the silence is killing
A few minutes back an email from a dear friend entitled: the silence is killing dropped by my mailbox.
It is true that it has been over 20 days since I last wrote a post. The reason: a nasty viral flu that got the better of me.
The last three weeks were spent between bouts of high fever and waves of exhaustion as I waited impatiently for the clock to strike four as that is when the girls got back from pwhy with the news of the day.
July has been a hectic month a pwhy with three dynamic young volunteers who have infused their own brand of charm in more ways than one: brand new activities in the special section thanks to Lucy, a dose of vitality at the somewhat slow Okhla centre courtesy Firdaush and new ways of learning at Govindpuri with Xiong.
4pm became the highlight of each day as the girls and the three volunteers sat around me and shared the spoils of the day: young Komal barely 10 months old now holds a pencil, the special kids made a scrumptious fruit salad, the new centre at Sanjay colony has over 70 kids now and so much more.
As I sat every afternoon getting the news of the day, I felt a sense of pride as I saw that pwhy had somewhat come of age and could carry on without my daily presence.
all grown up
It is always with a tinge of sadness that a parent sees his child walk out of the parental home with confidence and determination. And yet it is something every wishes for its child and strives for.
Seven years ago, when we seeded project why, our dream was to one day see simple illiterate or semi-literate parents understand that education was an inherent part of their children’s future. That is when we set out to show then how and empower them.
It is true that the objective we set for ourselves was to contain drop out rates and enhance the school performance of slum kids, and it is also true that that what we often set forth as a measure of our success, but the dream loomed in our minds and we surreptitiously worked towards it, something forgetting that its fulfillment would mean our having to move away. And being human, we somehow found hard to accept that reality, and hence turned a blind eye to many glaring hints.
But how long could we ignore the writing on the wall? The number of kids in our Tilak Khand centre was lessening and many children now stated proudly that they had extra tuition classes ( some often give by our ex-students), and the setting up of 3 NGOs in a place where once not so long ago there was none, said it all. Our dream had come true gently but without any doubt. It was time to move to greener pastures or in our case to another slum where children and parents needed us.
Sanjay Colony was the chosen location and the availability of a small two floor jhuggi made the transition almost immediate. The new centre opened on July 5th and in just one day there were already 40 children!
Somehow we felt all grown up!
midway mysteries
I am now convinced that all activities of project why seem to be ordained in some way. At every step that led us from barely 50 kids to over 500 in 7 short years via open heart surgeries and more, we felt guided by some invisible spirit. To the unordained and oft cynical outsider we may have seemed harebrained as we took on problems larger than us with cocky confidence and empty pockets.
And yet no matter how huge or daunting the issue, solutions and answers have always appeared making the words miracle and angels almost common place in project why parlance. Our virtual begging bowl crafted in a moment of despair had stood us through many a crises and is still going strong and has somewhat proved far more reliable than complex forms and formalities. The reason I guess is that it has always been held out by hands that have a heart.
As we set out on a larger dream a bit out of league for us at it requires time and planning and garnering a huge amount of funds, a two-pronged crisis hit us and needed a solution. Our woman of substance now back home after her surgery needed to be shifted out of her tiny room and our little mr p’s mom needed a safe haven, as 15 months of being locked up were taking their toll and she was yearning for a semblance of homecoming. Well we just put two and two together and decided to find a three room set which would somehow be a midway place till planet why became a reality.
For this no huge amounts were needed so the virtual begging bowl carrying its new message was set out and as always an Angel passed by. So we now have our midway refuge that can take care of any urgent crisis and also be a learning experience for us till the day another miracle makes planet why a reality.
one year later..
It was just a year ago that a little red bag sat packed in a room in my home and that I wrote one of the most difficult letter of my life as little mr p set out for his first day in a boarding school, after bidding a poignant farewell to his mom in her first rehab centre.
Since that day a lot happened. Utpal learnt to settle in his school and did it as the stalwart survivor he is. He mastered the alphabets in 2 languages, his numbers, three letter words and host of poems. he even learnt to ride, swim and play foot ball and performed a well choreographed dance in front of an audience. And above all created a great network of friends that includes the school guard and his kind principal. Today the red bag is packed again but this time it has been filled with precise requests: I want Bournvita but do not give me Chawuanprash as everyone else takes it!
Unfortunately the road has not been easy for the mom who has moved to three places and never really settled and with her the journey has to continue till we reach the final destination knowing that we will reach it soon.
picture perfect
This is not a painting or a touched up photograph. It is s snapshot of our ‘class in a box’ – a.k.a as our manav kalyan creche – and was taken by a visiting friend.
What makes this class so special is that it is the initiative of two barely literate slum housewives who decided to keep this class going even when we moved out of the area. As it is a little far away from our normal beat we tend to neglect it a bit but both Seema and Sarita run it with extreme efficiency.
Most of the decorations are made with recycled objects (such as toffee wrappers) and the little ones are even taught yoga. Though this may seem common place in ‘our world’, it is remarkable as Seema on her own initiative joined some craft and other courses to gain new skills.
A true story of empowerment and one that vindicates what we stand for.
whose family is it anyway
I have been watching the recent on-goings of the Presidential elections. I have nothing against any candidate but could not but wince when I heard our prime Minister defending the lady candidate’s past with the words “she cannot be held responsible for the wrong-doings of her family” he was of course referring to the collapse of the cooperative bank she founded.
At about the same time Radhey our faithful three wheeler operator received a threatening call from a recovery agent pertaining to an unpaid cell phone bill of his handicapped and maverick son. When he tried to explain that the son in question did not live with him or listen to him and thus was not responsible for his misdemeanours, the irate man simply told him that he had 24 hours to pay up or else they would issue a warrant of arrest against him, as if the son did not pay up the family was liable.
Once again a tale of two Indias.. I presume
changing egosystems..
“Trying to save ecosystems has more to do with changing egosystems.” said Don Rittner
Last week a visitor from Europe shared his dilemma about choosing a new car. His main concern was carbon emissions and thus his choice a small car though he was a person who could afford the biggest on the market.
Yesterday night as we drove back from a late dinner, we were fishtailed by a speeding sports spewing smoke. The driver was obviously showing off his vehicle as he broke every rule in the book.
It is evident from the above that whereas our European friend has a deep concern for the environment, our young home lad has a long way to go. This is a sad reflection on education as and awareness as the young sports car driver was definitely from a good home.
We have been trying at pwhy to sensitize staff and children on environment issues and we even held a staff workshop on global warming, in the hope that they in turn will take on the issue in their respective classes. And the idea bore fruit as yesterday a day-long programme was held in our secondary section with debates and a painting competition.
The day was spent sharing and exchanging information and trying to find out what children living in slums could do as when one browses sites on global warming most of the remedial measures do not apply to kids in slums. Awareness is needed but is in no way sufficient. One has to give children concrete steps that they can follow. This is not an easy task as we are here faced with people who have come to cities to access new and modern amenities and are loathe to give them up.
And herein lies the challenge. The first step is undoubtedly to show them how critical matters have become and how the sheer numbers in India make it vital for us to act. The battle is far from won but it has begun.
bake a cake
When Kiran got admitted in an upmarket pubic school.. it was a dream come true for her family and for all those who love her. Admission woes were soon forgotten as she set of in her sparkling uniform to conquer a new world.
It would be a big challenge to see her through but her brave little family was determined to ensure that this lovely child would get the best, even if it meant a lot of sacrifices and many hurdles.
The first one came sooner than we expected. As summer holidays began and we perused the dreaded holiday homework sheets we stumbled on one that stumped us all. The class I one child was supposed to bake a cake and immortalise the event in a set of pictures that were to be pasted on the sheet.
Now cakes have percolated down to the poorest of homes in slums in the from of b’day cakes bought at the local bakery, or the packaged version available in local grocery stores but baking a cake is still an uncharted territory. Kiran’s home does not have an oven and anyway her family’s culinary expertise does not extend to baking.
On the other hand not doing the homework would entail consequences none of us would want. Hence the cake was baked in my home and the task fulfilled leaving us to wonder when and in what form would the next hurdle appear in what now seemed to be a surprise obstacle race.
This post could read as a fun one, but if one stopped and took time to think, the incident highlights once again the invisible, unmentionable and yet ever present divide that exists in our country.
I remember times when some part of the homework of my girls could not be completed for some reason or the other and how one confidently circumvented the issue with the teachers. It was easily done as both protagonists belonged to the same side of the fence. However in Kiran’s case, saying that she did not have an oven at home would be almost akin to branding her with her red hot iron.
I am sure that teacher who drafted the homework included this item as a fun project and for as long as different kinds of schools exist in our land such things will occur. It is only when we look at all the children of India in the same manner that we will be able to resolve the issue…
depend on them…
Don’t believe in miracles – depend on them said Laurence J Peter and that is what we have been doing for seven years now. If you need to know whether miracles exist or not,just read on.
Manu who you see in the picture used to roam the streets dishevelled, uncared for and sneered by all. Today he sits with a huge smile holding the weaving frame for his pal Shalini who is learning to make rag rugs. Manu has a peer group and even friends. He laughs and gets angry just like all of us and is slowly learning to live.
Nicola is back home with a brand new hip and a huge smile. In spite of everything being against her, she never lost hope and today she is set to make up for lost time by healing others.
Utpal’s journey from a boiling pan to a boarding school is nothing short of a miracle and as he spends his last summer holiday moments with his mom , he knows that they both have beaten all odds.
In a few weeks Mehajabi will join the rank of the 11 other kids who now have a brand new heart.
Bu these are not the only miracles that came our way. There are more. All the kids who passed their examinations with obsessive regularity; the handful of special bacchas who spend a few hours a day laughing, dancing and above all learning; young Rinky locked in her silent world who now has a job in a beauty parlour; Farzana who had failed twice and whose parents were almost at the brink of stopping her studies and who is now a class XII graduate; our motley bunch of ‘teachers’ who proved everyone wrong by doing a great job.
However all this could not have happened without the miracle of the incredible web of friends from all over the world and all walks of life who stood by, believed in us and reached out without fail each time we needed them.
Yes, project why is an endless string of miracles big and small that have dotted our lives for the past seven years and we do depend on them.
a different QOTD
The recent plight of HIV+ve children has been making headlines. Denied school, then readmitted, then targeted. As usual once again it is good copy for the media and we have picture of the little souls with their faces blurred but ever so recognisable flashed on the screens with obsessive regularity. And the now trendy QOTDs (read question of the day) pertain to this issue: should HIV+ve kids be denied schools? and more of the same.
This heart wrenching incident brings many matters to the fore. The problem of these children does not seem to stem from the authorities but from parents of other children and their misconceptions and fears. The stigma attached to AIDS is mind boggling as we ourselves have experiences at pwhy. When we initiated awareness classes on AIDS, some parents stopped their children from coming to the centre and accused us of being immoral! People from all walks of life seem to associate HIV to loose morals and obliterate the many other causes.
Campaigns have failed to highlight real issues such as its multiple causes and its transmission. hence all HIV+ve patients are denied basic humane behaviour and sensitivity. I recently visited a patient who had contracted the virus through an ill-fated transfusion and was admitted to a hospital. I was shocked to see that rather than have a small sign or code to indicate her status, a huge placard bearing the words BIO HAZARD was hung on her bedpost reminding one of the yellow stars of the Nazi days. What could have been done discreetly was unfortunately done in the most uncaring way.
To the question should kids be denied school the answer has to sadly be yes as long as the environment is not conducive to their presence; yes as long as their status is branded to one and all; yes as long as they are not accepted wholeheartedly for placing them in the midst of a polemic can be destructive.
The QOTDs on this issue should have been addressed to each one of us as in a simple: would you accept to have an HIV+ve kid in your environment?
Wonder what the answer would be then?
just another day at project why
Friends often gently remind me to talk about project why particularly when tend to digress on larger issues or as was the case lately, wander into deep introspection.
Maybe the mere fact that I can indulge in the above proves that all is well at project why. But still I guess many of you may want to know more.
The picture of Anurag and Umesh says it all as it conveys better than any word I could find how pwhy is. Comfortable, at peace, happy, content, cosy, snug are some of the words that come to mind. The cool rains that broke the unbearable heat spell brought some unexpected and wondrous images like this autistic child and his cerebral palsy pal taking a break and maybe dreaming impossible dreams.
Children are slowly coming back from their summer holidays. Classes are going on as usual but I have been told that a play is also being rehearsed though what it is is a mystery. The new prep class is a joy to watch as little toddlers are now learning to sit at a table and work. The special kids are busy making paper bags and mats, and weaving rag rugs. The bigger classes are often seen playing chess or carom.
Two weeks from now school will reopen and the pressure of studies will once again be felt, but till then everyone is happy taking things easy.
and there is always tomorrow.
Courage, it would seem, is nothing less than the power to overcome danger, misfortune, fear, injustice, while continuing to affirm inwardly that life with all its sorrows is good; that everything is meaningful even if in a sense beyond our understanding; and that there is always tomorrow. Dorothy Thompson
I have been locked in silence for a few days. A rare occurrence for me as I always seem to err on the other side, always the one to find the word, action, reaction to any situation whatever it may be.
As I pick up my virtual pen to ultimately break this muteness I find myself diminished in more ways than one. Gone is the bravado and cockiness, the ease with which one took on every cause to espouse, the fire to fight for seemingly lost causes and in its place the inevitable almost existential question: who am I and what gives me the right to do what I do?
The last seven years were filled with a sense of achievement – no matter how minute – a feeling of pride as children passed exams, hearts got fixed, women got empowered, and we grew from 20 to 100 and then to over 500! There were even moments when hubris took over albeit for the tiniest of moments and one’s human side stood exposed as one carefully filed press cuttings with a feeling of satisfaction. One had arrived or so one thought.
However life or God or whoever else it is that holds the trump card always intervenes before you wander to far and this is what happened at a time when I felt almost invincible as we worked towards N’s operation. A simple barely murmured sentence by this extraordinary woman as we sat counting numbers dealt me a blow I am still reeling over. She simply said: had I not had the past I had, I would not have been able to be who I am today.
These are words many of us have said or thought or even believe. But when your past begins with the worst case of abuse at an age when you should be playing with dolls and in a split moment the stage was set for a life where everything would be defiled: her childhood, her dreams, her mind, her spirit, her soul: in a word her future. To bear the pain came the drugs, the alcohol and the defiance of all the rules as, are these not made for those who have the luxury of a normal life where childhood grows into adolescence and matures to adulthood.
Those were her dark years where danger, misfortune , fear, injustice played their destructive game and as is often the case in such situations temerity ruled. Everything is sacrificed with impudence or so one feels. But somewhere a little voice tells you to hold on and a flickering light beckons you to reach out. It is that very glimmer that led N out of her dark labyrinth into a pool of luminous light that not only dispelled her darkness but became a beacon for others to follow and makes a barely literate woman say with pride: I would not have been what I am today.
For N is. In a world where people are happy being shadows or clones, she stands out as an example of hope, a vindication of all those who believe that nothing or no one is hopeless or beyond redemption. But above all N puts into to question the very foundation of those like me, who feel smug in the tiny roles they have chosen for themselves.
Today, when I look back at my existence and particularly at the last seven years I often hold as my best, I see nothing much to write home about or be proud of. It just seems one did what one had to keeping in mind the abundance of privileges one was dealt with all along. N brought into my life a different perspective altogether and a new meaning to the word tomorrow. It becomes imperative for me, to redefine that tomorrow and strive towards it with renewed hope.
Remembering mom.
She left seventeen years ago. Every year on this day I remember her; write a few words, light a lamp, place a garland on her picture, sit quietly in her favourite spot in the garden or make her favourite dish. Then everything is put back into some corner of one’s memory till the next occasion.
On the other hand my more flamboyant father became the one whose memory was celebrated in my work and she as usual took the back seat. I discovered a diary last year and that discovery was a defining moment of my existence. It shattered many images I had held on to. It raised many questions, the most important one being whether I had vindicated my mother’s sacrifice.
My answer was a letter to a dead mother.
I do not know why I chose this day to share this? It could be a sense of guilt towards one I owed so much to, and yet chose to forsake. It could also be because for the past few days I have come across many women fighting for their survival and dignity just as Kamala did.
Last year my friend Abhi decided to immortalise part of Kamala’s life in a short film entitled remembering mother, but I still remained locked in silence. But last week when I spent a morning with the women of Sahara House in their Miracle Maids programme something snapped inside. As I watched this motley bunch of ex addicts struggling to learn the ways of the world as they set out to set tables and memorise complex recipes, my mind went back to the small town girl who became and ambassador’s wife, beating all odds.
The unbearable heat of that refurbished shed where this handful of ladies toiled made me decide to get them a cooler on this special day in the hope that the breeze it blows carries with it the love and blessings of an incredible woman I called mama!
a woman of substance
A few days back an acquaintance who is a jet setting honcho of a huge MNC was house hunting. He finally zeroed on a flat in an up up market district of our capital city. The rent a whopping 550 000 rs a month! Mind you it is not a bungalow, just a second floor in a building! Needless to say the rent is being paid by the company.
This afternoon N insisted on showing me her home. This is the place she is coming back to a few days after her hip joint replacement to recuperate. It is the tiniest of room in a tiny lane of a small middle class colony, with a sordid bathroom and a poky kitchen. She shares the room with a friend and once you lay out two mattresses on the floor there is no place to sleep. Yet it is her home, one she proudly shows. There is a TV, photographs on the wall, and little knickknacks which give it a welcoming appearance. She pays 2000 rs for it, a large chunk of her small salary!
N’s story is one heart wrenching and one you would only think happens in the minds of fiction or script writers. But is also a story of hope as she has proved to one and all that one can survive the worst nightmare and came out of winner.
At an age when others still play with dolls she was abused and then came a spiralling descent to hell which for her was a heady cocktail of alcohol, drugs, and abuse of unimaginable proportion. Yet she came out of it a winner as she took on the task of helping her soul sisters follow her lead.
When she talks of her past, she does it without bitterness or anger, without acrimony or rancour; she has accepted it as a part of herself and one she had made peace with. She simply picked up the broken pieces of her life and wove them into a new life where hope and faith are the call of the day.
Her smile is infectious and her joie de vivre contagious. It is as if she has to make up for lost time and fill her life only light and joy. Looking at her you would not believe the pain she is and that she need a hip replacement that will cost the earth. She is just knows she has to get back on her feet as there is still so much to be done. She has left it to all God’s angels and just carries on. And somehow I know the angels will appear in all shades and hues as when it is comes to a woman like N it just cannot be otherwise.
The morning I spent with her was one the most beautiful I have ever known as it renewed my faith in all that is good and kind. It also made me once again believe in the fact that no life is too wretched to give up on. As we shared a simple meal cooked by another woman whose childhood was usurped by predators under the watchful of eye of our personal angel Mr P, I felt at peace after a long time.
And when we finally stopped by that tiny little room, it somehow felt like the biggest castle as it was overflowing with dreams and aspirations waiting to be fulfilled.
the heat is on
The heat is on. The weather girl predicted a whopping 45 degrees with a sweat factor of 27% making it feel like 48 degrees. The sensible thing would be to stay at home, away from the sun and the scalding wind. True that is an option for some of us, provided the electricity does not play truant.
Why do you stay open, ask many friends. It would be easy to close for the summer and take off to some hill station, but we know that if we did, children would suffer as home for many of them is a tiny shack with a tin roof, and the streets too hot to be a playground in the heat of the summer.
So we brave the heat and soldier on. Fans and coolers help a little. We also ensure that children are not dehydrated and we know we are on the right track as classes are as full as ever. It is true that some of our classrooms are no better than shacks, like the one in the picture, but somehow the joy of being together makes up for the thatch roof and electricity cuts.
The life of a slum child in the peak of summer is hell. School holidays means having nowhere to go. Homes are overcrowded and torrid. Tempers run high and there is no place to escape. No parks, no open spaces, no shaded play grounds.
The scorching heat brings to light an array of questions, some of them without answers alas! Fr st and foremost is the issue of urban habitat for the poor. How can we call ourselves a free nation when we have not been able to give basic amenities to a large chunk of our population. Urban slums are bereft of any planning, and teeming with disasters waiting to happen. Naked electricity wires run like monstrous webs, each a potential fire hazard that would engulf everything in a split second. Garbage stench and flies abound, and homes – or what goes by the name – are hell holes. Yet most of the people who live there are people we know: our electrician or plumber, our vegetable vendor, our daily maid, the lad who cycles in the heat to bring us the grocery item we have forgotten.. simple souls who make our air conditioned lives a tad better and who are also people protected by the same laws and supposed to enjoy the same rights as us.
Every morning, as we enter our centre we are met with sleepy and tired little eyes. For the past few days many of the creche and special kids have just slept through their day, vindicating our resolve to remain open come what may.
There is of course the larger issue: that of global warming and environment. But in the wake of what we see, one wonders whether anyone is really interested in solving any issue that does not bring with it money, power, votes….
the preppies
We have a new class. It is one we had to create by force majeure. Though we ourselves believe that children should not be made to study at too tender and age, sometimes noblesse oblige and you have to bow to the rule of the day.
So much to our sorrow we had to take the decision to structure our early education programme and bring in some serious work. Class I in India requires children to know have a fair amount of oral and written skills: alphabets in 2 languages – English and Hindi -, counting to 100, spelling of numbers 1 to 10 and even three letter words. Quite a handful for little kids who are barely five.
We also felt that as many of our children would be going to government run schools, it would be an asset for them to have a solid base that would be taught to them with love and patience. It was time also to graduate from the easy going atmosphere and sitting on the ground, to the first desk and chair.
We were lucky to get a little room just opposite our centre and classes began in earnest this morning under the supervision of Vinita and Pushpa a new teacher who lives next door. The first day, like all first days was a little daunting and confusing but our little preppies did us proud as they always do!
a milestone for project why
The arrival of Pritpal is a real milestone for the special section of project why. Pritpal is an occupational therapist and will work with the children every morning. This will be a quantum leap for many kids and is bound to help them have a better future.
My thoughts travel back to the day when Sylvia, a special educator, landed one winter morning in early 2001 at our doorstep. With her were 5 mentally and physically challenged kids who had lost the school they went to. It did not take us a minute to realise that we had to do something for the. That is how our special section began, on the road side, with a handful of kids and a tons of hope.
When I see that section today, I am filled with pride as it is by far our best class. We have gone a long way since that cold morning when we had nothing but our determination and faith and of course the unconditional love of these kids.
Today our special section is vibrant; it is the place I chose to go to when I feel a little blue, a little lost, a tad defeated. But all clouds are lifted as I hear the good mornings ma’am and see the smiles of each and every one urging to come and sit by them, or eager to show a new task achieved. If it is lunchtime then each one shares a bit of their lunch, even Anurag who never parts with any of his tiffin. But I am privileged, am I not?
Sometimes it is singing time, or dancing time, or jumping on the trampoline time, and all join in, even those who cannot hear or can barely walk. I have never seen such synergies, such joy and such positive energy. What is truly incredible is that this motley crew of 20 each with their own handicap never judges the other, but accepts her or him unconditionally.
They are family in the true sense of the world. It does no matter if they belong to different castes, or creed or socio-economic backgrounds. They all know what it is to be different and have borne that pain. It binds them in an incredible web of love and lust for life. This is there turf and they protect it. Those who cannot understand are not welcome. That is the only rule they have.
all god’s angels
All God’s angels come to use disguised said James Russell Lowell. We have had our share dropping by project why in all shapes and sizes to help and guide us, and like all angels flown away before we even realised who they were. However, there has been one little angel that decided to stay and deliver his miracles as and when needed.
Little Popples a.k.a Utpal is that angel. I cannot forget the day when I first saw him, swathed in bandages his death sentence written on a green hospital card, and yet the eyes that met mine were filled with life and hope. That was four years ago. Since he has been busy delivering his miracles big and small, even if we do not have the power to recognise them, or do so only in hindsight.
Wherever his chubby feet fall a miracle is in the making. Two weeks back he entered the world of a women’s rehab centre to spend his summer holidays with his mom. Some time later the kind lady in charge of the centre was taken ill and the only way out for her was a very costly operation, way beyond the league of this brave single mom. We came to know about it and sent out an appeal hoping that someone would come forward. Less than twenty four hours and a phone call later the miracle had been performed and the money promised. Our Angel had done is work and was back to being the endearing child he is!
Wonder what his next miracle will be.
PS: the cost of the surgery is much more than what was first estimated by the hospital. Sowe ned more angels!
a salvo from the heart
We all love positive stroking; come to think about it, it is something we need. We have had our share but often it is more lip service than a salvo from the heart.
Usha is a special educator from Jan Madhyam an organisation we network with and has been coming to Project Why for many months now. She works with the children, teaching then a host of new activities and somehow has become one of us.
Last week during lunch time the usually quiet and unobtrusive Usha decided to fire a salvo from her heart. She simply said: your organisation is one of the few that works with its heart.
I do not why, but these simply words were the most rewarding appreciation we have ever got!
reservation imbroglio- whose in whose out
Tuesday morning some French friends set out from our home to board a train to Rajasthan. They were on a three week holiday and were hoping to be able to visit as many places as possible. As they were leaving, I told them rather casually to get in touch in case there was any problem. It was almost a redundant statement as so many friends had boarded trains to Rajastan and come back safely their eyes and mind filled with lifelong memories.
Imagine my astonishment when a few hours a later I got a panicked call informing me that their train had been stuck for hours and asking me what was happening and above all what were they to do. having been at work all day, I had not seen the news and did not know what had hit them. I just told them to hold on and that i would get back to them shortly.
I quickly turned the TV and was assailed by images of buses burning amidst a sea of people and tried to figure out what had happened. Slowly reality sunk in as I realised that once again the hydra headed monster of reservation has struck in a new way.
The friends have altered their holiday plans and set out for the hills but for the last few days I have been watching in stunned silence the horrific drama that is unfolding in front of our eyes. This is the reservation nightmare revisited but in another avatar altogether. Here it is not a question of the upper caste resisting an increase in reservation. What we are witnessing is far more insidious and dangerous as it defeats the very essence of what reservation is meant to stand for.
What was meant to be an affirmative action to help those who had been let down by society for generations, what was meant to be a help for the underprivileged sections has now turned out to be a battle to save one’s spoils. The Gujjar community is seeking scheduled tribe status, something that can be defended as this is a backward community of herdsmen. What is scaring is that over and above the political issue, resistance to this is not from upper castes but from another ST section, namely the Meena who are apparently the only recognised Tribals in Rajasthan. One does not have to be a rocket scientist to see that all this is a far cry from affirmative action for the underprivileged. A new entrant entails having to share the spoils which include government jobs, political assignments, etc..
One would have thought that brethren were to be supported and helped but that is not the case as reservation is no more viewed as a time bound support to the have nots to ensure their mainstreaming, but as an easy way of getting favours and once again the monster of reservation has proved to be stronger than the administrative machinery as it is replete with causes to espouse for many hungry politicos.
How this will end I do not know. The confrontation has turned into a caste struggle that is turning ugly and a vindication of the fear that of the polarisation and fragmentation of our already fragile social fabric and a proof of the failure of the reservation policy as it has been imagined by its authors.