a perfect day

a perfect day

You can’t live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you wrote John Wooden. Yesterday was one such day. We were taking Manisha to boarding school. Manisha had spent the night at the foster care and was ready early morning, her little bag in tow. She was quiet though a little perplexed. I wondered what was going on in her little mind.

We were a little late and had to set off in a hurry. There were four adults and the tiny tiny girl. She sat in silence throughout the journey. When we reached school she followed in silence and sat in the office waiting for the next step. Soon it was time to write her entrance test and she did to the best of her ability. You must remember that this little girl’s world was till now restricted to a tiny hovel in a slum and to project why. And here she was today in a strange place, one larger than anything she had ever seen, one filled with strangers: enough to rattle anyone, let alone a little girl. But she did us proud and soon it was time to take the little bag and move to the hostel. She still sat in silence but when it was time to bid farewell, a few silent tears rolled on her little cheek. I sat bravely knowing that this day would change the tiny soul’s life and was a blessed one. The tears were just a small price we all had to pay.

Once Manisha was settled in what was to become her home for years to come, we set out looking for our little gang. The bell had just rung for morning refreshment and the children were gathering in the playground. Someone was sent out to gather the brood and soon we saw them all: Utpal, Babli, Nikhil, Aditya, Vicky, Meher and Yash. They all wore huge smiles on their faces . After a short photo session it was time to catch up, we knew we only had a few minutes till the end of recess bell rang. We also were aware of the fact that these were stolen moments as parents were not meant to be in school!

It was a perfect moment with each child trying to tell us something and frankly I must admit sheepishly that I cannot quite remember what was said. I just imbibed the mood, the joy, the smiles and laughter, the kid speak: all small ways in which these wonderful children were telling me that all was well and that they were happy. I felt blessed and rewarded beyond words. In their own inimitable way my incredible seven had repaid me for everything.

Enjoy some pictures of that perfect day

www.flickr.com

from five to eight

from five to eight

We have gone from famous five, to incredible seven and now to exceptional eight. Yes little Manisha will be joining Utpal, Vicky, Nikhil, Aditya, Babli, Yash and Meher. Manisha’s story is heart rendering and I guess once again the God of small things decided to intervene. I must admit that after Yash and Mehar I had decided to put a stop ( at least a temporary one) to the boarding school saga, one that is quite extraordinary to say the least. A simple walk down memory lane brought me to a blog I had written almost 4 years ago, where I had shared what seemed at that time an impossible dream. Like all dreams it was promptly tucked away and almost forgotten. But then the God of small things (GST) decided otherwise. When things looked bleak and almost hopeless, out from the blue came a messenger who revived all dreams, even the wildest ones. It all seemed to good to be true and over and above my cherished dream of planet why, this messenger wanted to change lives of children and we set out to do just that with hope in our hearts. But then the incomprehensible happened. The messenger backed out: the dream seemed too fragile to invest in and I was left holding on to it alone.

In my shaky lap lay not only the future of Manu and his friends, but that of 4 little kids who had been taken away from their homes with the promise of a bright morrow. In hindsight I think the erstwhile messenger was simply God’s way of bringing me back to order. I knew that nothing would ever come easy but come it would! No matter how impossible. And miracles came our way, tiny ones perhaps, but blessed nonetheless. Manu was home safe and happy and soon the little children packed their bags and entered the portals of almost hallowed ground: the boarding school. I heaved a sigh of relief. It has been a long haul but one that was worth it. Who knows one day these very kids would become doctors, engineers, stars! Nothing was impossible. I wondered however whether I would be still around to see them.

Five kids in boarding school was more than enough. We still had 10 long years to go. But my friend the GST had other plans in store. Five soon became seven with Yash and Meher joining the gang of five and of course all my resolutions and resolves went for a six. It is true that when I first laid eyes on little Meher, I knew that this kid had no future. Her little face was scarred making her poor wedding material and her tiny hands maimed making her access to skills very limited and yet her joie de vivre was infectious. When a kind soul offered to repair her body I immediately added a caveat: if we did then we also had to give her a way to break the circle of extreme poverty in which she was imprisoned. Meher belonged to a very poor family where the men lived in the city and worked as house painters, the women stayed in the village and the kids played in the nearby graveyard that was the best playground available. It was a stroke of luck, or rather the GST’s ploy that she had been in the city the day I first met her!

So six it would be, or so I thought. But then what would happen to the little boy who had almost been adopted by some fancy outsiders and then dropped like a hot potato when they found a ‘better’ child! You see six had to become seven. And when a kind gentleman absolutely wanted to sponsor the school of another child, another masterstroke ensured that Manisha would be the chosen one! Seven had become eight!

In a few hours little Manisha will be joining her new friends in boarding school. She spent the night at the foster care so that she could be ready on time. We were a little concerned about how she would feel but to our utter surprise she spent the evening quietly watching TV and telling the housemother about her life. Children like Manisha are born survivors. They sense intuitively what is good for them and hold on to it with their heart and soul. I first saw this in little Utpal long ago.

It is a spirit I for one salute. Chapeau Bas! God bless them all!

a matter of (fasle) pride

a matter of (fasle) pride

Last week’s torrential rains made even the most optimist soul wonder whether we would be ready for the much heralded Commonwealth games! Just an hour or so of good monsoon showers threw the city in total disarray: water logging everywhere and traffic snarls that lasted for hours. Even our quiet and placid backstreet was choker block with traffic and a friend parked outside my gate could not leave for over two hours. Now monsoon rains are predictable and every self respecting city should be prepared for them but you see with the CWG round the corner, our city is undergoing the mother of all face lift with every single road dug up.

The wisdom of hosting such games is debatable. I would urge you to read an article on this issue written by our former Sports Minister. The article may seem a tad rabid but it comes from a responsible person and quotes very trustworthy sources.

Those of you who read by blogs regularly know how I feel about the Games and how I have reacted every time some aberration or the other has taken place. But even I was shocked by some of the facts highlighted in this article and wondered at why our Government was so keen on hosting this 10 day extravaganza. Well I guess it is a matter of misplaced prestige by people who seem to have conveniently forgotten the realities that plague our land. So what began as an acceptable show soon became a free for all. Every good pavement dug up to make place for a new one was a simple means to line some pocket or the other and as everyone wanted its share of the pie, no road has been left undug, even the one on the tiny road I take every morning to reach work, one that no esteemed visitor to the CWG would ever drop by!

As an Indian I am in a fix. Much as I despise the whole Games saga and am appalled and upset at the way the poor of this city have been treated, I guess one would not like them to bring dishonour to the country as they say the show must go on and must go on well. It is a matter of pride however misplaced or false. But I also wonder why the press that has been so vocal on many issues of public interest has remained silent till date. Maybe they too are waiting for the Games to be over. I do hope they take up the issue after the last medal is won and the last guest seen off. As the article rigthly says: the only good that will come out of the Commonwealth Games would be a decision to never again bid for such games until every Indian child gets a minimum to eat, an assured basic education and a playground with trained coaches to discover the sportsperson in himself or herself. I second that!

a gentler way

a gentler way

The Commonwealth games claim one more victim, the tongas! The death knell has sounded for the age old horse drawn carriages that were part of Delhi’s heritage. True only a few remained, 200 or so, but the clack of their hooves and the sound of their bells were an intrinsic part of old Delhi, and added to its old time charm. In a few days they will all be laid to rest. I guess the day had to come but what is terrible is the way in which it all happened and is happening. The past should be allowed to fade out gently and gracefully. But that was not to be. You see the Commonwealth games are coming and someone had decreed that all that is not modern has to be sanitised: smells, sounds and sights: so street food is banned, street vendors are evicted, beggars are hidden, slums raised and tongas taken off the roads. Strangely the common denominator seems to be the poor! They simply have to be wished away.

Yet all that is thought ungainly, ugly and apparently un-modern and thus not worthy of the Game is also part and parcel of this city. They are what gives Delhi its soul and thus need to be handled with care and sensitivity. This so called cosmetic modernisation is unacceptable and yet we watch it helpless and hurting.

I know tongas would have had to go one day. But the way in which it has been done is nothing short of inhuman. The 200 odd tonga owners find their livelihood snatched from them overnight. They were promised a space with hawking rights. They were promised covered stalls, all that is being handed out to them is a pavement along a busy road, miles away from the place they called home. Some have been promised three wheelers or rickshaws but the author ties are still working out the rehabilitation plan! God knows how long it will take! Most of the tonga owners are old and have never done anything else but tend to their animals and drive their carriage. Asking them to become hawkers overnight is nothing short of inhuman. They all plan to sell their horses to a state across the border and then try and reinvent themselves.
Street vendors or horse carriages have never upset any foreign visitor, on the contrary they were part of every picture a tourist took and every memory they carried back. Modernisation does not mean dealing a fatal blow to tradition.

I am sure there were more humane ways of phasing out the 200 odd tongas left in this city. Maybe they could have been spruced up and made a tourist attraction as is the case in many cities the world over. My heart goes out to the tonga drivers today as they set out finding new ways to feed their families.

another sunshine tale

another sunshine tale

PWhy’s blog sometimes makes me sad, sometimes happy. This is a lovely story, so today is a happy day wrote a dear friend after reading Project Why, Namaste. So thought I would write another sunshine tale today, one I must sheepishly admit I should have written long ago! But sometimes there are people who like remaining away from the lime light and Mithu is one such person.

Just like Preeti, Mithu got struck by polio when we was very young and just like her by the time he came to us it was too late for calipers and other such aids! But unlike Preeti, Mithu was a boy and restrictions did not apply at home so Mithu learnt to survive and thrive legs or no legs. He moved at remarkable speed with the help of his hands, climbed trees, played cricket where he bowled a mean ball and lived life to its fullest. When I suggested we get him a wheel chair, the young teenager looked at me with bewilderment and stated: I want to stand on my own feet! Needless to say I felt very small.

Mithu joined as a student in class IX but he had only one fascination and love: computers. Classes were a simple excuse to access our computers. Very soon he became savvy in every aspect of computer learning and we decided to ’employ’ him as a teacher’s aid in our main computer centre. He learnt fast and was soon taking independent classes. When one of our teachers left Mithu quietly walked into his shoes.

When we opened our Okhla computer centre it was a foregone decision that our own Mithu would head it and today he is the ‘in charge’ of that centre. He still walks on his hands, but we would like him to have a motorised tricycle that would enable him to move around with dignity!