by a long shot. I could blame time and space and life, or perhaps it never was in me. I really don’t know. Moral triage is something every person carries out on a daily basis, navigating through the million abrasions of the daily grind. Constrained by my own needs, I can and do walk off from situations and places without necessarily feeling heart-broken. What is amazing, however, is that there always seems to be somebody who cares…These are cold, cold times, dear heart. Maybe they are merely lamps, giving a feeble light; maybe they aren’t able to warm anything except a few hearts. But I see plenty of people around me doing the most unlikely things…
People who, on a larger scale, are trying to do something, anything that will make at least one more person happy, one more person safe….
I have asked myself, in some of my retrospective moments, what made me do what I am doing today, have asked myself whether the kudos that come my way time and again are deserved, whether it is some virtuous road I walk or whether I just do what I can in a set of given circumstances? Probably that is what it is: not a quest for acclaim or a righteous crusade, I simply do what I can.
by Anuradha Bakshi | Jan 7, 2009 | Uncategorized
If you do not fulfill all the rites we will see that your daughters will never get married and you san will be banished from the clan, were the chilling words hurled at meena – Radha’s mom – as she sat desolate holding on to her four children. She had gone back to her village in Bihar after the death of her husband to complete the said rituals. At that time she did not know what awaited her. The rituals of the 10th day were complex and costly. Where would the money come from? And yet as she sat alone and devastated she knew she had no choice. Her hesitant and barely audible appeal had fallen on deaf ears. The answer had been cruel and categorical: we she wanted her children to remain within the fold of the clan she had to find the money.
And she did as in this complex and inhumane social imbroglio, predators lurk in search of innocent prey. The answer was simple: she would have to borrow it from the local money lender – in this case the local goldsmith. The die was cast.
The said ritual entailed feeding the entire village and thus Meena had to borrow twelve thousand rupees at the rate of 6% a month or 72% a year. The split moment decision had made her indebted for life. What was even more terrifying was that the so called clan that seemed to exercise such power was strangely absent when it came to extending a helping hand. Meena revealed that during her month long stay at the village her children had practically starved. My blood runs cold at the mere thought of masses of rich food being cooked for uncaring people while the little children of the dead man starve.
After completing the rituals and carrying the load of a huge debt on her frail shoulders Meena took set on her journey back to Delhi. Having barely any money left she bought he cheapest tickets the one that allows you standing space, for a three day journey. Exhausted and hungry she reached Delhi in the dead of night and waited till morning in the chilly night. A kind fellow traveler offered his left over food to the starving children. After having dropped her family in her house, she walked to our centre where we found her waiting as we reached office.
She sat on a chair, desperate and yet determined, knowing that she had to carry on as the morrows of her tiny family were in her custody. She recalled her tale of horror. Her eyes heavy with sleep were threatening to close but she carried on, sharing every detail. We just listened, too shocked to react, not finding the words that would help assuage her terrible pain.
When she had finished her story, we sat in silence for what seemed like a long time, not knowing where to begin. Slowly we tried to ask her what she wanted to do next. She simply answered: whatever you say. Not wanting to push her in anyway, we tried to show her the few and bleak options she had: to find s job, one that would perhaps give her a couple of thousands of rupees but would leave her nothing at the end of the month, or she could if she wanted come to our women centre where she and her children would be safe. She could work and even learn a sewing. Her older daughters could go back to school and we would find a way to ensure that spirited Radha come rejoin her friends at the special section and her little boy would join the creche. We did not push and simply answered her numerous questions: would my children get food, what work would I have to do, where is the centre…
We realised that perhaps this was the first time someone was being kind to her, and she was finding it difficult to believe what she was hearing. She was perhaps looking for the catch, the price she may be asked to pay. We did not push her, we knew she needed time. We just told her to go home, talk to her kids and to the other members of her family and that we would drop and by her home the next day and take her and show her the place.
After a much needed cup of tea, Meera left and we got on with our chores as best we could. Innumerable questions came to mind, each with no plausible answer. One did one begin to comprehend the perplexity of age old social traditions that had lost all their meaning but were still paramount to survival in an India we did not really know. How could one even begin to attempt to change things in a situation where the adversary was so formidable. How did you take on social mores and how essential were they to the lives of such people? Why had no religious head ever denounced rituals that ensured that you would be lost forever? And if the God of Lesser beings had intervened in Radha’s case what about the million others who suffered the same fate?
Tomorrow perhaps, Meena will decide to come to our centre – was it not set up for the likes of her – and a new life will begin for her and her family. At this moment this is all I can do though I know that the disturbing thoughts that have come to my mind will not vanish so easily. Maybe I need to remember what I had said almost ten years ago to someone who asked me how I would go about solving all the problems that plague India. If I can change one life, it would have been worth it. So help me God!
Note: Later in the day, Sitaram called to tell us that there was no food in Radha’s home and that they had no money to buy any. We sent a bag full of rations to ensure that the family sleeps well tonight
by Anuradha Bakshi | Jan 4, 2009 | Uncategorized
Utpal is back in his boarding school after his winter break. he dropped by to give me a hug on his way to school and that is when I managed to shoot this priceless picture. Popples spent his holidays in what he simply called mera ghar – my home.
After spending Xmas eve with me and getting his gifts, he stubbornly started insisting he wanted to go home. Home is the women centre, a place he has been going to for the past 18 months. Normally it is where mom is but for the past two breaks mom has not been there as she is in rehab again. But that does not make a difference is is still home.
I tried to get him to come to my place for New Year’s eve as the centre was rather empty and to me looked gloomy, but not to Popples who celebrated the coming of 2009 at home with his pals – the band of neighborhood kids of which he is the leader – and a menu he decided upon: dal and roti. I could not be with him as much as I would have wanted and spoke to him on the phone frequently. One evening he asked me to come to his home and have pakoras. Needless to say and in spite of the bitter cold, I made the trip. It was heart wrenching him to see him jump around me, make me comfortable, run to Roshni in the kitchen to get me a glass of water, and then my proverbial mug of green tea. He then started bringing the pakoras almost one by one, running from the room to the kitchen a little bowl in hand. He fed me as no one has ever fed with, with so much love and pride that I was unable to hold my tears.
My thoughts went back to a day way back in 2005 when the same little boy had offered me a meal of the most unique fish and rice you can imagine,or the day when I had been invited to tea by a little 3 year old who was returning the hospitality he had enjoyed. It was a moving meal as I gobbled pakoras afer pakoras, all digestive ailments forgotten. It was by far the most perfect meal, better than any meal money could buy. It was laced with love and unsaid feelings that hung in the air making the moment truly magic as I enjoyed my precious pakoras.
Many may wonder why a little boy chose to stay alone in what many may call a dingy place rather than be in a big home. the answer is simple: the women centre is where mom lives!
