reconnecting – a story in six pictures
It was a very special day, Utpal was to visit his mom. He got up early. wore his new sweater and shoes, and was all set to go. He has asked his best friend Kiran to accompany him.
His little head was filled with confused images. there was a time, only a few months ago when he and his mom and the man he called dad lived in a tiny room together. True that those days were sometimes not the best, but everything was bearable when one had a mom’s love, even if it was punctuated by drunken violence. Then one day, that little world came crashing. A long trip across town resulted in mom going to a rehab centre, and Utpal learning to live alone. he was just four!
His new world was filled with nice people, and pals and open spaces and song and laughter and though at first it was not easy, utpal the ultmate survivor set out to play his part with perfection. He made friends, walked into many hearts and stood first in his class. His mom fought her demons and in spite of all stuck to her programme.
Last month she was moved to a midway place where she was reunited with her daughter and ready to take te first haltinf steps into a new existence. Little four years old do not know how to express their inner most thoughts in words. If you want to know them you have to look with your heart.
I did not go with him, but six pictures said it all. We adults who have thought that a four and a half year old meeting his mother after some months would rush into her arms and smother her with kisses. Not quite. Utpal is not your regular four year old.
When his little world came to naught, it was Utpal who emerged as the man of the house. He let his mom go, not creating a scene and settled in his school knowing intuitively that this was the only way to heal his shattered family. But the long nights in a lonely place were not easy and even f he did not have the words it was time to show what he felt. As he entered the premises of karam marg he suddenly detached himself from the little group and walked on alone, like any little man would. And as his mom tried to hold him as if nothing ha happened, Utpal resented this attitude. What did not wash away the hurt s easily.
The silence was overflowing with emotions and unsaid words as he held on for a while, keeping at a distance, trying to make his mom understand. And then when he was ready, he walked towards her telling her that he cared and loved her but conveying at the same time that in this new journey they were beginning, he would show the was and set the boundaries.
They had reconnected but this was just the beginning…
in real danger
My mother died of cancer. Many do. The difference was that she stubbornly refused all form of treatment. She bore her excruciating pain with rare courage. Life had to be lived till the very last breath was her leitmotiv, and she did, remarkably alive as she quietly died.
She could have had the best treatment and at least the most sophisticated pain killers, but somehow she refused them all. For many years after her death I battled with ifs and buts and ceaseless torment. My demons were only set to rest when I met a leading oncologist who shared his view about terminal diseases with me.
Dr de Souza had been with Bombay’s leading cancer institute for many years and has held a unique discourse to many patients and their families who come remote parts of India. Strangely enough he has ofter sent them back, counselling them not to spent their meagre resources or sell their last possessions for a treatment that will never cure the disease. One must remember that the poor only come to such specialised institutes when the disease is too far gone. His advise is to take care of the living and their future rather than fight a lost battle. Instead of hospitals he set up hospices so that the terminally ill could be cared for, and the family find some support.
All this came back from some recess of my brain as I made sense of our poor little Nanhe’s mom was trying to convey. She had just been told that both Nanhe’s kidneys had packed up and that his only chance of survival was a kidney transplant. I wish he had just taken the Dr de Souza way and sent her home with the right advise, no matter how harsh and cruel it sounded as what awaited her was even worse.
The doctors who gave her this unreachable ray of hope knew Nanhe’s condition and what awaited him. They were aware of the fact that even if he got a kidney he would never walk, never comprehend the world and never be able to survive. One is not even thinking of the innumerable obstacles that exist on the way to an organ donation. To rid themselves of the constant nagging of a loving mother, they just told her to buy a kidney at the cost of Rs 100000. Maybe they thought she would be scared away by the astronomical figure, but they forgot they were dealing with a mother.
But we know we are.
But how does one tell a mother that there is nothing much that can be done for little Nanhe. How do we tell her that her son is slowly getting ready to move on to another and hopefully better world. How do we explain to her that what the doctors have said were empty words, and that for this one time ever a mother’s prayer will not be heard.
We have had many a difficult moments, bu this is one that defies them all as where does one find the words to say that Nanhe’s smile is today in real danger?
for a handful of spinach…
Have you ever wondered how much a handful of spinach costs? A few coins on a market place, a little more in a fancy store… and a few leaves picked up in a field would not be missed by its owner.
Not quite. In a remote village in the state of Bihar a little 10 year old girl lost three fingers as she dared to pick a few spinach leaves from a field. Before you express indignation let me simply add that the little Khushboo is a dalit and the owner belongs to a higher caste! And if that was not enough the girl and her father are too scared to open their mouths.
At times like these I am left speechless as nothing one can say can even begin to explain this horrific equation: a few leaves of spinach = three little fingers! I hang my head in shame as I try and look for the beginning of an answer that would explain this..
One has heard ad nauseum about the reservation issue that is threatening to destroy our social fabric. One is led to believe that the creamy layer of the so called lower castes will hog up all our place in the sun. But nothing can make up for the three tiny fingers cut off in a fit of rage for a few leaves that may have just wilted and rotten had they not been plucked.
Why did little Khushboo commit that offence? Was it to ensure that her family would not go hungry, was it because she could not bear to see her mom beaten by a defeated and helpless father, was it because it had been so long since she had tasted the freshness of a green vegetable. This is something no one will know as the little girl will keep her secret locked away inside her.
When someone decided to divide human beings into what is known as castes, I am sure that the reason was not to give one caste the licence to snip off fingers. So we before we battle about the right of one caste to accede to higher learning, maybe we would address the question of Khushboo’s finger and take on the responsibility of their loss. Khushboo’s fingers, Priyanka’s life are just two examples of the countless tragedies that some of our own suffer because they were born in the wrong caste.
It is not reservation or affirmative action that will right his wrong. Neither is it the few fleeting expression of indignation that cross our minds as we see or hear such stories. We need to go deep within ourselves and to see what made us lose our human compassion down the line, what hubristic demon took possession of us and made us lose all sense of reality. What gave us the right to treat another fellow being in such a barbaric manner.
Khushoo’s fingers will heal and her father may have to pay a few more rupees to find a man for this child. The perpetrator may or may not be caught. At best he will spend a few days in jail as all he took away were three little fingers. And all of us will move on with our lives till the next tale of horror jolts us back into momentary compassion.
a very special tree
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The world celebrated Xmas. In a tiny lane of an urban slum in Delhi a bunch of very special kids did too. Just like children all over the world they wanted a Xmas tree and nothing could stop them.
Nothing to write home about, some would say, but what if I told you that each and every child in this little group is different: some have remarkable minds locked away in useless bodies while others try to make sense of the world with limited means. Some are condemned to a world of silence while others live in immobility. Oops I forgot to tell you that all of them have never known the thrill of opening a present and have only survived on hand me downs!
But somehow the Xmas spirit is such that it breaks down all barriers so we were not surprised when we saw them storming to the terrace in search of a potted plant, any one would do. In the most remarkable example of cooperative effort and armed with bits of papers, cloth and heavens knows what else, they set out to create the most beautiful tree I have ever seen. True it broke all conventions, but while doing so it set its very own and these seemed closer to the Xmas spirit.
This tree was imbued with the purest form of joy, it was one that needed no borrowed trimming or expensive decoration, even a discarded old white sock looked pretty as it dangled in the blowing wind and as they proudly posed for the customary picture, the air was redolent with the abundance of giving that emanated from this humble tree.
I do not know whether anyone of them knew about Xmas and its significance, but somehow they had intuitively grasped its ever essence.
Isn’t that what xmas is all about!
a very special xmas gift
Xmas has always been a time of joy and giving, of cheer and even miracles. As you grow up you stop believing in Santa, but there is always the anticipation of finding out what the little packets around the tree contain.
My xmas gift came a day earlier and in the most unexpected way. I had gone to fetch Utpal from his boarding school and attend his PTA! His teacher handed me his result and as I read it I realised that this was undoubtedly the most beautiful Xmas present one could get.
57/60 were he marks he got and an appreciation that included the word ‘excellent’. To some, my reaction would seem silly as Utpal is only 4+, but those who know him and have followed the journey of his life, this piece of paper is much more.
What a story of survival it has been. Barely 9 months ago Utpal had lost everything that makes a child secure and safe to the demon of alcohol. He had no home, no mom, no extended family and no support. Previous to that fateful day in April 2006, he had survived third degree burns and lived a life where each evening meal and night’s sleep depended on whether his mom had tippled nor not. Strange visitors, descents by cops and drunken brawls were usual occurrences.
When we found a school that would take him, there was an initial resistance: Utpal did not fit any mold, did not have the appropriate labels and social origins. But a young director took on the challenge and we waited with bated breath.
Six months and two school terms later, Utpal showed us what survivors are made of: he has a great support network in school ranging from the gently forbidding gatekeeper, to the class XII students and includes the hostel staff, the kitchen staff and even the principal. He still had one more point to prove, the one that rebuffs all the divisive policies that are kept on the boiler by dubious agendas and bear names like reservations or affirmative action. In the right environment, and with a peer group that cut across social and economic backgrounds, little Utpal topped his class in an English medium boarding school.
I have always said that the answer to India’s is a common school where children of all origins would learn together and from each other. Then each child just like little Utpal, will have the ability to make his place in the sun. It is not by creating a parallel school system, or by handing out a few seats and a few grace marks to humbler children that we will solve the now suspect education for all dream.
Utpal was an ideal candidate for begging at a red light. Drunk parents, a nicely scalded body and yet and incredibly beautiful face, and endearing ways. A little help from Mr God , and lots of help from friends who held on to our dream with us, made it possible for little Utpal to vindicate project why.
As I hold his result sheet in my hand, I stand very tall and believe in miracles!
merry xmas to all!
tale of two Indias..
As winter sets in in India’s capital city, once again we get reminded of the existence of 2 Indias. While one is busy preparing for highly westernised festivities, the other is huddled around makeshift fires simply trying to survive.
This is India a land where extreme situations are now jaded realities. Today’s news bulletin was a stark reminder if that. While the first item was about 5 districts of Maharashtra a stone’s throw away from India’s buzzing commercial capital Mumbai, battling famine the other was about the latest fad in that very city: home delivered meals for our canine friends!
What was disturbing about the first item was that while the District Magistrate had declared a state of famine, higher authorities have simply deferred their decision till January 15th. I wish hey also had a recipe for deferring the pangs of hunger felt each day by any normal human being. This famine was caused by excessive rains that washed away and destroyed the paddy crop of the poor farmers of that region. The next crop is many moons away.
Our land has many ways of explaining such occurrences, the favourite being karma. Suffering is directly proportionate to the good deeds you have done in the past. However what about some investment in insuring your future? True that come winter we receive some phone calls offering blankets or warm clothes, but that is in no way sufficient. The problem is endemic and the solution need to be long term.
If the two Indias have to coexist that bridges of understanding need to be built. It is only if they both prosper that our land will be safe in the future. This is something we do not seem to understand as has been amply proved by the quasi total absence of funding from our own city. Maybe it is a way of blanking out reality, an attempt to wish something away by not acknowledging its existence.
Such an attitude is bound to have dramatic consequences. The recent sealing of shops has resulted in loss of employment and more is on the anvil. One must not forget that desperation and hunger can lead to extreme actions as one has seen with the swelling numbers of farmer’s suicide. It can also lean to crime in cities and threaten us all.
The writing is in on the wall, maybe it is time we took our blinkers off…
the cotton carder
I happened to be standing at the gate when the cotton carder went by. Hearing the high pitched sound of his carding bow was a Proustian experience as it brought back a flood of long-forgotten memories.
There was a time when you could plan your day with almost clockwork precision just by listening to he sounds of the passing hawkers. There use to be many in our street: the vegetable and fruit vendors, the cobbler, the kabariwalahs the best recycling man ever. There was the man repairing jewels, the one who sharpened your knives and even one to clean your ears. Not to forget the toy vendor, the ice cream seller and so many more, each with their own calls that brought the street alive. Some were perennial, others seasonal, but to many like us they became familiar faces that were part and parcel of our lives.
Today there but a few, particularly in up market areas where forbidding gates with placards barring entry to hawkers have sounded their death knell. And with it the end of many small jobs that fed families and many trades that will soon be forgotten, trades that often use to be passed on from father to son.
I recently spent time with a shopkeeper friend whose shop came under the sealing hammer and who will move on the a mall miles away. His shop sold a medley of items; a great place to buy that gift one often remembered at the last moment. Over the years one had established a relationship with him and his family, seen the son get married and witness the birth of the grand child. Many recipes, and pieces of advise were shared, not forgetting the cups of tea! As I left the shop, my precious packet tucked under m arm, I realised that it would people of my generation who would feel the loss the most. The shopkeeper will find a new life in his squeaky clean mall, and will soon have a new clientele; for him it is a matter of survival. But we, the middle-aged middle-class middle everything individual will find ourselves disorientated.
I do not see myself trudging to an impersonal mall miles away for that gift. An appropriate amount of money in an envelope would have to do.
A was filled with sadness as I saw that one more chapter of our lives was ending. We had no option but to adapt as best we could and we would ultimately. But as I looked at the face of the brave cotton carder, now aged and tired, hoping that someone would stop him, I imagined the numerous evenings when he would have returned empty handed and his family would have slept hungry. At his age he had no other option and had had to fight the advent of polyfill quilts alone and bravely.
In our rush to embrace modern ways, do we realise the price that needs to be paid.
a verdict of hope
The Jessica Lal verdict is out. It took a long time coming. Wonder why as she was shot in a place filed with Delhi’s own page 3.
For seven years we were almost mute witnesses to a mockery of justice where the entire system connived to save the killer who was a is said in today’s parlance well connected. Muscle and money power went to town and after six years or so those who had brutally ended a young life were set free for want of evidence!
Jessica was not a known person but she suddenly became the girl next door and somehow a city felt threatened. That is when civil society woke up from a long slumber to show its might. And it dis. Notwithstanding political connections or arm twisting of any kind, the existing machinery set out to redress a wrong and it did. Even the last ditch effort of a high profile lawyer who took the now jaded route of turning the victim into an accused failed miserably. The killer was found guilty. Jessica can now rest in peace.
This case has restored one’s faith in the judicial system but it has done more than that. It has shown that civil society is a force to reckon with. True that J’s case was a high profile one, that she had a spirited sister who refused to give up and give in. But this whole fight will come to naught if we as a society do not realise that our role goes beyond high profile cases. We today have the proof that we have the power to change things, to redress torts and thus to make a difference but with it comes to responsibility of reaching out to those who are invisible, and remain voiceless.
There are many unknown Jessicas who have been abused or killed. There are numerous families who hope for justice but do not know how to get it. There are many killers at large who are protected by the system. They need civil society to take on their cases and see that justice is done.
Let the Jessica Lal verdict be a verdict of hope, a verdict that makes us believe that things can change, one that rids us of our inertia and drives us to act. Then maybe the little Ghaziabad girls too will get justice they so deserve!
what makes news…
What makes news in our land? I wonder. or let me rephrase the question: what makes lasting news.. The reason I ask this is because for the past week I have been trying in vain to get an update on the plight of the Ghaziabad girls and their abuser!
Just two tiny weeks back every form of media was full of news about their rescue, their ordeal, their plight.. today I met with deafening silence.
A support group was set up by Kaveeta, and messages of support came from the world over. The same people want to know what has happened since, as by now the remand of the abuser is over. But the little voiceless girls are not news anymore and emails remain unanswered, Google searches throw up old news and as an ordinary citizen i do not know where to go.
In the recent past much has been said about the power of civil society to fight for causes, but then i am beginning to think that it has to be a cause célèbre, otherwise you just die trying. Now only if something out of the ordinary transpires will be hear about it.
But the one thing all those who wish the girls well want is to ensure that nothing out of sync ever touches their life again. They have suffered enough and need to be allowed to live the life of children their age.
Too many questions remain unanswered, but now that the drama is over, who will raise them. The battle is far from over. For many month I use to spend sleepless moments thinking of their plight within the walls of their prison and praying for their rescue. And what made it bearable was that I knew something was happening and that even if there were delays, hope lay somewhere at the end of a long road. Release came but the anticipated peace of mind did not ensue.
As days went by and news became scarce , a sense of foreboding filled me for many reasons. One did not know where the girls were and as winter set in one wondered whether they were warm, safe and secure. When they lived in the orphanage one had access and could see them and know what was happening. But today one is once again frightened for them as one knows that they are in the care of an administration that seemed to work for their abuser.
Once again there is a battle that has to be fought, though this one will be harder because the adversary is complex and powerful, but one has take it on and show that the power of civil society is a force to contend with even if the cause is not a cause célèbre.
never say die
Imagine my surprise when a mail dropped by this morning from another land asking me whether I would give a motivational talk to the staff of a big organisation. The reason stated for choosing me was my can-do-never-say-die spirit.
The idea was daunting, particularly for one who has never liked centre stage. In spite of what some may believe, my tryst with the media was short lived as I realised that for most of them, one was just a good story, and my illusion that it had a role to play in making a difference was just that: an illusion. I just carried on my work strong in the belief that there was a reason to it, and as long as the reason remained, solutions would come.
Project why has been a one day at a time saga, often making it difficult if not impossible to really define its ambit. True we are an education support organisation but we also.. and the list becomes endless, as one takes on every challenge that comes our way and find a way out.
I wonder whether this is what comes out as a can-do-never-say-die attitude.
When I look back on the seven years of pwhy I must say in hindsight that there are many times when normal circumstances would have made one give up, or say no, or look away, I just know that I could not have.
How do you turn away from the wondrous eyes filled with pain that look at you from a scalded one year old baby, how do you send away a limping brave but worn out father who desperately seeks your help to fix his son’s heart, or a mother who knows her child is dying?
Do you walk away when you know that your detractors want just that, knowing that in doing so you are trampling the dreams of so many children? Never mind the allegations, the broken tents, the bulldozed classrooms? Do you leave children to the jaws of predators lurking to suck them into their dark world just because of a threat? Do you give the complex administrative machinery the satisfaction of wearing you down to the point of saying, I am better off not doing anything.
It is not a never-say-die attitude. To me it is simply the only way worthy of anyone one with a modicum of a conscience. Anything else would have been not acceptable. So if I am to go and share the last seven years, it would be simply to say that sometimes it is not easy to be true to the little voice you hear inside you, one just has to and the doors open for you.
That is what the miracle call life is all about.
of quotas, castes and reservations
We just have completed a socio-economic survey of all the pwhy children. Among the questions asked were the place of origin, education of parents and caste. We wanted to validate what we knew intuitively: more than 80% of our kids belonged to some reserved category or the other and none of the families had any certificate proving the same nor any knowledge of the now (in)famous reservation policy.
I write this post on the day the day the OBC reservation bill will be tabled in its original form despite the recommendation of the committee on keeping out the creamy layer, or at least giving them preference. Needless to say that none of our children belong to any creamy layer!
Many questions come to mind, but the one thing that stands out is that these kids can never get to any of the reserved seats. There are many reasons for that. First and foremost the likelihood of their finishing school is bleak. Even if they do, they will never get the certificate required to prove their social origin as the administrative requirements are impossible to meet. To name just one: forms need to be attested by two class I gazetted officer. I wonder how my poor parents would find one let alone two!
But something even deeper came to light while the survey was being one. People were very reluctant to reveal their caste and almost ashamed. Many hide behind generics like chaudhury and others append a high caste to their trade so we had rajput nais (barbers).
We spent time telling them about reservations and other benefits and finally did manage to get the information. Needless to say they were all eager to know how they could get a certificate and more than willing to do so. Some even said that if what we said was true, then they needed to pay more attention to the education of their kids..
I had begun this post saying that the reservation bill would be tabled today. Imagine my surprise when I heard that it had already been passed. Gone were the dissenting voices, the left and right issues all political parties had united to protect their vote banks. Foolish me to have felt surprised, every one was acting their part. Never mind the violence that might ensue, the deepaks that will lie in hospital unattended as young Indians take to the street..
A few weeks back a TV channel had canned a programme where many pwhy parents were caught on camera expressing their total ignorance of reservation policies. Somehow the story was never aired.. In it I had said that no young Indian with a heart and conscience would grudge reservation if it went to poor and disadvantaged children. What they resented was when those having had the same if not a better education and life got seats on a preferred system.
I still stand by that. Sadly that is not to be as the creamy layer has been included. The only way to fight this is for civil society to take a pro-active role and start a movement whereby all those who fall into reserved categories get the required certificates as a right and not a favour, and that their children get quality education so that they can stand in line for the seats that have been kept for them. A kind of a jail bharo movement where the numbers are so staggering that the administration and law makers are forced to think of alternatives.
If the powers that be want to divide India, then before we unite it again, maybe division has to be taken to an absurd end so that law makers realise that it is in their own interest to see unite it again.
This may seem ludicrous today, but give it a thought, it is just a matter of bringing things full circle
sometimes you wonder why…
project why came into being to try and answer some of the innumerable whys that stare us in the face demanding answers. the answers however remain elusive and bring more questions and as you carry on you realise that apparently simple questions lead to deeper and more existential ones.
Little Deepak was no 8 in our open heart surgery saga. When he came to us we were already ‘old hands’ or so we wanted to believe. Raising the required funds was done in a jiffy and we even got a date for him, as by now we had established our own little network in the hospital. So all seemed to be on sched!
Not quite, the month was June 2006 and the place AIIMS. What should have been a hop. skip and jump race, turned out to be the longest obstacle race one has ever seen, and which even today is not over. Deepak is back in hospital with and overload of pleural fluid again.
Deepak’s battle has not just been a medical one. His tiny broken heart has been a witness to much what is wrong with our land: the reservation issue that has been unabashedly used to fulfill dark agendas, violent strikes that finally affect innocent beings, lack of adequate medical facilities that delay cases, abysmal urban habitat for the poor that make recovery difficult (deepak’s home is never kissed by sunlight), not to mention things like unemployment and lack of resources.
What Deepak had in abundance was love and care from his family and maybe that is what has seen him trough. Looking at this picture that was taken just a week back, you would not imagine his ordeal. But his battle is not over as even when this one is over, another one will begin: that of surviving in today’s India when the cards seem to be loaded against him in spite of his being protected by the same constitutional rights as any other child.
And so you find yourself staring at new whys, scary ones as you know there are no real answers, at least at this moment..
even she smiles..
I just got some pictures from katy who has been a regular visitor to the ghaziabad ashram for the past 4 months. Somehow she never gave up, even when others did..
I spent a long time looking a them and was moved to see how quickly and easily children forget the ugly things and seek the beautiful ones. Of all the children I saw in pictures, it is this young handicapped girl who touched me most, as it seemed she had evolved her own way of dealing with things by withdrawing into a chilling immobility. She sat in one place, her arms hugging her body, oblivious of what went around her.
So imagine my surprise when I saw her smile in the picture. Even she had dropped her defences for that tiny moment when someone cared to show her love and compassion. Children are amazing beings, particularly the handicapped ones. They carry no hate but are willing to forgive you and trust you.
Wonder whether we are worthy of that trust!
we need you
I have been perturbed about the future of the ghaziabad girls. Often when I am uneasy about something I sit quietly and let my thoughts wonder in an unbridled way. It fills the terrible emptiness that threatens to devour me, and often brings some solutions or at least some direction in which to proceed.
I can imagine the girls in their Mathura home, with no known face, huddled together in the cold wondering what will happen to them. They must have been subjected to humiliating medical examinations, incessant questioning by total strangers and much more. No matter how indulgent one is, any government run shelter in Uttar Pradesh must not be a great place.
The ghaziabad girls as they are known all have names. I know a few: Ila, Preeti, Meena, Rinki. Wonder who gave them those names. Maybe someone who loved them, as one girl did mention her mother living in a Delhi slum. They had been living in that house of horrors learning to survive, comforting and protecting each other as best they could. Now they face the unknown, even the threat of being separated. What an ordeal that must be.
The abuser is behind bars for just another 6 days. I wonder what the charge sheet will look like. He may just be able to walk free if one is not vigilant. Have the girls been able to tell their story, will they have to face theur abuser.
Wonder what one can do toe ensure that justice is done. When I first wrote about the plight of these girls, there were many reactions. As the story unfolded one could feel the palpable anger that it brought. Kaveeta wrote about it passionately and came up with the idea of concerting efforts in a wiki simply called we need you.
Yes, that is the bottom line: we need you, you here being every human being with a shred of decency, every person who claims caring for children, every one who believes in justice. In the recent past we have seen the power of civil society in many high profile cases. We need the same civil society to stand up for these girls who have no father, sister or peer group to help them, but just have you!
Please join our signature campaign
a return courtesy call
A few days back we had made some courtesy calls, to find out about the well being of some of our children.
This morning, little Deepak made his return courtesy call. It was a very special moment for all of us. He came in his grand mom’s arms but soon decide to show us all he could do with his brand new heart!
He pranced around, giggled and even marked his territory. Our thoughts went back to the days where we could see his tiny chest heaving as every breath he took was a almost Herculean effort.
As I watched him I wondered what would become of him in the years to come. I really cannot imagine as in spite of all odds a host of possibilities await him.
I can however visualise what would have happened if his surgery had not been done. He would have lived a few short years, heaving and panting till his tiny broken heart would have given up.
It took very little to make the difference, just a few caring hearts.
To all those of you who have helped us repair broken hearts a big thank you.
one week .. and too many questions
One week ago we were celebrating the rescue of the girls after a 24 hours vigil! Most of us would have liked them to come to Nirmal Chayya Delhi as initially planned. But, in spite of the presence of two autonomous central bodies. National Commission for Women, and the central reserve Police Force, reality struck: we were in Uttar Pradesh, a state known for all the wrong reasons.
One week ago people across India were watching the story unfold on TV and voicing their horror. It took the Supreme Court of India’s intervention to see that the girls were rescued and the abuser arrested.
A hearing was held on the 5th but the medical reports and the NHRC account was not ready. Slowly the media moved on to other things and the little girls once again became invisible. The nest hearing was for today. I searched desperately for some news but in vain. At 5 pm I called Anchal and was told that the hearing was again postponed.
We are all too aware of the ways our legal system functions but how can one not be disturbed by numerous questions that remain unsanswered. One cannot but remember the fact that for over 20 hours the girls and their abuser remained sequestered together, and wonder whether they were threatened.
The Supreme Court granted them security but one to be supervised by the administrator of a UP town; will the medical officer give a honest report. That the girls were ill treated dirty and lived in squalor was there for all to see. But what about the sexual abuse. This is no a rape case and remembering the contempt with which the swami dismissed the girls as being of bad character may lead to him being able to get away. He can simply say that they were abused by someone else!One of the persons who has visited the ashram every week shared another chilling fact; She was shown a register with 80 odd names. In her opinion there were about 60 odd girls when she first went, only 43 were rescued. Where are the missing girls.
We have launched a signature campaign mainly aimed at creating a support group and giving a voice to these girls.
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nursery blues– yes to interaction; no to interview
I have watched with despair the comings and goings of the new admission policy for nursery classes in public schools for quite some time. Had it not concerned children, I would have been amused.
We are once again faced with the normal beating around the bush attitude that we seem to have perfected to a T in India. Many of us have known the woes of getting children admitted in schools. The scurrying around to different parts of the city clutching forms and dragging a bewildered if not traumatized kid. This after having subjected your darling to distressing sessions of one of the numerous teaching shops that have mushroomed.
So when a petition was made to the High Court about setting a child friendly admission process we were all relieved. But the feeling was short lived as the point system proposed seemed far from clear and open to many interpretations. The one that caught my attention was the fact that interaction with parents was allowed but not interviews. I wonder who will decide if the lines have been crossed. I cannot see desperate parents getting drawn into a semantic or linguistic battle!
One of the parameters stood out: proximity to the school. In it I could almost sense an imperceptible step towards the common school, something I have always held as a solution to many of the problems that plague us.
Nursery admissions in the capital’s municipal school is still fairly easy. here the problem lies in convincing the parents. A quick perusal of any part of our city shows that it is dotted with government run schools – notwithstanding the state they are in – and all have ample land around them.
Children should be able walk to their school. Imagine if that were true: no buses or rushing RTVs, no long hours spent commuting…
What a dream
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yesterday’s news, tomorrow’s fear
In recent days we have witnessed many convictions of high profile people. yesterday the Supreme Court passed a landmark judgment stating that no permission is needed to prosecute public servants charged with corruption case.
Most of the aforementioned cases have come to close because of public outcry. And with new tools such as the Right to Information Act, we are inching towards a day where corruption will be hopefully contained.
Tomorrow the Supreme Court will hear the cases of the 40 odd little girls who were rescued their tormentor barely a week ago. A week has gone by and they are yesterday’s news, the media has moved on. These girls do not have mothers, or friends, or fathers to fight for them and get the justice. Their abuser does have supporters or a least the money require to hire some!
Yet these almost invisible souls need a voice and only we can give them one. Some may say that they are many more such cases and maybe they are right, but that does not give us the right to hide behind indifference. If the medical reports tomorrow do not mention sexual abuse, then the case is almost lost.
This case is not just about these girls, the very ones that their abuser dismissed with contempt, but it is to seek justice for all those girls who were in that ashram before them and seem to have gone missing, and for all the girls who are being abused.
Rescuing the girls was just the beginning of a long journey. On the one hand these little girls have to be rehabilitated and knowing the realities of many of the state and government run centres, one has to think beyond that. Remember there are young girls, small ones and challenged ones, each having specific needs. They all carry deep scars, that need to be healed with love and care. On the other hand the abuser needs to be nailed. let us not forget that no matter what transpires, one cannot forget the abysmal conditions they lived in.
We need to do whatever we can. Please joing our signature campaign and add your voice to ours
We hope and pray that justice will be done.
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courtesy calls pwhy style
In times when nets and cell phone proliferate, making courtesy calls is almost an aberration. There was a time when paying a call was the only way to get the news you sought. Oddly, in some cases it remains at times the only way at our disposal.
Three calls needed to be made: one to enquire about a lost smile, the other to our cerulean boy, and the third to a mother who needed to be admonished.
So we set off in the watery sun of a winter morning. The first stop was at Nanhe’s in search of the elusive smile. We found him a tad better, but no sign of the smile. His body was less swollen though the pain was still visible on his face. On checking the hospital papers we were horrified to se that his weight was a mere 15 kilos, a stark reminder of the fact that he had barely eaten for the last two weeks. His brave mom filled the silence by telling us that the doctor had asked her to come by this afternoon to get a date for the operation. We realised that what was comingin the way of the surgery was the poor condition he was in.
A few mental notes were made by all of us: get some liquid food supplements, provide transport for the hospital visits, get his teachers to come by and sit with him. None of us spoke as we left him. We had not found the smile.
The nest stop was to see deepak who we were told had come home. As news of our arrival traveled fast, we were met by Deepak himself in the arms of his much relieved grandma. We were happy to see him as gone was the blue hue that had worried us so much. He was as pink as can be and gratified us with a huge smile. The only reminder of his 7 months ordeal was a scar that began almost at the base of his throat.
Next we had to meet sapna and monty’s mom, as the two kids had plaid truant for far too long. We found her sitting at her tea shop. She was looking weary and dragging her feet and told us that she had not been able to get them ready in time. We did chide her and extracted a promise that she would make the effort, but in our hearts we knew her problem. Sorry for being graphic but this poor woman has lived for over two years with a prolapsed uterus. When we had tried to get her operated it was discovered that she had a heart condition and needed a valve replacement. That had been done but somehow the uterus had been forgotten.
We told her to get to the hospital and fix her surgery and that we would help in whatever way we could remembering that the last time the operation had not been done because she had no one to donate blood.
The calls were over.. we returned back in silence
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bags of hope
You may wonder why this silly pictures of plastic bags. Actually they are not just plastic bags. They are bags full of hope.
As I write this post they sit patiently under my ironing table, in the very corridor where one little bundle of joy ran blissfully pretending to be Krish just a few weeks away, charging themselves with the good energies that surround them.
In them is what is needed to begin a new life on a winter day: warm bedding, toiletries etc. In a short time they will bundled into a car and taken across the city to fetch their owner, the brave mother of a spirited child. For the past 8 months that woman has waged a lonely battle against the bottle and today she comes out of the rehab centre a little frightened but determined to begin a new life.
The bags will then travel to another part of the city and even cross a border to land in a happy place where hope abounds. waiting for her there is Durga born of a loveless union , who finally found a safe place. Mother and daughter will be reunited and will rediscover each other and make up for lost time.
In a few days a little man will join his two ladies and finally the little family will be reunited. he never gave up on them, even when all else did
As I watch these bags sitting patiently under the ungainly table, I wonder what would have happened if I had not held on to hope.
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