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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!

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.

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.

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

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!

Sell schools to build shopping malls! You heard me right. This is no joke but that is the latest ploy of the Municipal Corporation of Delhi in a view to fill their coffers. And 15 schools are apparently ready to be auctioned, 60 others are in the pipeline.

I am aghast and speechless. In a city where over 500 000 children do not have access to a primary school this is preposterous. The MCD runs 65% of the primary schools in the city and hence is the main provider of primary education. If it abdicates its mission then we, or rather the vulnerable children of India are doomed.

Mall mania is the (dubious) flavour of the day and as we all know greedy predators are on the prowl for prime locations. Those who belong to Delhi know are aware that there are municipal schools in almost every corner of the city, even in the so called posh areas. In many cases these are an eyesore and yet someone a long long time ago, while planning our city thought it wise to set these spaces aside so that children from all walks of life could ge an education. That was when education has not yet become a lucrative business option, when mall mania had not hit us, when values still existed. Today these pieces of land have become prime property and thus good money spinners.

Who is being once again sacrificed at the alter of greed are voiceless children like the little girl in the picture. It is already a herculean task to convince parents like hers to send their girl child to school, but if no school remains than the battle is lost before it even began. I am not one to accept the lame excuse that the schools are not running well. Such schools do not perform well because of the total lack of commitment of those who run them. In the last 9 years we at pwhy have proved that it did not take muck to ensure that children that such temples of education had written off as gone cases could not only pass their examinations but even top their classes. And it did not take much to do that: a park corner and a teacher who believed in them.

I hope better sense will prevail and that the schools will be spared the auctioneer’s hammer. But I am afraid it might not be so.

It is sad that in a country where it took almost 60 years for children to claim their constitutional right to education, it is the very guardians of these rights who are taking these rights away from them. I have no words to express my horror.

“For yesterday and for all tomorrows, we dance the best we know” wrote Kate Seredy the well known children’s author. And yesterday some of our children did just that. This year we did not have a regular new year bash so each section of pwhy decided to have their own party. The special section kids and the junior secondary ones who have adjacent classes organised an impromptu dance party.

Favourite tracks were selected on the music system by the in house DJ (shamika) and some drinks and eats were bough and then it was party time.

The all danced with gay abandon even those who cannot walk or those who cannot hear. They danced to proved they existed, they danced to show that they too had hopes and dreams. And for those few moments time stood still, all worries and problems were set aside and we all just danced for yesterday and all our tomorrows.

Yesterday was a special day. After almost six months little Utpal was to see his mom again. The day before I had asked Utpal whether he wanted to see his mom dance and act as the inmates of thecentre were putting up a new year show. Utpal’s eyes light up with joy and I was treated to his mischievious lopsided smile I so love. Mom dancing that was something he could not miss.

I felt a lump in my throat as I remembered all the false start mother and child reunions Utpal had gone through. Would this finally be the right one? Would Utpal’s mom come back to us healed and ready to face life? Easier said than done as she is deeply disturbed and needs a lot of healing and care. Would I ever be able to fulfill the promise I made to little Utpal: that of giving him back a mom!

The battle we have waged for many years has been quite uneven. Little Utpal has played by the rule and never made a false move. He settled in his boarding school without batting an eyelid. made friends, brought report cards filled withs stars, performed on stage, learnt to skate, and even began to play the piano. And each holiday he settled with ease in whatever place we sent him to be it a rehab centre or our women centre, with or without mom. As I have always said, he was is a true survivor.

So it is with a spring in his walk that he took off yesterday to see mom dance. He came back happy and full of stories: mom danced well said he as he proudly showed me the little clip on the camera, and then went on to show me the little paper windmill that his mom had made in her craft class adding with pride: you keep it, it is for you. Needless to say it now sits on my work desk next to his Xmas card and little cars.

Soon it will be time for mom to come home. I do not know what will happen but I do beseech the God of Lesser Souls to make this the final home coming. A little boy with huge eyes and an unwavering spirit deserves to have his mom back.

This picture was taken yesterday. Our class X boys busy studying on the roadside in the morning sun. They often do that as their classroom, or what goes by that name, is very cold. But somehow the picture took me back to the day it had all begun. I still remember the way a vile school principal contemptuously told me that the likes of our students were simply gutter snipe and could never clear their Boards. The challenge was taken and for want of a classroom, classes began in the road side just a few meters away from where this picture was taken. In those days we did not have chairs or stools, a simple mat sufficed and cups of tea kept the chill away.

What we lacked resources was amply made up by the passion, commitment and zeal we all displayed. I remember coming almost every morning and sitting close to the boys, hoping against hope that that my presence would make up for all that was missing. Time was short as we had just under two months to achieve was seemed impossible: ensure that all our 10 boys cleared their Xth Boards. And they did!

Since that day every year a new batch of students has repeated the feat and I must confess a little sheepishly though, that now one has almost taken this for granted. As time passed and the project grew one had to take on new responsibilities and meet new challenges and many small miracles just went passed unnoticed.

Another picture did take me recently on a journey down memory lane, but this own was different. It brought back the almost palpable energy, vitality and spirit of what pwhy truly was: the passion to take on any challenge that comes our way, even it seems impossible and even if all screams to the contrary. I guess that is what we are all about and will strive to always be.

When the terrible attacks on Mumbai occurred almost exactly a month ago, we like many the world over, watched in helpless horror. We mourned the senseless deaths of innocent people. We searched for elusive answers to the disturbing whys. And as is always the case in life we settled back in our ways and life took its momentarily suspended course. Mumbai somehow seemed very remote and we felt too small to have any role to play. But that was not to be. A wondrous moment was in the making.

A few days back a mail dropped in my inbox. A friend of a person whose life had tragically ended on that terrible Wednesday wanted to provide a small meal to pwhy kids in memory of her departed friend. So on Xmas eve, she along with her friend’s family, came to pwhy laden with boxes of yummy snacks and a bag of shining apples. I am convinced that the kids knew that the moment was almost hallowed. Their beautiful smiles and endearing eyes managed to convey what they could not word. And for those few magical instants time stood still and all that is ugly and sad was forgotten as one watched these little souls open their boxes or bite into their apples.

It was a blessed moment. One of hope and healing. One that urged us to look beyond the obvious and seek real solutions, one that compelled us to see that there were millions of little souls who still believed that a better tomorrow was possible even if the only evidence they had was the sweetness of their first whole apple.

It was a touching moment as I watched the brave little family who in spite of the terrible loss they were still coming to terms with, found it in their heart to come and bring a smile on faces who were still learning to smile.

It was a beautiful moment that proved that no matter how small or inconsequential one may feel, each one of us had the ability to reach out to another and craft something special.

I felt simply blessed.

I am going to be outrageous today as I dare to hope that the proposed school fee hike in public schools may just be a tiny first step to the cherished dream of a common neighborhood school. Let me try and explain what I mean.

That education has become a commercial venture is sad but true. And this is across India as I learnt first hand just a few days ago. Gita who works is our home has a young daughter who lives in Calcutta with her mother. Gita nad her husband who works in the Gulf have just one dream: to give the best education possible t their only child. The child is not ready for school and for the past weeks the family has been filling forms and going through the tedious and onerous admission procedures. They have dutifully bought forms at 500 rs a piece ans completed them. They were shocked when a school told them that they had to produce the mother as she needed to be interviewed. They tried in vain to explain the situation. The nightmare is far from over and I just hope the little girl will get into a good school.

It is the word good that gets my goat!

Over the years certain schools have acquired the label good! Slowly and surreptitiously an insidious caste system evolved in what was meant to be an even playing ground, and slowly and surreptitiously the hallmark of good schools became the size of their fees, and not the quality of teachers or other such parameters. For a good school in Delhi you have to pay in thousands and more. And now with the dreaded rise the costs will become simply mind boggling. And as a parent said : we might have to pull out our children from expensive school to a cheaper one.

During the recent election campaign a politician aptly commented: Having a house in the city is beyond the reach of the middle class. If the fees of children are increased, then schools will go out of the reach of the middle class and only the children of the rich people will get education. Education is the fundamental right of children. This of course was uttered to gain political mileage but it seems to be the way things are going. Schools will soon become out of reach of the middle class and the likes of Gita and her husband who toil day and night to try and ensure their child gets the best.

Rather than the cheaper school can we not start talking of the common neighborhood school run by the state. Or is it is too infradig to think of sending your middle class child to such schools? How long will it take to some to terms with a reality that is staring us in the face. Is it not time to demand that state run schools be made into good schools, and redefine the word good once in for all!

As long as good is defined in germs of the size of fee paid, there is scant hope. Education is not better if imparted in fancy buildings. The best lessons can be learnt under a tree! By making education a commercial activity one is hijacking one’s own future. If good education is allowed to percolate to the lowest level, it will usher a better society for all. This is something we seem to have forgotten.

5000 crores! A mind boggling figure! I do not even know how many zeroes it has and yet this is what private schools in India make by simply selling nursery school admission forms and this is no loose statistic but the result of a survey made by the ASSOCHAM Social Development Foundation (ASDF).

It is again that time of the year when public and upmarket schools open their hallowed doors to new entrants: the little nursery babies. For the past year or more I have watched with growing horror the plight of parents and their tiny wards as they set off to fulfill all the modalities required to get admission in a good school. The drama seems to be endless and with its share of unexpected twists and turns. Just as you feel that things may just have fallen in place, a new bombshell hits you. After innumerable court orders, commission decisions and more of the same, the (ill)famed point system seemed to have been the chosen mode, but as some autonomy was left to each school, we were lights years away from the promised fair, transparent, etc process.

The shocker was indeed the recent survey and the mind boggling revelation: in Delhi alone good public schools are likely to earn revenues by selling prospectus to an extent of Rs.5,000 crore. Some school charge 1000 rs for their prospectus and the average a parent spends on buying prospectuses is 5000 rs. There is no guaranteed admission and one has not even begun talking about the fees, admission charges and donations asked.

Education is the new lucrative business on the block.

Yesterday a metro channel aired a call in programme on nursery admissions. Two guests were invited: one a upmarket school principal and the other an ASSOCHAM rep. Many harrowed parents called in, each asking candid questions or sharing some of their angst. The guests did not quite answer the proffered queries but debated their own viewpoints. While one defended the case of the public schools the other pleaded for some regulatory system. Needless to say the debate was heated and got nowhere.

All this is terribly troubling particularly in a scenario where humbler parents are wanting a better education for their children and where state run schools seem to be growing from bad to worse by the day. I cannot forget the plight of little Kiran’s admission.

It is a strange situation. The children of India have acquired their supposed right to education after almost half of century of independence, and yet the bill is still on its slow way to implementation. The feeble voices raised in favour of a quality neighbourhood common school are loudly being shut down by interested lobbies: those of the public schools as yo will all agree it is all about money, honey!

In the midst of all this, little children are being forgotten. It almost seems like everyone is conspiring to keep the majority of children away from the so called good schools. And that is another matter of debate: who decides which school is good?

One had no choice but to agree that in spite of recession and tumbling markets children still need to be educated and hence education becomes a lucrative option. Every business house seems to have its own school and new public schools are being opened everywhere. On the other hand government schools which have prime locations and ample land seem to be deteriorating by the day making us believe that the lobbies are working well. Education is truly the new business on the block.

Who will bell the cat? No one I guess and yet the idea of a good common school has to be mooted and accepted. Perhaps not for the ones who can afford the mind boggling costs but for the many who feel they have acquired the right to give their children a better education. Getting your child into a good school should be easy and affordable, not the mortifying experience it seems to have become.

A good common school where teachers are selected through and IAS like competition and given sterling work conditions, children who can walk to a school that does not look like a 7* extravaganza, but an even playing ground that reflects the unity in diversity that India is. An impossible dream? Maybe, but dreams do come true sometimes.

We have our library! And like everything else at pwhy it is a happy and even funky one. For me this is a very special moment. Many do not know, but when it all began, almost a decade ago, I had dreamt of pwhy being a space where children could come and be children for at least a little part of their day. A place where they could read, play, laugh and just be kids. That was before I had come face to face with the realities that surrounded us: the poor state of schools, the need to arrest drop out rates and so on. So the dream was shelved and our journey as a education support programme began.

But dreams never leave you once you have conjured them and somehow forces are silently at work to conspire to make them happen. Almost a year ago a mail from someone I did not know then dropped by. Another soul thousands of miles away had a similar dream: to bring thousands of books to children in India. Six months ago the books did land. We began a small library in the women centre, an instant success with the children! But most of the books lay quietly in cartons waiting for the right moment for want of space.

Then a small gift made the impossible possible. We decided to knock down our old jhuggi and build our library and children centre. And uncanny but true it would be in the very space where it all began, the place where our very first spoken English class was held. To crown it all this was when three graffiti artistes from France offered to decorate some part of pwhy: it was to be the library.

As I write these words the books are still in cartons and the paint still fresh but a few weeks from now the library will open and children of the area will have a place where they can come and reclaim their childhood.

The library is the realisation of a long cherished dream. It could not have happened without our friends from the omprakash foundation – Willy, Gordon, Lily – and our graffiti artist friends – Miguel, Martin and Ken. Bless them all

“He had asked me for new clothes on Eid that I couldn’t provide him. He got angry and left,” admitted the lone surviving terrorist’s father in a recent interview aired on all channels. We all heard this interview and most of us would have felt satisfaction of finally getting proof of the nationality of the young man.

However the words had a different impact on me. My mind went back to an incident I had forgotten, one that occurred in early pwhy days. At that time we had a bunch of secondary students known for their rowdy ways. They were often beaten at school and also at home. They were the ones everyone had decided to brand as bad and yet they were in their teens. As school for boys only ran in the afternoons, they spent their mornings loitering on the street and often ogling at girls. One even was known to have a girl friend, a cardinal sin!

One day I decided to have a chat with hem and called them to my office. They came with sheepish smiles on their face wondering why I had called them. We spent a long time chatting and as they shared their dreams I realised that they were just little boys looking for someone to rach out to them and care for them. They told me that they wanted to own a cell phone (in those days these were rare) and branded jeans. They also wanted to impress girls (like any 15 yesr old) and had been told that girls liked boys with good bodies ad as someone had told them that drinking beer would help them get just that so they drank beer whenever they could.

I was touched by their candid confessions and regular teenage dreams that were just like those of a other kid their age, only they did not have the means to fulfill them. The went on to tell me how their classmate (son of a local politico) had all the things they wanted and how they envied him. One of them even confessed that they had been approached by a political party who wanted them to join the party. They would be given a card and then if they were in trouble of any kind the part would bail them out. And so it went on, dreams and ways to fulfill them and the line between right and wrong so tenuous that it became almost invisible. And the reason that would perhaps make them cross it was simply a set of new clothes!

As I sat remembering those boys, my mind wet back to another forgotten incident: a wall broken in Cupid’s name and my tryst with the leader of the pack that proved how adults use tender and disheartened minds to fulfill their vile agendas.

And yet all these boys need is someone to reach out to them and guide them. Otherwise who knows what they may land up doing for a set of new clothes.