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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.

The little children in the picture are busy aping their teachers. Move and shake your hands has been a regular part of the morning wake up routine followed by the pwhy creche for many years now. It is a fun activity that the children enjoy a lot and probably forget as they move along the road of life. I just hope that they never remember it in their lives. Wonder why?

About two weeks ago I received a mail from our friends in France informing me that they has sent a cargo for the children: warm clothes, shoes, toys, and books. Was it not Xmas time. The cargo had been uplifted by an airline free of cost as the things were meant for charitable purposes. Most of the clothes, shoes etc were used though in prim condition. The cargo arrived and then began what I can only term as a ordeal I would never want to live again not simply because of the harrowing experience itself but because I still want to keep alive certain illusions I have about the land that is mine.

I had thought that the cargo would be released in a day or two and that we would have to pay a reasonable amount as charges, duty etc. The cargo was released after 12 days, a whopping 41 K (most as demurrage charges that I beleive we may get back) and extreme wear and tear on nerves. I must confess that I was not the one who was on the battleground. A kind friend who had been working within the aviation sector and who knew people at the airport offered to do it for us.

What followed the simple call informing us of the arrival was a film noir worthy of the best director. The protagonists were our spirited lady and a jaded cargo agent suggested to her by friends at the airport and a posse of villains in all sizes and hues. The villains in question belonged to the custom department, bureaucrats of diverse importance who may we not forget get their salaries from our hard earned money. A complex low life drama enfolded. To get the cargo released one had to conquer each villain and get the coveted booty: a signature! A true obstacle race as in spite of the stipulated timing of 11 to 4, most of them were on leave, not on their seat, out to lunch or too busy to talk or so we thought. My friend wondered why each one of them passed in front of her looking bothered and waving their hands just like the kids in the picture.

For some time my friend thought that the person in question was too busy or harassed. Ultimately it is the cargo agent who broke the code: the waving of hands signified the amount of facilitation money (not to use bribe) that was needed get to the next stage of the race. Two hands waved meant 10 000Rs! Nothing would be done other wise. That was the unwritten and unbreakable code. It goes without saying that we did not pay any bribe but it took us 12 days to get the cargo out, 12 days of having to listen to despicable and humiliating comments about NGOs and they all being thieves and crooks, 12 days of running from pillar to post and knocking at impregnable doors. In the end we got our way but by then the demurrage charges had mounted. We ultimately got our cargo released and are now appealing to get the demurrage waived.

What is sad is that this happened at the same time as India was supposedly coming together in the hope of changing things, when anger against politicians was being voiced by one and all, when it seemed that perhaps, just perhaps we would see better days. But this small and insignificant incident that was enfolding in the remote corner of the airport of our capital city proved beyond doubt that change was as elusive as ever, that the rot had set in so deep that it would take not one, but countless miracles to stem out. What saddened me most as my friend recounted the events was that there seemed no way out of the quagmire. Honesty, compassion, righteousness were not only passe and defunct, but held in contempt and derided. That the lessons we so assiduously tried to teach our children would not help them in life, if things were to remain as they were.

Where did we go from here? How did we change things? Candlelight vigils and passionate speeches could not be the answer as they could only be heard and understood by people with a soul. How did you deal with those who had sold theirs? Would we then simply have to tell our children not to forget how to move and shake their hands.

I have been rapped on my knuckles many a times during from the day I decided to give up the comfort and ease of being an armchair activist of sorts and cross the line. One after the other I saw all my lofty ideas not only put to test but demolished by the realities that stared me in the face. And each time one had to reinvent oneself as the challenge had to be met. Somehow this seems to have been the pwhy story.

But never was the lesson harder than this time. As the country still battled the aftermath of 26/11, though without being cynical it seems to have taken the back burner on the prime time news being replaced by political drama of all hues, a little family in Delhi was struck by its own terror: the death of a father.

As I said in my last posts we were shocked by the incident and set about making the right moves: dole out the money urgently needed to allow the family to perform all the complex rituals and imagine – i say imagine – a road map for the young widow. We knew that the family had survived by selling tobacco and other ware in front of their home. So we felt that we would help the young mom continue doing just that. It seemed doable or so we thought.

Yesterday we went to visit the little family as Radha had been asking for her teachers. What we saw shocked us beyond words: Radha and her family live in a what can at best be called a box made of brick and mud with a tin roof. The place is sunk in and the roof too low to allow you to stand. The landlord lives in the next space and charges not only 400 rs a month but also his three meals. In that hole lived six people 2 adults and 4 children including little Radha and her brittle bones. The hovel is situated on the road in the midst of an unhealthy industrial area replete with fumes, waste an drunk men. Radha’s mom’s chilling words made us realise the stark reality: till yesterday she said I had bangles on my arms and sindoor on my forehead, today I have lost that and my back is naked! There was no way this young woman could survive let alone work and bring her children up in this place. She would be torn to pieces and devoured by lurking predators.

Our easy road map came crashing as we stared at what I would simply call social terrorism: the insidious beat that lurks and lies in wait for the right moment to attack. As long as her husband was alive and even moribund, she was safe, today she was in extreme danger. She had to be protected and sheltered. Her tin roof on a roadside was too flimsy to shield her, her little family and Radha’s brittle bones.

Such is the plight of innumerable families in India’s capital city, a stone’s throw from our comfortable lives. What is it that allows anyone to sink into such despair? How long will it take for 10 year old Meera to turn into price prey? Where are the powers to be, the social programmes, the aam admi‘s government? And how can we continue to allow this to happen? India has supposedly woken up to the threat of terrorism, but what about this kind of invisible and subtle terrorism that gnaws at the lives of millions each and every day? And please do not spring karma and other such theories at me, what about our conscience?

We will get Radha’s family out of the dark but what about all the others? Is it not time that we the so called educated, privileged and articulate people woke up. There will be no 26/11 to bring social terrorism to the fore, we simply have to learn to open our eyes!

Radha’s mother came to the project this morning. She looked the epitome of despair. Even the most hardened soul could not have remained dry eyed. She clutched her last born, an eight month old baby that looked barely three. In spite of the chilly morning neither she nor her tiny son had a warm cloth to protect them. She had no time to sit in mourning though it was just yesterday that her husband’s mortal remains had been consigned to the fire. She had come to ask help to enable her to go to her village and perform the elaborate and ruinous rituals that would ensure that she would not be spurned by her clan.

Yes Radha’s young mom did not have the luxury to sit in a corner and weep her incredible and irreparable loss. Her pain was etched on her gentle face and the tears kept rolling as she recounted her tale. A husband consumed by TB and alcohol, four children to bring up one being little Radha and her brittle bones and nothing but a small cart that doled out cups of teas and some food to help her not only survive but live.

In spite of her abject misery I could sense a quiet determination, a yet hazy but eminently doable life plan, one that perhaps could see her and her children through. This simple and illiterate woman had somehow come of age. Motherhood was at stake and she was determined not to give up. True she had come seeking help but somehow there was a dignity in her demeanour, a courage that needed to be saluted particularly as she was a woman nothing had prepared for the life she would now have to live.

We cannot even begin to imagine the magnitude of Radha’s mom’s despair as it is beyond imagination. She never had much but till yesterday she had the misplaced and yet indispensable security that a husband, no matter how worthless, provides a woman in India. Today she had been deprived of even that. She would have to battle every foe alone.

We will do whatever we can to see that she picks up the pieces of her shattered life and weaves a new one, one that can sustain her little family and bring back smiles to the faces of her young children. And yet we know that young Mira, her elder daughter barely 10 will soon become the little mother as Radha’s mom takes on the role of the head of the family.

Sometimes I am at a complete loss in trying to understand the ways of the God of Lesser Beings . Little Radha has been absent from class for a while as she had once again broken her leg. We were expecting her back as was usually the case. She simply loves pwhy and let us not forget she still dreams of walking one day. But this time the God of Lesser Beings had other plans for her.

Her plaster did come off and she was ready to come back but then a false move by her sister and her brittle bone broke again. Her father was planning to take her to the hospital the next day but that was not happen. That night her father fell ill and died on the way to the hospital: a victim of hooch and life itself.

Radha’s father had lost his job some time back. His health did not allow him to get another one so he sold tea and some eats from a stall in front of his tiny home. The family of 6 barely survived. Radha’s mom is illiterate. They have no source of income, no land in the village, simply nothing. An uncle performed the last rites of the father as Radha’s only brother is still a babe in arms. Now they need to perform the burdensome rituals in the village that will cost an arm and a leg: noblesse oblige!

What will their future be? I cannot even begin to imagine what awaits them and am at a complete loss to see how we can help them. I simply know that we have to. Is the God of Lesser beings listening?

Bernard Ray gently left this world today after a long illness. He died peacefully. Who is Bernard Ray and why am I writing this post today?

The answer to these questions are simple. He is what we hope every human being aspires to be. In simpler terms he is Xavier’s dad and Xavier is undoubtedly the cornerstone of pwhy.

When Xavier decided to set up Enfances Indiennes as an organisation to support pwhy, Bernard was its very first member. He somehow knew that in spite of difficult moments it would not only happen but grow and thrive. 700 children today vindicate his belief!

I am reminded of St Exupery words when he wrote: To be a man is … to be responsible. It is to feel shame at the sight of what seems to be unmerited misery. It is to take pride in a victory won by one’s comrades. It is to feel, when setting one’s stone, that one is contributing to the building of the world. He was just that kind of man.

A few years back he came to project why and spent many hours with us. We were all touched by his warmth and kindness. What we did not know at that time was that his short transit via planet why was his unobtrusive way to bless all of us and to leave a little of his magic in our hearts.

Yesterday he left this world for a new one, a better one, one that is filled with light and love. We will miss him but somehow I know he will be there for the family his son made his own: in the soft ray of sun that warms a cold morning, in the cloud that gives respite from the scorching sun, in the first drop a rain that quenches the parched earth and the whiff of wind that gently blows on our face to remind us that we are protected.

Today we do not mourn him but celebrate a life well lived and again say with St Exupery: he who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.

The latest addition to the ever growing dowry of a slum brides is believe it or not a washing machine. Even the humblest of families are ensuring that every girl reaches her new home armed with a washing machine. Often, as was the case in a recent wedding I attended, the machine is too big for the jhuggi in which it will have to find place. More often than not such homes have no bathroom, let alone a water point to feed the machine. Yet it faithfully accompanies every bride. It lies for some time in its packaging at the entrance of the home, for all to see and I guess the bride’s family gets the required brownie points. Then after herculean efforts and some astute maneuvers its is dragged within the home and placed in a corner often hogging space that could be put to far better use. It may just lie thus for a long time and things are piled on it. Then perhaps one day it will be taken out of its dusty packaging and with more maneuvering inaugurated by dragging some hosepipe after having been plugged to an illegal power connection.

The washing machine is a symbol of urban success . It has replaced the now jaded TV and motorbike. No one bothers to think of all that is needed to get the machine going: water, electricity and above all space.

We have never owned a washing machine. For over twenty years Lakshiamma and her husband have come faithfully every day to wash our clothes. The thousand rupees or so they get every month feeds their family. It is true that sometimes the clothes are not quite as clean as one would like, or sometimes in heir hurry they soak a coloured cloth with the others and thus a white shirt gets some pink stains but what the heck. It is lovely to hear their voices as they babble to each other in Tamil. They are one of the thousands who leave their home to make a life for themselves and brighten ours.

In a world where water and electricity are getting scarcer by the day, they are true green warriors. For nothing in the world would I buy a washing machine! And yet I find it quasi impossible to explain this to my slum friends. I guess it will take a long time to teach them to walk to the next block rather than use their new bike. Let us not forget they have just acquired urban dreams.

My family is very poor and I dropped out of primary school revealed the lone arrested perpetrator of the attack on Mumbai. The words sent a chill down my spine. For the last decade we at pwhy have been striving to ensure that such children do not drop our of school and do not become easy fodder to lurking predators. Our efforts may look herculean to us but are just a drop in the ocean. Delhi alone has hundred of thousands of children who still drop out of school.

Everyone is today trying to find ways and means of ensuring that what happened last week in India’s financial capital never occurs again. Suggestions of all sorts are being held forth and many are indeed worthy. I am no politician, nor strategist, neither am I part of any intellectual group of think tank. I am a simple citizen who has for the past few years been trying to answer a simple question – why do children drop out of school – and find simple solutions. I can say with pride that for the last almost ten years every child we have reached out to had not dropped out of school. True that what we do is a tiny drop in a huge ocean but nevertheless we did what we could within our very limited resources and we did it without government or institutional help.

Let me assure you that this post is not meant to be one that extols our work. Far from that. It is a very humble plea to all those who today are looking for solutions to also take into account an important factor that often gets forgotten. To perpetrate terror predators need vulnerable minds that can be manipulated and brain washed. One must think of drying that source once for all and one can only do that if children are given a proper education an equal opportunities. I admit that this is not the solution everyone is hankering one. It is not the one that makes you feel immediately safe: an AK 47 to answer an AK 47. Nevertheless it is one we have to consider and moreover it is one everyone can contribute to and participate in.

During the past few years I have often been told quite bluntly by those I approach for help: why give quality education to the poor! The answer is obvious if we chose to see it.

More than ever today I remember the lyrics of Jimmy Cliff’s song:

What gives us and the media the right to question politicians for their divisive politics, when deep inside we are as divided and prejudiced. And so we shall get what we deserve. These very pertinent words were part of a note on Facebook.

The aftermath of the Mumbai attacks has set many of us thinking or so would we like to believe. TV shows are roping in distinguished personae to debate and dissect the events of the past three terrible days and suggest measures to ensure that such horror is never revisited. Politician bashing is the call of the day and everyone is engaging in it unabashedly. A popular TV show was aired yesterday and though I only caught the end twenty minutes my, blood ran cold. (for those who want to view it it is available here). The audience was made of a gathering of eminent personalities and an audience of educated people, some of whom had survived what is now known as 26/11.

There was understandable anger and unbridled passion. But what shocked me beyond words was the ease with which our own prejudices and divisive attitudes emerged at the slightest provocation. What appalled me was the casualness with which some identified the enemy and even suggested we carpet bomb them. I am comforted that some reacted to these and put an end to the dangerous direction things were taking. What saddened me was the fact that this was all being done by the intelligentsia of our country. Deep inside we are divided and prejudiced.

I would like to share two stories. One of a young child of 6 maybe 7. It happened many years ago. The child father’s was actively involved in some UN negotiations and for many days the discussion in the home had been about the crucial votes needed to push some resolution through. The fate of the resolution lay in the way Japan would vote. While the parents discussed the the matter with passion every evening, the child sat listening. On the fateful day Japan voted against the resolution and the motion was defeated. A few days later was the child’s birthday and as she sat with her mom making a list of the children to be invited, she declared that she would not invite her two Japanese friends. her mother was perplexed as they were the child’s best friends of the moment. The child’s answer was simple: their papa voted against my papa, they are enemies now ! Luckily the child’s mom was a wise woman and she sat her child down and put the incident in the right perspective and needless to say the Japanese girls came to the party and remained best friends for a long time. The child was me. I had forgotten this incident that happened almost half a century ago. It sprung back to my mind yesterday as I listened to the hate that seemed to colour the words of many speakers.

The other story I would like to share is one of a simple family that was somehow both Hindu and Muslim. I reproduce it here though it was published some time back in GoodnewsIndia.

(Dr S D Sharma, now 80, is in retirement. He reminisces about a ‘brother’ who went away to Pakistan but stayed in touch till he died.)

‘I grew up in Kanpur, where my father was a doctor. Ours was a large family, and my mother was known for her strict ways with children. We were nevertheless, a merry band of 10 children—siblings and cousins– that lived in the rambling house. Mummy, as we all called her, showered us with love, but could be a real tyrant if we did not study. For her it was imperative that we do well in school, as she intuitively knew that learning was the key to the greater things in life. And what was even more remarkable was that she had the same view for both boys and girls.

One of my father’s good friends was a Muslim trader. We knew him as Khalid Chacha. He was an imposing man, with a long beard and we were always in awe of him. One day, Khalid Chacha came, holding the hand of a young boy, maybe 10 years old.

That is when I first met Umar. Umar was Khalid Chacha’s son, and was, as we learnt later, a naughty boy who hated studies. My father and Khalid Chacha had decided that only Mummy could get him to study, so Umar would come and live with us, in our home.

Umar turned out to be a lovely boy and he became my best friend. He lived with us for over 10 years, till he passed his BA. Initially it was hard to get him to study, but later it was Umar who decided that he preferred living with us, even though he had to work hard at his books.

In 1947, Umar’s family left for Pakistan. We were bewildered, hurt, sad and also a little bit angry at their decision to leave. But we did not know the power of love. We all thought we would never see him again.

Umar Bhai died in Rawalpindi in 1990. Each and every year till then, political conditions and regulations permitting, Umar made his ‘pilgrimage’ to India. As the rules demanded, he had to fill in the names of people he would visit. And the names would be those of my family, all Hindu names. This surprised the authorities so much that once they asked him why he came every year to meet Hindus.

His answer was the simple: ‘They are the only family I have’. ‘The heart has its reasons that reason cannot understand,’ said a French poet. Well Umar Bhai proved it in a remarkable way.’

(Dr Sharma now lives a quiet retired life in Delhi. He wonders what became of Umar’s children. Do Hindu and Muslim children grow up in the same household now? Or has the Partition put paid to all that?)

Why tell these stories today. Perhaps because the first one shows how easily a young mind can be influenced and how important it is to set things right before they are too deep seated to be removed and the second one simply illustrates how not so long people of different faith lived together in this very country and respected each other without hate or prejudice. This would lead us to ask why things changed and who was responsible. I will not delve into the matter as I know that each one of us know the answers. We have just let ourselves be swayed like the little girl and did not have anyone to put things in the right perspective.

Th real healing and ensuing solutions will only come after deep and honest introspection and a genuine effort to rid ourselves of our prejudices and intolerance.

The picture I have chosen is that of a child who transcended the labels of his birth and origins to try and make his own place in the sun: little Utpal.

Sixteen years ago, on this very day my father breathed his last. Each year this day I remember him. If not of him, there may not have been project why as he is the one who instilled in me the passion and compassion needed to steer such a venture.

Each year this day I remember him, yet each day I see him live in the hope and smiles of the little eyes that greet me as I walk into my office. For Ram was all about hope and belief.
Is dying words to one of his dearest friend were: have faith in India.

As I remember him today war rages in Mumbai, hundreds of innocent souls have died and the lives of many have been irreversibly transformed by the today’s foe: terrorism. Yet as I remember him , dying words refuse to pale; on the contrary they seem louder than ever.

All screams to the contrary: the prevalent terror attack, the empty and flawed babble of the powers that be, the hate filled reactions of the so called educated, the insidious feeling of hope lost and more of the same. And yet as I remember the one that gave me life, I am filled with renewed commitment to the cause I defend. I am convinced that somehow the tiny effort that goes by the name of project why is a step in the right direction, that of hope.

Nothing can destroy the spirit of a nation. Nothing should be allowed to do so. And the spirit lives in the humblest of souls, the ones we chose to ignore. For the past three days everyone – I mean every one who could afford to do so – was glued to TV screens watching operation Mumbai. But there were millions who went about their lives without a fuss. They did so with the rare dignity and courage that often goes unnoticed. And yet they represent the India one needs to have faith in, the backbone that allows each one of us to stand, the ones we have not only forsaken but betrayed.

I did send messages inquiring about the well being of the few friends I have in Mumbai. This is what one of them wrote back:

We all went out for dinner last night to Taj Land’s End in Bandra. Everyone else I called refused to go out. The hotel was stunned to hear us ask for reservation. When we went there – the police cordon started 50 meters outside the hotel. and they said – the hotel was closed…none of the restaurants were open. We called the restaurant – they confirmed our booking..then we were asked to leave our car at the police cordon and walk. when we went to the restaurant we learnt – we were the first customers at any taj restaurant since the attack.we popped champagne. and we toasted Taj. for staying open for business after all the mayhem, and despite having no customers and of course we toasted Bombay. Even if it was one family out on the streets of Mumbai – we were there and no terrorist or army or police or calamity can keep us down!

Today I remember Ram and today I have faith in India!

I went to sleep on Tuesday in a world that seemed well, barring the normal hitches and glitches that one has come to accept as part of the deal of living in today’s day and age: a school girl crushed under a bus, traffic snarls leading to incidents of road rage, noisy election drama replete with empty promises… one could have said all is well in the kingdom of…

Morning dawned and I went about my usual chores. I settled in front of my computer to take on another day. A few minutes later a skype call from my daughter living in London shook me out of my comfort bubble: Mumbai was under attack and this was not your isolated crude bomb that blasts in some innocuous area and kills a handful of innocent souls, but a coordinated attack that would seem more real in reel life! Swanky hotels, gun battles, hostages, indiscriminate firing, encounters, chases on high seas, assaults and all that makes a good pot boiler script. It went on through the night, the day and the night again and was for real: Mumbai, India’s commercial capital was under attack!

While the battle raged on, and Mumbai smoldered in more ways than one, a bunch of children in perhaps one of the most deprived slum of India’s capital city were busy watching a street magician as he conjured one act after the other. These were children from all faith, caste or creed linked by one simple reality: poverty. Like all children they have dreams and like all children they dream big, still unaware of the harsh fact that dreams come at a price they may never be able to pay. Like the magician they can still conjure their dreams, fuelled by what they see around them on or the screen of the small TV that is the pride of every slum home.

They will one day grow up, and most of them will accept reality and learn to survive; some may drown their broken dreams in easily available hooch, others may vent their frustration on their loved ones. But as I look at these children I wonder how many will be tempted to take the wrong turn and seek quick gratification by resorting to petty crime and how many will fall prey to predators seeking young minds and bodies to perpetrate their heinous agendas.

The pictures of the young men responsible for the horror in Mumbai are chilling. They are of your regular kid next door, the branded jean and tshirt. The kind you would smile at. And yet they are the ones willing to lay their lives on the block for the cause they espouse.

How many of my kids could turn to this if no one was there to guide them, soothe them, mentor them and above all ensure that they get some of their hijacked childhood back. The plight of the slum kid is no bed of roses: beaten at home, caned at school, riled by his peers, rejected by others, sometimes hungry for food, for love, for understanding he lives a lonely life and sees his dreams crash one after the other. How hurt and humiliated do you have to become to cross the line. I do not know, but the fact is that some if not many do.

Once again we are faced with the question that needs to be asked but that no one is quite willing to, let alone answer. Who is responsible?

Some of the terrorists will be caught. They may even be tried and punished. But are they the true perpetrators? And come to think about it who are the real culprits: the predators lurking with their indoctrination spiel or a fractured society where dreams of some can never be fulfilled, where hate and animosity are easily ignited and stoked?

Disturbing questions that nevertheless demand urgent and honest answers.

Little Prakash is not being punished. Far from that. He is just spending his daily 20 minutes in the sun, part of his treatment the rickets he acquired because he lived a huge part of his tiny life in the dark.

Every time I look at him as he treats me either to his lopsided smile or to his rather cross look, my heart goes out to him. Where he should have by now been hopping, jumping and babbling, Prakash can barely stand though he is well over two. He only cut his first tooth a few weeks back.

Prakash has been a student of pwhy for more than half his life. For many months he simply sat propped up by the wall and barely interacted with others. It is only now that he has begun joining his pals and participating in some of the activities. But the road is long and the future uncertain. We do not know whether little Prakash will be able to one day catch up with all his pals. We only know that we will do everything we can to make sure that the he does.

A few days back a mail dropped in my inbox. It was from a young lady who loves in the US and who has been a staunch supporter of pwhy. I have never met her in person but a couple of years ago when we were going through one of our dark moments she and her friends got together and organised a super raffle for us aptly called two-to-tango!

More than what was collected, it was the love and support they showered me that overwhelmed me. Sonal is now a married lady ans till lives in the US. Last week, the first snow in her city made her think of the pwhy children and she wrote wanting to send them warm clothes. I gently convinced her that it would make mores sense if I bought them here as postage would be prohibitive. Sonal agreed but with a small request: if you could have them gift wrapped, I would feel really happy. a little something extra….As it is, it pains me that I cannot be with the kids there and that I have to live so far away from my home…..but if I know that they enjoyed receiving them, and see their happy faces in the pics, I would feel like I can enjoy my holidays this year! 🙂

We did just that. And the packets were distributed on Sonal’s birthday and the children made a big thank you banner for her. The pictures were duly sent to her. This is and always will be my best birthday gift she simply wrote back.

What truly touched me in this roadshow as Sonal called it was the fact that she insisted that the gifts be wrapped as to her that made it that more special particularly for children who rarely receive gifts.

As I was still basking in the warmth of this wonderful gesture another mail dropped by. Young Harriet who came to spend a few days with us last month wanted to know how she could send some of the money she had collected for us. She has also informed me that she was busy planning a cake sale in her school and had also asked all her friends and family to give a donation to pwhy instead of the usual Xmas gifts!

Sonal and Harriet, two wonderful souls that make you believe that all is well in the world.

No entry: domestic helps, service providers, drivers, luggage, pets screamed the headline of my Sunday morning newspaper. And though I had promised myself not to harp any more, at least for a while, on the have and have not issues or social strata syndrome, I just could not hold myself. I agree that the world over service elevators exist and for a good reason but what made once again my seething blood boil were some of the reasons given for the segregation of elevators.

“We have kept the lifts separate to maintain hygiene. Helps do not keep themselves clean. Either their clothes are dirty or they have body odour which makes it uncomfortable for residents and visitors said one person.

Electricity supply is erratic here. In case of a power cut, one could be stuck in the lift for 10-15 minutes. If a resident or a visitor gets stuck in the lift with a servant or a driver, he/she might feel awkward added another.

I don’t like it if a domestic help uses the same lift as me or my children. I feel we do need separate lifts quipped yet another requesting anonymity!

Millions of questions come to mind but let us just a simple one: are these not the very people to whom you entrust your children, who cook your meals and keep you house clean so that you can live a comfortable life. And are they not human being just like us!