a beautiful tale of two Indias
There is a little girl named Yashaswini! you can spot her in the front of this picture. She belongs to the side of the fence where everything works in your favour. She has smart educated parents, a place in a good school and everything a child needs to grow.
Saturday was a 4th birthday and she celebrated like she does every year with her very special friends: the special section of pwhy. Shalini and Manu, Umesh and Anuraag, Ruchi and Preeti and all the others. Some are over 20, others more her age but they are all different in some way or the other. Some cannot hear, others cannot talk, some can barely walk but come rain or storm they are all there with her every year.
Her mom decided some years back to give her a b’day with a difference. A day out at Delhi Haath with this motley group of children. It is time for a a ride to the place, a treat of their choice, a birthday cake and even a return gift. And then time to play like all kids do, before saying bye and see you next year.
Every one is dressed to a T though to the uninitiated it may not look to be. Even Manu who never wears shoes has donned a brand new pair. And they have played by the rules as they did not forget their gift: a nice cardboard house made by Rinky on which everyone signed!
I do not know what made Yashu‘s mom decide to bring the two Indias together for her child’s birthday but I salute her for that as I know that it is maybe one of the greatest gift she gave her child.
As they played blindman’s bluff all differences are forgotten; they are just what they are children having fun, never mind if some of them had to wait scores of years to reclaim their right to be a child.
This is a very precious moment, and only the very privileged can see its true meaning!
Happy Birthday Yashu!
In the name of all the unborn girls
Yesterday a news item caught my attention in more ways than one. A Bombay couple had challenged the high court on the ban on gender choice. They wanted to chose the sex of their third child needless to see they wanted a boy.
According to this educated couple: In their opinion to have a male child in India is better, as they say the country is not socially or economically ready to accept a female child.
The same item reminded sotto voce that 2500 girl foetuses are aborted every day! This case raises a plethora of questions and may have far reaching consequences. It is not just one isolated case that concerns a well to do family with two daughters but one in which the respondents to the petitioner are all the unborn girls of India.
A wrong decision in this case may increase by quantum leaps the 2500 foetuses that die everyday. That the petition should come from an educated family is even more disquieting as it cuts the sails out of the uphill and often impossible task of trying to convince the larger population of the importance of the girl child in any society.
Furthermore a wrong cannot be made right just by numbers and absurd equations: you can chose the sex if you have one, two or x amount of daughters. It is evident that for that family getting the right sex entails taking on a formidable adversary – nature – and may result in killing many a girl foetus on the way.
Maybe the couple in question also forgot that their chosen child will one day need a wife! It is true that even among the well endowed a daughter-in-law is looked down upon if she cannot produce that male child, but one would expect young educated couples to be able rise above this. The fact that this couple chose to seek legal absolution for such a dastardly act is even more chilling.
I hope the court takes all this into consideration and pronounces a judgement that will once for all protect the already precarious condition of the girl child in India.
Its just another day in paradise..
The last few posts have been grim and even seething so it was time for a breath of fresh air. I found myself humming a song of yore years that sprung from the recesses of my mind. Its just another day in paradise, said the refrain. And if my memory does not fail me the paradise in question was dotted with pizzas, kids screaming and phones rigging.
I let myself be carried by the mood of the song and slowly the day gone by at pwhy seemed just that kind of paradise which just like the song writer I wouldn’t trade for anything.
The morning began just like many others with the customary Namaste ma’am or good morning ma’am that have become so much part of my life that I had lost the ability of savouring. If one was shouted by a simple minded girl, the other was barely whispered by a child with severe behaviour problems; if one was accompanied by a tug at my shirt the other was said with eyes firmly fixed on the ground; and if one was shouted by a deaf girl another was murmured by a spastic child. This beautiful and unique chorus was performed on cue as I climbed up the stairs to my office on the rooftop.
As one settled in the office, on cue again came the hot cup of tea made by Amma and that brought to my mind the struggle it had been to do away with caste and creed problems over the years. Then slowly the motley pwhy crew made the climb to the top to mark their attendance, some heaved and sighed and got my normal: you should exercise a little. One after the other irrespective they came by silent witnesses of the long road travelled to weave together this incredible pattern that reflected India’s true essence. We had nomads and tribals, the lowest and the highest caste, all creeds and ages held together by the pwhy dream.
As each set out to their posts, someone remembered that the water heating rod had to be set for Manu’s bath before the daily power cut: yes the very Manu who only a few years back roamed the streets unkempt and dirty in search of food. And today was special as all the kids of Manu’s class were off to Delhi hath to celebrate the birthday of a 4 year old who since she was 1 celebrated them with these very blessed kids.
They day had begun in earnest. Someone remembered that a TV crew was dropping by to interview little Deepak’s family, yes the very Deepak whose heart was now fixed, reminding me of the laudable fact that 11 such kids had dropped by our planet.
From the ground floor came the sounds of the creche babies singing their morning wake up songs, and the hustle and bustle around me bore witness to the simple fact that a perfect paradisaical day had begun.
It was only 10 am.
The next hour saw the special kids set off in the two hired vehicles, the TV crew appear and be whisked away to Deepak’s home. Time to catch another cup of tea and plan the rest of the day. A visit to all the centres, nine in number now, a search for a room for Manoj’s mom not to forget the table that had to be yanked up all the way to the top floor as it could not go through the staircase…
Yes it truly was just another day in paradise, one that I would not trade for anything…
more on manoj’s mom
When you think you have seen it all, and feel smug in the false notion that you have created the required roadmaps, in a land where women are dispensable you are least prepared for Act II of what you believed was a one Act play with a doable denouement!
Yesterday I watched little Manoj dance and even gave my self a tiny pat in the back as memories of him flashed in my mind. A phone call brought me back to reality as I was told that Manoj’s mom 7 months into a unwanted pregnancy had landed at home with a swollen face and broken lip. The abuser was none other than her husband.
An article I recently read caught my attention as the author stated: 0ften a girl is brainwashed from infancy.. and I guess she is right, but there comes a moment when all the brainwashing and conditioning pales under the ignobility of the abuse suffered. That day the battering of her over abused body was the last straw, and the tears that welled Manoj’s mom’s sunken and anemic eyes were ones of anger and rage.
The story withheld till now poured out in chilling words, and that story was not just hers but the story of many women in India. She was barely 16, when she was married to this man, by a widowed mother who had the use of only one arm and three younger children to bring up. She had no option but to agree to the road map set for her. The rest is predictable a child before she attains the age of 17, an alcoholic man who is more abuser than husband or father. A weak child who can barely walk or stand at 2, and an unwanted pregnancy that she is forbidden to abort by the one who owns her body and soul all this laced with brutal beatings that dot her life with obsessive regularity. Days where she and her child go hungry, when rent being not paid lead to changing rooms constantly till you find yourself in an airless hole. No home to go back to, no family no friends.
You get a job and you work with a smile so genuine that even the most sensitive does not see your pain. You hide the unwanted pregnancy from fear of losing your job till it shows and you are exposed! You still try and whitewash the abuser as you have been conditioned to do but then all that was possible when there was no love and support around you. But when you see someone is listening your crushed spirit hidden in the deep recesses of your soul decides to break all the carefully built walls and set itself free.
However what are your options in a land where a single woman let alone a single parent is anathema. Where with a small child an an unborn one you have nowhere to go and are not coward enough to end your life.
Manoj’s mom is not an individual case, it is the story of many women in a land where in spite of venerating Goddesses we have forgotten the Goddess that lies in the scarred soul of each woman. And I am not talking of poor women only.
We may be able to help Manoj’s mom but the question that arises is what do you for the millions others.
Have your girl and leave her to us
My last post was a plea to ensure that existing social schemes function in this country. Imagine my utter dismay when a national daily carried an article spelling out a new initiative to fight foeticide and infanticide. This is of course after the little bones found buried near a Ratlam hospital.
The scheme aims at placing cradles in every district of India so that parents who don’t want a girl child can leave her to the care of the government. The Minister of social welfare was quoted saying: what we are saying to people is have your children but don’t kill them.. leave her to us.
I wonder how a responsible person can utter such words. The whole scheme is absurd and preposterous and would have a plethora of consequences that one cannot even begin to imagine at this moment. And I am not talking about the usual corruption and fund embezzlement.
First of all it does not address the main problem of foeticide which is the main reason for the warped sex ratio in our country. Then a scheme like this will encourage parents to abandon their baby girls even if they were in a position to rear them. We have come across families of a 9 children where the first 8 are girls! Were this scheme in place the first 8 would have been placed in the cradle.
We all know of the pathetic conditions that prevail in state run orphanages and children’s homes. Even in India’s capital city these are poorly run and overcrowded. The abandoned children are likely to suffer a worse plight than they would have in their homes. Bringing up a child requires much more than two meals a day and a bed to sleep in. A child needs love and emotional support and above all needs to be given answers about why she is in an orphanage and not with her family.
The reference by the Minister to creating a gene pool is extremely disturbing as it views these to be abandoned children as objects and not individuals. The Minister goes on to say that if the parents have a change of heart then they may take their children back, leaving the door wide open for parents to use the scheme to abdicate their duties. What is even more disquieting is that no one seems to give any importance to the psychological growth of the child who will be casted from side to side to suit the whim and fancies of irresponsible adults.
True that the figures are shocking – over 1 crore of foetuses disposed of in the last decade and a sex ratio of 821/1000 in Delhi – a solution that discards the role of the parent is inconceivable and is bound to lead to problems that may spin beyond control. The issue of the girl child has to be viewed in a different manner. She has to be reinstated as within the family and society through awareness campaigns and once again maybe by just ensuring that existing programmes are run honestly and in a realistic manner.
The government of the NCT has a programme whereby a sum of Rs 5000 is deposited in the name of a new born SC girl child to be encashed after the child has reached 18 years of age. Little Shivani is an SC child but we were unable to fill and file the required documents within the stipulated time of 90 days. However it is schemes like these that may secure a child a place in her family and not legalising washing one’s hand off them.
I will not even begin to address the social implications of such a scheme in a land where social origins are of prime importance. I will just say that a responsible government has to think about the long term consequences before shooting out absurd programmes, unless once again these are done to create one way to line greedy pockets.
cross your Ts and dot your Is mr government
In my quest to get pwhy kids and heir families the required caste and OBC certificates I set about finding out the procedure set out by our government. A quick perusal of the Delhi government website is sufficient to show that the modus operandi proposed is almost impossible to meet.
For Scs and Sts whereas the application can be signed by the local elected representative, someone that can be acceded to, the remaining papers require the signature of two class I gazetted officer, something that even i would have difficulty in finding.
In case of OBCs a new para has been added which states: I certify that to the best of my knowledge and belief that i do not belong to the creamy layer of the OBC… (para 14 of application form), However no definition has been given of the creamy layer!
It does not end here. To get a handicapped certificate you need to be 40% physically handicapped and 35% mentally challenged. Wonder what happens to those who are under! And in a city where the minimum wage for unskilled labour is about 3000 rs a month, the website states : He or she should be domiciled in Delhi for more than 5 years and their monthly income should not exceeds. 400/- and if unemployed their family income should not exceed Rs.600/
I think one would be justified to say that their seems to be a concerted effort to ensure that good schemes do not reach the true beneficiary. One would be justified in thinking that if we as civil society armed with a powerful tool like the Right to Information, set out to redress torts and ensure that existing schemes functioned this country would be a better place for all!
another tale of two Indias
I have often written about the ever widening gap between the two Indias and the almost apocalyptic aftermath it entails. One would be justified in asking whether ways exist to bridge this frightening chasm.
When pwhy began and I set out crafting it I knew intuitively that if it were to make a difference and have a spati-temporal dimension one would have to shun all government and institutional and impersonal funding and support. I realise today is hindsight that it was a yet unformulated but real step towards bridging this gap. When one decided to use only local resources be it staff or space it was one more step in that direction. When one insisted on holding on to the one rupee a day in spite of numerous false starts it was because that was another way to bring the two Indias together.
When I look at the long list of supporters I feel a sense of pride to see that so many have reached out and been there. Most of the people mentioned on that page have never met me or come to pwhy, yet they are an integral part of this effort and have helped change many lives and brighten many morrows. However a tinge of regret mars my elation as there are so few from my city and peers. Most of those who are there live far away from their motherland and yet their heart beats for her.
One may wonder why those just around the corner do not feel it necessary to reach out is a question that has disturbed me as the obvious solution was to have them come forward as they could come and vindicate our plea by just dropping by. Nevertheless now for more than 7 years many have in their own way brought the two Indias together and that is a fact to be lauded.
There are many ways to try and bridge the widening gap: like Amit you could donate blood little Nanhe, like Tima you could take some time off from coffee mornings and spend them teaching underprivileged children, like Mansi could motivate your staff to come and share some of their skills with such kids, like Rishi you could accept to take on little Utpal in your swank school and ensure he becomes an integral part of it, like Monica you could lend your professional skills, and like Malavika you could send your monthly contribution without being reminded, like Kim spend time at pwhy and write about our effort or like Sonia lend us the much needed media support to expose abusers and highlight wrong doings.
These steps may look inconsequential but they help us carry on and reach out to children abandoned by all. There are many ways of bringing the two Indias together, provided you accept that it is something that needs to be done. One cannot wish away the other India because it stands at our doorstep and no amount of money can meet their ever growing presence and new found dreams. Their patience will run out if we continue treating them the way we do and forget the indubitable fact that they are protected by the same constitution and laws than us and no second grade citizens to whom we can throw second hand goods, be it education, health or habitat.
a cri de coeur
Today’s TV news brought pictures of 390 little bones buried near a hospital in Ratlam. Experts say they are the remains of babies. Today’s newspaper reported that there were thousands of missing children in our own Silicon valley a.k.a Bengaluru!
Post Nithari, the NHRC has asked for an update of missing children in UP. A website has been launched to keep track of missing children. Many questions come to mind and find no answers. The entire administrative setup seems to have forsaken the children of India in every way imaginable.
There are another little forsaken group of missing children, those that came for unknown reasons to seek shelter at the Baba Balnath Ashram since its inception in 1975. The present lot were rescued in early December 2006 though they too seem lost in complex administrative and judicial mazes. But what about all the others that transited this hell hole for 30 long years. Some should be almost middle aged women.
Will anyone give them a voice. What will it take to get civil society to ask these disturbing questions and seek answers so that they may get the justice they deserve? We have seen many a campaign in recent months that have brought closure to several cases. However these girls are invisible, yet they too are victims of the society we live in.
It is time to wake up and redeem ourselves if redemption there is!
Continuing little Anisha’s story
Anisha lies in a hospital bed. She dropped by pwhy yesterday morning and I was shocked to see her gasping breath. The forlorn parents told me that the hospital had refused to give a date as they had not deposited 4 units of blood and in spite of the fact that the 55 000 Rs required for her surgery had been paid more than a week back.
Knowing the attitude of the AAIMS’s blood bank that only wanted relatives as donors, I knew it was time to act. I told the mother to immediately take the child to the emergency room and that i would follow.
I mouthed a silent prayer to the God of lesser beings when I reached the hospital as any delay would have been fatal. Anisha lay under an oxygen bell while a nurse was desperately tyring to find a vein on the child’s emaciated body. Anisha weighs under 4 kilos at 9 months.
The family was desperate as they were told that there were no beds in AIIMS and the child may have to be taken to Safdurjung across the road. I told them to do what was said and had to resort to what works in India: contacts. After a long trudge and many misses I located a friend doctor in another department and asked him to intervene.
Now we wait with crossed fingers and bated breath for a little miracle: that of getting a bed and a date for the much needed life saving surgery.
I later googled for the meaning of Anisha: it means continuous…
and what will the feshment be tomorrow..
Tomorrow is Utpal’s PTA and once again his motley family will set out early in the morning to spend the day with him. This time it is Amit, Chanda Didi, Kiran Didi, Radhey and maam’ji who will form the party.
I am looking forward to the moment when his best pal Simran who is always on the look out for incoming parents will spot us and yell: Utpal tere parents aageye– Utpal your parents are here- never mind if the parents are a gang of 5 and not the conventional mom and dad duo.
He will appear slowly from somewhere and look at us shyly while we will assess the changes: his over oiled hair, his height and his tanned face, then his face will light up and he will run into our arms as we all start babbling together.
After the customary chat with his maam’s, we will set out to plan the day. While some of us will remain in school and laze on the lawns, Utpal will set off his little jaunt: a metro ride and a stop at a shop to get the forbidden goodies: pack of chips and a pepsi! But before that he will seek his kitchen bhaiyas for his daily feshment and ensure that there is one extra share for his maam’ji. It could be a paratha or a banana but to me they are nothing short of manna’s dew as they are laced with a very special kind of love.
Back from his little time off, it is time to play in the open and see the new antics, hear the new repertoire of songs and bask in moments of pure delight. Utpal will then set off to his kitchen pals to ask when luch will be laid and we will share his lunch in the big dining hall after joining in in the prayer led by forbidding Anil Sir.
The Sunday meal is rice and beans and can beat many a gourmet meal as we sit amidst the din and share this rare moment with a child who defeated every odd to be sitting with children from the other side of the fence as one of them.
As the lunch ends with the throwing of plates – Utpal’s way of defining plates sent down a chute to the kitchen – silence descends upon Utpal and his family as soon it will time to say goodbye, a time we dread. Sometimes he lets us go as he walks away without a glace back, and sometimes he clings to us and lets out heart wrenching cries.
The ride back is always in silence as we try to reconnect with ourselves after a day drenched with hope and love.
In two weeks Utpal will be spending his holi break with his mom and sister and though it will be painful not to having at home, it will be a huge step in a journey i began many years back: trying to once again thread the beads of a little family that had scattered in more ways than one.
an ordinary day in ordinary India
A middle aged woman pushing her vegetable cart in the chilly evening rain set me thinking about the life of an ordinary citizen in India’s capital city.
The heap of vegetables still lying unsold on her cart was proof that it had not been a good day. I wondered why she and not a man was pushing the cart. A widow maybe, or a woman abandoned for another. Who knows? She must got up long before the sun rose and gone to the wholesale market in spite of the torrential rain. Then she must have carefully arranged all her different vegetables on her cart ready to walk her beat calling out people to buy her goods.
Her mind may have gone back to times gone by where no gates existed in residential colonies and no permission and ID were needed, a time where smart shops did not sell vegetables in neat packets glowing under an artificial green light, a time where the local pheri wallah was the obvious option was the only viable option for many a housewife. But those days were gone… yet she carried on.
Our city is filled with such people who set out every morning to sell a plethora of goods and depend on the day’s income to feed their waiting family. We have many such people in our area, some even parents of pwhy children. I have seen many mothers sitting at the doorstep and waiting for the bread earner to come back so that she can set about cooking the evening meal, mouthing a silent prayer that he has not stopped by the watering hole.
These are brave ordinary Indians who left their homes in the hope of finding a better life in the city, and in the hope of carving out a better life for their children. They are your vegetable and fruit vendors, your corner cobbler, your scooter repair man, your street food vendor.. They are the likes of Nanhe’s mom whose family grows hungry when she sits by the side of her child in the hospital.
They are ordinary Indians who have created an invisible support system that we have gotten used to and depend on without quite knowing it. Just like us they have families to feed, children to educate, lives to run. Still embedded in the Indianness they keep many of our traditions and rites alive, those we have forgotten and forsaken.
Yet they disturb and are often as they are considered ungainly and not in sync with modern India. They are held responsible for polluting the city as we forgot about them in our planning and they just had to place themselves somehow and anyhow. And yet they were never pushed away as politicians looked at them as votes and promptly gave them voters ID cards thus making them legit.
While law makes and executors are trying to fix things in time for the nest election, these ordinary Indians are busy surviving one day at a time, not aware of the Damocles’s sword that hangs on their heads.
a sponsored prayer
My daughter just called from Varanasi. She had gone there with some musician friends to spend Shivaratri. She is a person who spurns all rituals and is somewhat an agnostic. I had tried to share my experience of this holy city that I had visited many years back when I had fallen under its spell.
So imagine my dismay when she told me that the evening Arati on the banks of the Ganga was now sponsored by some five star hotel group and was a well orchestrated affair. In my now fading memory, the evening arati was a spontaneous affair where the dissonant chants of each priest lent a special flavour to the prayers. Every one lent their voices and hummed when words were forgotten. We each held on to our precious lamp waiting to let it sail on the water. The mood mas magic and spellbinding with each one lost in their own thoughts and prayers. Even when the arati ended it took some time before one reconnected and started moving again.
A sponsored prayer seemed anathema to me, robbing the sacred of its very essence. My mind went back to the recent hullabaloo about Valentine’s day. What would the protectors of our Indian identity say have to say about this.
I guess there are two ways in which we can look at such occurrences: one is that everything is acceptable as it brings extra income in a world that extols globalisation, the other is to try and draw some lines but then who bells the cat.
Perhaps there is a third one, and that is to go back to the very essence of our religion in its purest form and find the much needed sacredness within one’s self as in this world where money has assumed a hallowed place, everything is possible.
And maybe, next Valentine’s Day someone should wonder why it is Radha who sits in temples next to Krishna and not Rukmini his wedded spouse.
of identity and its loss
A recent post of mine which was a simple chapeau bas to true Indian led to a rabid diatribe on St V day and Indianess. The commentator says:.. this Indian identity includes, as an essential character, not celebrating a festival of the type that Valentines day really is.
I will not waste any one’s time in defending St V’s day but look at the deeper meaning of such a reaction which comes from an educated Indian. First of all I wonder whether an issue like V day deserves all the attention it gets, when there are so many ills that plague this country and need to be addressed by any self respecting Indian. To name just one we are a land where millions of children sleep hungry while thousands of others waste food.
It is sad to see that our politicians and law makers find time to waste their energy and time on such trivia where they could maybe for once forget their differences and address such basic issues like giving to every Indian child what was promised in our constitution.
Why can we not look at V day as one more day that will give the flower seller a few more rupees. And forget V day, over the years religious festivals too have been exploited – if that is the word one likes to chose – in a analogous manner. Many years ago rakhsa bhandhan or such festivals were celebrated without cards and fancy rakhis. I still remember when we use to make ours at home with a simple thread! Today everything is commercialised and there are even websites which allow you in-house pilgrimage and allow you to worship your God in the comfort of your home! So if there has to be a litany of protest let it be against everything that has been commercialised.
V day does not have to be simply viewed as a illicit boy-girl affair but can also be looked at as a day of acknowledging love in its wider form and that exactly what my post was about.
The Indians in India must retain their identity says the commentator and I agree. But our identity lies in celebrating our ability to accept and reach out, our ability to bridge the now frightening gap between the have and have nots, in our ability to celebrate tolerance and reach out to those in need.
Amit Bhaiyya did just that!
Creating roadmaps – manoj’s mom (2)
The editor of a famous women’s magazine shared a touching experience where her attempts to rescue a street child had failed for want of a proper road map. Ms Fernandes concludes her piece by an appeal to set such road maps. A hurt street child is taken to the hospital and treated but once healed there is nowhere for him to go, but back to the same street as there are no safe options.
There are no road maps in India as we have experienced over the years at pwhy be it with children, women, handicapped persons or the elderly. Each problem has to be taken as a challenge and a road map created.
When we came to know about manoj’s mom, we set out to look for a solution. manoj had been born at home. but one look at the mom’s face and we knew she needed proper medical attention. Strangely when you start looking for something in earnest, you find them. We discovered a maternity hospital run by the municipality that was a pleasant surprise. It was clean, efficient and above all practically free.
Manoj’s mom now has a road map for the next 4 months: iron shots for 10 days, and strips of vitamins and minerals. She will be checked regularly and will deliver in a safe environment. But that is not where the matter ended. we needed to find a healthier room with light and air to receive the baby when it arrives. I guess that by now we had caught the attention of the god of lesser beings as we found a room close to where some of our creche teachers stay. We knew she would be safe and that were her husband to beat her, many would come to her rescue, and when it was time for the baby to come, little manoj would be looked after.
In India we cannot wait for the powers that be to create road maps. We need to craft them ourselves.
Teach a child to dare ask his whys
Over the past seven years now one has been faced with innumerable questions that scream for answers. Questions about the abysmal state of environment awareness, about the total lack of information about policies and programmes, questions about how an ordinary ca citizen seek redressal.
Amidst the plethora of questions raised runs a common thread . There seems to be a total absence of responsibility as every one is looking at something or someone to bash, so if there is no water it is the fault of the government in power. What one forgets is that we are reponsible for electing them. We also forget that many of us still waste water. We also forget that the city is choking as wave after wave of migrants arrive each day.
But that is not all. Most of us, particularly our kind, find it infra dig to act: we often abstain from voting and are never ready to take the cudgels for any cause, leaving that to the other. This attitude being endemic what happens is that there is no one left to do the needful. A article on cleanliness that caught my eye recently explains this with conviction. The author seems to feel that if one targets children, maybe one can redress the situation.
Hence what is needed is to empower each and every child to dare ask his set of whys and assume responsibility for the wrongs. That is why we have decided to open a Right to Information desk at pwhy. We hope to be able to raise awareness about this incredible tool we possess and make each child aware of its potential.
A small step indeed, but one we hope will have a ripple effect so that one day humble citizens will shed their feudal attitudes and raise their voice.
Love is an endless mystery
Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it, says a quote. And yet everyone is talking about love today.
Markets are replete with hearts and flowers. Mobile networks are jammed as SMS’s are exchanged and love is in the air. The detractors are out too in the garb of religiosity having sadly forgotten that ours is the land where love has always been celebrated.
But love is not just a boy and girl affair as many may think. Love is the most beautiful gift man was given and is everywhere. I have found it in a child’s trusting eyes or a grubby hand proffering a half eaten sweetmeat. I have seen it in the eyes of a mother whose silent prayer has been answered, I have experienced it in the touch of the hand of a disabled child shunned by all.
Love is that fleeting moment when two spirits acknowledge each other is an invisible embrace, that unsaid work that remains stuck in the throat but reaches the eyes, that unshed tear that refuses to flow and moistens the eyes.
Love is everywhere, but needs you to look with your heart as it is often invisible to the eye.
the story of manoj’s mom
When manoj’s mom came to us a year back carrying her tiny awkward child, we knew she was a woman in need of help so not only did we take her son in our creche, but gave her a part time job at home.
Madhu is a tiny chit of a woman with a strong spirit and she quickly adapted to our ways. A hardworking woman she went about her work quietly. We were shocked beyond words when we realised a couple of days back that she was 7 months pregnant. She has hid the fact too scared that she might lose her job.
Madhu slowly shared her story, and told us about the drunk husband that beat her with obsessive regularity, about how he threatened to throw her out if she got rid of the unborn child. She spoke about the numerous days when they went without food as the husband flittered his money at the watering hole, she told us about the windowless and airless room they lived. She said it all without bitterness or anger but with the strange fatalism that is the rule with many a woman in India. No she had not chosen this man but had been married off by her parents at the tender age of 16.
Madhu is resigned to her fate as she knows that she has no option. In a few weeks she will have another child who will feed on her already emaciated body. Her husband will beat her some more and she will bear it all as she has no options.
Women like Madhu are examples of the plight of the girl child who is seen to be a burden from the time she lands on this planet and is got rid off as soon as possible. And yet there is a spirit that lives in her tiny body one that will never get the chance to manifest itself.
Like many women Madhu will survive, that is the best our world has to offer.
happy St V’s
Today being the much and over hyped St V’s day, I decided to give my acerbic pen a rest and write about love, albeit a different kind from the one flaunted at every corner!
This post is not about red roses and heart shaped cards, but about Amit Bhaiyya whose unwavering brand of love has infused many a moments at pwhy with a warm glow.
Amit is your regular boy next door, with an engineering degree and a smart job in a smart MNC. But that is where the comparison stops as Amit has something his peers do not normally have: a heart of gold!
He dropped by our forsaken planet about two years back quietly promising to help us. At that time we took his assurances with a pinch of salt as many had come , promised, and gone! But not Mr A. He slowly and unobtrusively crafted his space at project why and stayed on. What made him special was that he did it without the usual fanfare.
Today, two years down the line he teaches at our Okhla centre whenever he has time, has organised shows and even a fund raiser, and has given up many a Sundays to spend them with Utpal in his boarding school.
Just yesterday we needed blood for our little Nanhe and not knowing how to get it, we called dependable Mr A. Without much ado he took his lunchtime off and travelled in the rain to donate that unit of much needed blood.
His gentle smile and quiet ways has warmed the cockles of many a heart and to us he is precious. His brand of love is rare in today’s India as it transcends all social and other barriers so what better love than this to be celebrated on this day.
Happy St V’s!
who will take up the cudgels on their behalf
I had recently written about the professor Sabharwal case and the hostile witnesses. Actually it was just yesterday. I somehow knew that it would not be long before a campaign of sorts would be launched and civil society would be shaken for its slumber. Hence i was not surprised when on prime time TV a teaser was aired where Himanshu the son of the slain professor filled our space with the heart tugging words: I see my father die everyday.
The campaign was launched and it was now only a matter of time before justice would once again be restored.
My mind travelled back to a few months when the same channel had brought onto every home across the land the faces of 50 odd little girls who had suffered hell at the hands of a saintly abuser. That night civil society was outraged and many reacted, but somehow a gnawing feeling filled me as I saw how the local police stepped in ad protectors of the abuser and ensured that the case remain within their precinct. Then a few news items as the abuser appeared in court surrounded by his vociferous supporters, and then a deafening silence.
Months have passed and one wonders where the girls are? Months have passed and one wonders what has happened to the abuser? In spite of our efforts we were not able to break the silence. A small group was set up by some of us and we also made the news as bloggers for a cause. But at the end of the day we were left high and dry without any news of the outcome of the case.
If high profile cases get mishandled then the boggling of the ghaziabad ashram case is a sure reality. I remember the girls being petrified of the possible backlash if they dared speak out. Two of them had in fact escaped their tormentor and gone to the local cops. They were just bundled in a car and brought back to their hellhole.
True that they are under the care of the local administration, but in today’s India we all know for whom the bell tolls. These girls are somewhere alone and helpless. All those like us who made promised to them have failed them. They have no one to take up the cudgels on their behalf as they belong to the wrong side of India and unlike the Nithari kids they do not even have families. Some are mentally challenged, shildren of a lesser God who seems to have forsaken them.
I am at a loss and can only carry on writing about them in the hope tat someone will hear and reach out; I can only carry on writing about them so that they remain alive on some net page and not be forced into oblivion.
Let us not forget the indubitable fact that the abuser was carry on on his horrific game for over 30 years. Wonder where all the other girls are?
another tale of two Indias
Two young ladies age 6 and 11 visited project why last week. Their mom a high executive in the hospitality industry had brought them along as she felt it would be a good experience for them.
We went hopped from one part of pwhy to the other: from a building in a narrow lane, to a tiny shack in side a crowded slum, to the class in the garbage dump via the broken lohar camp to our smart computer centre.
The girls kept silent as they imbibed what they saw. As we bid good bye I could asked the younger one whether she would like to come and teach her peer group all the songs she learnt in her fancy school. her eyes lit up as she looked eagerly at her mom before nodding her head. Her elder sibling remained silent.
Later I asked my friend what the reactions of the girls had been and was not surprised when she told me that the little one was eager to come back while the older one had not said much barring the fact that it had made her sad.
Once again the two Indias were evident. The yet candid and unspoilt little one had immediately felt at ease and one with other kids her age as social and economic origins meant nothing to her, she was a child amongst other kids. The older one had more to deal with as she felt apart and different yet sensitive enough to feel sad!
Once again this vindicated my view of the necessity of a common school to bridge the now glaring gap between the two Indias.