Once you chose hope..
Once you choose hope, anything’s possible said Christopher Reeve and he knew what it meant.
In the past few days many have written about the plight of the ghaziabad orphans. Most have expressed anger, outrage and their desire to help the girls and see the abuser punished. Some have expressed their helplessness and hopelessness. This post is for these very people.
When project why began I chose hope. And it has not let me down though sometimes it is a long time coming. It is hope that saw many broken heart repaired, it is hope guided us through our worst moments when all seemed lost, it is hope that led me to act when I first came to know about the girls despite the fact that many had failed.
Tomorrow another story of hope crosses an important milestone. Utpal’s mom comes out of rehab and goes to very place where her daughter is now, a lovely NGO where she can learn many skills and prepare for her new life. And that is not all in a couple of weeks little Utpal will hoin them and the little family will be reunited.
All this because when I first saw Utpal at a time when everyone and everything had given up on him, I saw hope in his beautiful eyes, a hope I held on to..
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whose life is it anyway
Nanhe has lost his smile, pain was too big an adversary. It is heart rendering to see him moan in pain. He is not eating and can barely sit up. He barley connects as he is on heavy medication. His body is swelling because of his tired and stone ridden kidneys.
His mother is running from pillar to post but the doctors keep on postponing the date for his surgery. We try and do our best but somehow it seems that his spirit is giving up the battle.
One does not have to be a medico to see that his body is wearing down and that his multiple ailments are getting the better of him. But how can one tell a mother that. Even a tired, poor, single mom does wants her child to live, even if he is broken one. She wants to do everything possible to save his life.
The doctors on the other hand see this little angel has a gone case, not worth fighting for. And the game continues: the mother relentlessly makes the now almost daily trip to the hospital carrying her hurting child , and the doctors prescribe a few palliatives, write a few test and send them away.
I have been watching this for some time not quite knowing how to break the circle. On the one hand all those who love him and I am one of those, want him to live as long a possible. On the other hand one can also understand the doctors of the government hospitals.. and above all one’s heart cannot but go out to a mother who cannot give up..
A little life is at stake, but whose life is it anyway
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just what we feared
When we first heard of the ghaziabad ashram, it was at a gathering where the ashram was presented as a humanitarian project needing help. two visits were made by us on the pretext of cleaning, but in the hope of getting some of the girls to vindicate what I intuitively felt when I saw some pictures being projected on a bare wall at the aforesaid meet.
I knew that something was terribly wrong but also realised that we were faced by a sinister enemy. That is when we decided to seek the help of the media.
The rest is public knowledge now but I was still disturbed by the let us call it ‘foreign’ connection. As I set out to browse the net for some added information I came upon this page. At best it is a source of foreign funds for the baba and thus makes us wonder whether he has the required clearances, and at worst it is something more alarming as browsing the site is rather disquieting and makes us wonder if there is another side to the story. Look at the titles of their meets and you come upon themes like sexual magic, and journeys to the core of sensuality!
As I said this is the worst case scenario, maybe the trust lies somewhere in between. However what is important is that the unholy holy man is not set free and that we get at the bottom of the story. recent reports show that the man has garnered support and even threatening calls are being made to those who have offered to help the girls.
As many have said, there must be more such instances. We need to act in keep the pressure on. The man and his acolytes have to be booked.
To those of you who still have doubts, the ashram was worst than a concentration camp. The children lived in pure hell. If you still have doubts look at this picture:
this young mentally challenged girl was caught on camera on three different days weeks apart! She just sat in one place, amidst filth, as if time did not exist, locked in frozen immobility, maybe her way of protecting herself!
What we need to understand is that these are vulnerable and wounded kids whose testimony may still change because of fright and fear. Our role is to ensure that this do not happen!
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morning has broken
Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the world
Had I written this post yesterday, it would have been filled with anger, dejection and ire. It would have turned out to be a litany of vociferation against everyone and everything and would have missed the miracle that unfolded before our eyes. The rants and raves against a system we actually are responsible for creating, would have obliterated the real story.
Yesterday 45 little girls finally had god answer their desperate prayers. Just take a moment to imagine what a child feels when its body and should is violated, when those one trusts become monsters. Think about the long days and longer nights spent in filth, cold and hunger. Envision looking at a sky that seems unreachable and try to conjure the words sent in prayer to a god that seems as remote as that piece of sky.
And think about the night that comes after the illusion of freedom as you pack your tiny belongings, in some case just a tiny handkerchief and realise that once again freedom has eluded you.
Then when all hopes seems lost forever, when the terror of what will befall you when all the people have gone and you are left to face your tormentor, a lady arrives and tells you that all is well and it is time to leave the hell hole.
That is the miracle that needs to be celebrated, a miracle that has no place for recriminations and blame, a miracle made possible by the will an indomitable spirit of a young reporter named Anchal.
here are a few images of the house of horrors. they were sneaked out during the two initial visits made by pwhy!
| www.ashram
|
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Night
Night was the title that Elie Wiesel chose for his account of the horrors of a concentration camp. No adjectives, no nuances, nothing, just one word night to qualify the horrors.
The little children of swami ashram spent one such night, if not worse, as there was not the night of incarceration but the one that should have spelt freedom. As I watched the pictures of these little girls clutching their tiny belongings, hope and fear written of their faces, not comprehending why in spite of the men in uniform, the kind lady, their reporter Didi of 10 days, and many others they were still there.. and as time went by they realised the unbelievable: they had to spend one more night with their tormentor.
The cold night inched away as bureaucrats of all hues raise even more absurd issues. The elusive DM was found and stated that he would act after getting the results of an enquiry commission that would start the next morn! never mind if the NCW had already decreed that the girls needed to be saved. The tormentor – a swami – sat in his office with a smug expression calling his contacts. It was the begining of a sordid game. The victims one again victimised.
When I had first heard of this ashram I knew the adversary was formidable, but I could not have imagined in my worst nightmare that the girls would not be rescued. The worst case scenario for me was that the swami would go free.
But even now the girls are in their hell hole. The story is on national TV. Viewers normally do come forward and I hope they will once again. Children need to be protected and need sensitive laws to handle them. The kids did not do anything that would warrant the abuse they have suffered.
I knew this was a to be a long battle… I will just end this with a quote by Elie Wiesel: “…to remain silent and indifferent is the greatest sin of all...”
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Outraged and dejected
Some of you may remember my post about the little house of horrors, and the plight of orphan girls locked up in pure hell. I had ended the post with the words: we need to act.
Some of you may have wondered why the ensuing silence and even thought that we had forgotten about the little girls. No way. From the time we knew about their plight we sprung into action. But we knew we had a formidable and dangerous adversary and we also knew about the state of things in our land. After much thought I asked a dear friend for help. She is with NDTV and I knew that only the media could help.
Young Anchal went undercover and brought back a chilling story but we had all decided that this would be aired only after the safety of the girls was assured. It is a sad reality that the Minister in question did not act or help, even after seeing the footage. Finally the NCW intervened and a raid was organised today as the story went on air.
You would all think that once the raid was done with the proper permissions the girls would finally be out of that hell hole, but as I write these words they are still there huddled in a corner while the state and central police fight it out, and the DM has gone missing. NDTV reporters are there, and NGOs workers are there but some administrative hassles and battles continue. The network has asked for public blankets and food as they envisage a long night..
I am outraged as I cannot understand why the girls cannot be taken out and brought to safety. The story has gone on air, the little voices shared their horrific experiences in barely audible and pathetic words. The lawyer interviewed cited a litany of sections of the law that the owner of the place has infringed, and yet the little victims are still in that netherworld. What is wrong with us, with our administration, with our politicians.. with each one of us
It will wil be a long night….
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In the name of a father
Yesterday was my father’s 14th death anniversary.. It almost slipped my mind. Strange as there was a time when I almost lived for that day.. planning all kind of commemorative mush: flowers, rituals etc..
Wonder why the change: simply because of project why!
Mourning and grieving are luxuries you can pursue when you have time on your hand. But when your days are filled with positive endeavours, pain and memories recede and lose their angst. Yet if pwhy exists today it is because of the very man I once mourned with destructive passion so I guess he deserves to be remembered.
So what do you tell a man whose dying words to his fried were: do not lose faith in India!
When I look back on the 7 years of pwhy’s existence I see a lot of change and the micro level but the larger reality stills looks absurdly the same and are tiny achievements pale in front of the larger issues that glare at us from every direction.
Two roads again gape at me from the corner; the first is to continue the way we have gone and the other to start addressing larger issues. It is true that we could not have envisaged the later without having experienced the When we began our work, we were convinced that anyone doing such laudable things as us would have everyone accept if not help us. How naive we were. We soon learnt that doing good is the one thing that is anathema to many. If you dare touch the existing social equations you go against the agendas of many.
We have learnt and are still learning this the hard way as at every step we take, there are obstacles we need to overcome. What seemed positive when we began – children not dropping out for instance – today looks a bit jaded as you wonder what good will it do them in this cut throat society of ours. We have come to realise that education mans more than text book knowledge.
A recent survey done by a leading magazine showed that what ailed the education system was that it failed to teach children how to apply their knowledge to every day reality. If we are to be agent of changes, then children need to be taught how their rights and duties. they need to be made good and responsible citizens. Easily said than done when even poor and illiterate parents jump down our throats each and every time we try to do something that does not look like studies to them: environment programmes or any creative activity.
Our society is plagued by so many problems that it would need many miracles to start addressing them, but it needs to be done and maybe that is the personal pledge I need to take today in lieu of all the rituals and flowers
So be it!
Wish I had a dream catcher
Good dreams slip through the hole, and bad dreams get caught in the web.. says an old Chippewa tradition… whereas the Lakota tribe believes that good thoughts get retains in the web while bad ones slip through the hole… which ever way I wish I had a dream catcher today..
One that would ensure that Nanhe continues to smile, .. one that would protect all the tiny tomorrows that we hold in our hands today..
My first blog about Nanhe was entitled when today is over, as I feared for his life from the very instant I saw him smile as his smile was one to die for.
True that Nanhe was a child without tomorrows but we still invested in his smile wanting to give him all we could and make his stay with us as happy as possible. And frankly many a time, he showed us the way as our problems paled in front of his. And soon we were all addicted to his huge smile that lit even the darkest moment. There were many a stay in hospital, many nights of excruciating pain, seizures and incontinence but he never stopped smiling. And last week I was thrilled to see that Nanhe had taken on the role of a mentor to little Himanshu.
That night I even dared dream about many tomorrows for Nanhe. But that was not to be. The next day I learnt that he was back in hospital and this time things were not quite right. His BP shot up, his seizures multiplied and the pain was agonising.
Nanhe is back home, still in pain and it seems that the men in white have given up. Today there was no smile..
At moments like these I feel helpless and hopeless. True that we knew that one day his frail body would give up and so would the smile. I do not know what to say to his brave mother who refuses to give up and looks at us with desperate eyes for some reassurance.
Yes I wish I had a dream catcher…
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how long does it take to become jaded
A few days back little Deepak went back home after his heart surgery and tomorrow little Anil goes for his. Statistically speaking they are no 8 and 9 in pwhy’s heart repair shop!
It was just over three years ago that we answered a desperate plea from a great father . Raju was operated upon and the matter could have ended there. But not with Sitaram who decided to help others. That is how from 1 heart surgery we have reached 9.
But this is not the reason for this post. What prompted me to write it is something quite different. As I sat writing an update on Deepak a few days back, I realised how easy it is to become inured to things, no matter how extraordinary they are. During operation no 1 I remember writing regular updates,almost giving a blow by blow account of the surgery and how numerous were the answers either seeking more information or just sending support.
Three years and 8 surgeries down the line, the situation is different: the updates were answered with an almost deafening silence. I sat and pondered for a long time about the possible reasons. Had the situation changed in anyway. Difficult to say as I am sure that the pain and anguish of Raju’s mother was in no way greater than that of Deepak’s or Anil’s. What could be different was the fact that to many this was something we had done earlier and almost become masters at . Once again we were in that space that frightens me: the comfort zone.
No matter how dramatic the event, it does not take log for it to become jaded. We are always on the look out for something new to admire, support, criticise and reach out to. Yet there are things that need our continuous support as no matter what way you look at them, they are still extraordinary.
remake the world
Too many people are suffering
Too many people are sad
Too little people got everything
While too many people got nothing
We wile remake the world
With love and happiness
Remake the world
People, put your conscience to the test
Jimmy Cliff
Is this what these two little lads are singing. Maybe. Yet there is something wrong in this picture. Abhishek and Utpal should not be sitting together. If we had played by the rules, then one of them should have been far away in a dingy slum with his alky mom.
Yet today they sit side by side dreaming huge dreams in a world where everything is possible as no labels have been stuck to their heads yet.
Yes Sir, we are in India, in the one we all know, the one torn by caste, creed and shady agendas that hijack children’s hopes and aspirations.
Wonder where: in a little school tucked away on the fringe of the city, where the sun shines, and winds blow, where buffalos roam, and fields are green. Here children of all origins come together and discover each other. They learn, eat, play and sleep together and dream of remaking this world, their way.
When time is ripe for learning about labels, and differences, it will too late, or so I dare hope.
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the art of learning
These little children sit on a wind swept terrace, on top of a tiny jhuggi overlooking a sea of slum dwellings in India’s capital city. A few days back they use to spend their times, roaming filthy lanes. Copy or slate in hand they wait for today’s lesson. A palpable energy pervades the little rooftop. A quick roll call proves that caste or creed is no bar here, the common denominator is learning!
Now what they will learn depends on the two teachers one a tribal the other a Muslim, an unlikely combination brought together by pwhy! They are willing to imbibe whatever they are taught.
A recent survey in a leading magazine proved that education in India, even if it is imparted in the best school, is way below international standards. What is excels in is learning by rote. Where it fails is in making connections. Hence though a child knows the composition of water, he/she is unable to give the composition of steam as he/she fails to make the link between the two. And the list is endless..
Today education is a number game with percentages rising to unbelievable heights and children cramming knowledge without often comprehending it let alone seeing its relevance in everyday life. I remember taking a class in the early days of pwhy where I asked class VII and VII children to identify one area where percentages played an important role. the lessons was about fractions. needless to say no one came with any answer and they were all surprised when I told them about sales whereby reduction were offered in percentages: 50% off, 20% saving etc.
I have always held that the Delors (UNESCO) four pillars of educations are essential to any sound education programme . They are:
Learning to know: Thinking abilities: such as problem-solving, critical thinking, decision-making, understanding consequences
Learning to be: Personal abilities: such as managing stress and feelings, self-awareness, self-confidence
Learning to live together: Social abilities: such as communication, negotiation, assertiveness, teamwork, empathy
Learning to do: Manual skills: practicing know-how required for work and tasks
Knowledge is useless unless the student has the ability to apply it to everyday situations. That is where our system fails us.
Unlike upmarket children, slum kids tend to start schooling at a much later stage. And unlike their rich counterparts, their living skills are tested at a very early stage. Tiny kids cross busy roads to shop for their mothers, or learn to fight for their rights when they are barely toddlers. I was surprised to see how a young five year old who had never learn arithmetic could account for the money given by his mother. I have seen little girls intuitively knowing what to do to soothe their howling sibling.
These children who by force majeure have to begin life using the 4 pillars we mention, quickly forget them as the enter the gates of a school. There the only thing they are judged is their ability to regurgitate the lesson.
Education is above all the ability to assimilate, analyze and then use the knowledge acquired and a self-respecting system should teach just that.
I will end this post by sharing a personal experience. When I sat for my French baccalaureate the history syllabus was the history from of the world from 1914 to present days. The final exam was summed up in one question: Had the allies lost the war, what in your opinion would have been the present economic scenario? (the year in question was 1967). Even if you had mugged up the entire book you would not have been able to answer the question if you did not have the ability to apply what you had learnt to a given reality. There was no right or wrong answer; you were judged by your ability to defend your opinion.
Therein lies the difference.
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pencil box to simply jometry
Where did I buy my last jometry quipped little Kiran.
For a few moments I was perplexed then it dawned on me: she was referring to a pencil box a.k.a. geometry box. I am sure many remember the rather ungainly tin box that we carried to school many years back and that included all geometry implements and pencils and rubbers.
Somewhere the word box got dropped and the tin box acquired many an avatar, but to school children from the other side of the divide the name jometry remained.
Jometry today for most slum kids is the word to define all shades and hues of the precious pencil box they carry to school.
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I sat on the edge of my bed and cried
Every morning before I set out for the day, I watch the news on TV. A old habit become more relevant since pwhy began as one has to be anchored in the reality that surrounds us.
One is prepared for news about violence and bombs. one is even resigned to the fact that a large chunk of the bulletin will be hogged by sports and bollywood. One even braces one’s self for some item on child abuse…
I switched on the idiot box expecting to see yesterday’s Baghdad blast and was in no way prepared for what was about to hit me. The lead news today was about three little girls age 6. 7 and 11 who were rescued from an upmarket home after 3 years of torture and abuse. They were domestic workers..
As one of the girls relived the belts and sticks, the chili in her eyes, and the camera zoomed on her scalded badly healed hands, I was unable to stop the tears that ran down my cheeks. Soon I found myself weeping uncontrollably: they were tears of anger, of rage, of extreme sadness, of helplessness, of shame..
The ordeal of the little girls did not stop there. Yes we have a child labour law, yes we have a juvenile justice act, we boast of child protection legalese, and are signatories to the UN convention for Children’s Rights but once rescued by an NGO the little girls spent 5 days in the cop station. The state of H does not have a juvenile home, the district magistrate – a woman – refused to comment, the law did not allow them to come to neighbouring Delhi. The perpetrators however were released on bail.
The disturbing image of the little girl with scalded hands refused to go away. 2 and half years of torment , that meant she was just 5 when the descent to hell began. And the tormentors,they lives in a city not a barren island, did no one see their plight or did everyone turn their face away as usual. And how could people treat children this way. Why did these tiny children have to work. Why are the laws made for children so full of gaping holes. How can we hope for redemption when we are not able to protect our children. Who gives us the right to shatter children’s dreams. The little scalded hands were not meant to scrub, and clean but to play with a doll, be held and caressed.
Questions that need answers but who will answer them..
God of Lesser beings are you listening
children will be children
I had to share this picture with you! This is a Kodak moment of the afternoon session of our bran new Govindpuri primary extension. the room we have is so tiny that it is only sufficient to lock up the meagre resources we have. Classes are held on the roof as the weather is clement these days.
Just two weeks back this centre did not exist, and most of these kids wandered on the streets. Today its is cracking at the seams and filled with laughter, joy and above all hope.
As soon as we were spotted by one of the kids, there was a scramble down the stairs to open the door and usher us into this new world. The children almost fell over each other as they ran down the tiny stairs and greeted us.
These children are just like yours and mine: eager, mischievous and eager to imbibe whatever we can teach them, still hungry for more. Their guileless trust makes us painfully aware of the responsibility that rests on our shoulders, as somehow we have become the ones who may just fulfil their wildest dreams.
But can we?
welcome back our world !
Deepak has a brand new heart or rather has got his broken heart fixed. A huge T shaped scars is ample proof of that.
We first met Deepak almost 5 months ago when he was 8 months old. He needed heart surgery but his family did not have the required money. We raised it with the help of some kind hearts and believed that in a matter of days or at most weeks all would be well.
But that was not to be. What should have a simple walk to the OT turned out to be an obstacle race in today’s India. Deepak first encountered the hydra headed monster called reservation. any a times we was turned away from the portals of the most prestigious hospital in our country.
His tired body gave up once and his heart even stopped beating but his will to live was formidable. He came back to life again but the battle was not over, a huge abdominal abscess delayed the procedure again.
Last week D day finally dawned and his surgery was performed with success and soon he will be back to his little home and ready to start a new life.
I wonder what life has in store for him? His family is poor and illiterate. His father barely earns enough to keep the family going and his mom and granny stay at home. The one huge asset they have is a bond of love and are a close knit family.
We will slowly tiptoe out of his life, and then Deepak will be on his own. For a long time I wondered about his future as I more than anyone else know how much we have let our children down, particularly those who live on the other side of the impregnable yet invisible fence.
Deepak will soon find out that life is not fair, that the images he will see on TV – the family has one of course – are not meant for him. As he grows and starts going to school – the municipal one for sure – and may not become a drop out statistic if he is still around and come to pwhy. On the way he will see many ugly realities: reservation, caste division, child labour, unemployment and more. The god who heard his mom’s prayer and gave him this new hart will have to work overtime to protect and guide him at every step of life.
When I watch the news I am horrified to see that with obsessive regularity every day, some news we are ‘treated’ to some news item that confirms that life is not alright for our children. Yesterday we heard about the young slum kid who won a national yoga competition but found no one to sponsor his trip to the international meet in Italy.
Laws that protect children are broken with rare impunity, tender bodies are raped, used and abused. And we just emit of few chuckles of sympathy and carry on with our lives.
But each image robs me a few minutes of my sleep each night and urges me to do something more. I feel ashamed at my inability to reach out and help.
How can I say welcome back to our world Deepak..
That is all it takes!
We have a new primary extension in the back and beyond of the Govindpuri slums!
Sophiya and Israel were given the task of finding space and kids! Many may wonder why the need to add on a new primary centre. Once again it is all about comfort zones!
One could feel content with the 3 centres we had, they are running well and meet the numbers needed to satisfy those who help us and even get some kudos here and there. However in doing so, one negates the very principle and ethos of pwhy. One cannot forget that the mainstay of pwhy is to get communities to take on the responsibility of educating their children and to prove that not much is needed to do so. How can one forget the mind boggling figures that stare at us and mock us in this 60th year of independant India: 100 000 kids between 7 and 13 do not go to school , 76% SC students drop out of school… and many of those who make it, get paltry results.
Hence we decided to reach out to more children as the others seem to have settled.
S and I set out two weeks back to survey the vicinity of gali no 13 and to find space that would not be too costly. A tiny room was found and after a quick survey, classes began. In a matter of days the room was filled and the class moved on the terrace which could accommodate more children. Today, there are over 40 kids and many in the Q. A new centre was born @ the cost of 1000 rs/month, as the teachers were already part of the project!
A visit yesterday showed us beaming kids and proud teachers and proved once again that we were on the right path.
orange juice revisited
I have always held that the poor emulate the rich! This is apparent in more ways than one: urban slums weddings for instance now look like upmarket ones: food stalls, decorative thrones, DJs and smoky dance floors.
This is also apparent in the proliferation of cell phones, bikes, VCD players et al!
Yesterday I saw something that made me smile. Our local juice vendor was rushing with a bunch of plastic bags filled with orange juice, and dropping them to different jhuggis. Actually each jhuggi had a sick person in it.
Yes health consciousness has also hit the slums.
I did not even dare think about the quality of the plastic or the origin of the water used to dilute the juice…
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how many deaths..
Seeing the aftermath of the Bhandara tragedy cannot but bring to mind what bob Dylan wrote more than 40 years ago
Yes, ‘n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
I will not write about the horror of that night, the shattered dreams of a brilliant girl, the agony of the surviving victim. I will not delve on the pitched battles that are played over and over again when the brutality of the police beatings which reminds us of the British raj, neither will I wonder why such a horrific incident had no witnesses.
I will just ask why in a land that has been freed for over 60 years justice does not come to victims that are children of a lesser God, I will just ask why factions cannot unite in the wake of such human tragedy, I will just ask why protesting in a democracy leads to brutal beatings, I will just ask why people are not allowed to dream big!
Delhi just witnessed the abduction of a rich child and the media bltz that ensued. I wonder wether it would have been the same if the child was poor? And yet the agony of a mother is the same be she rich or poor.
So many questions and no one to answer them
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Locked in silence
Sometimes you wonder why children are made to suffer! I wrote about Himanshu locked in his world and who had found a pal in Nanhe.
Well someone got jealous or cast a spell and the next day nanhe found suffered acute renal colic and had an epileptic fit that send him to hospital and Himanshu found himself without his new friend.
Himanshu’s story is what horror films are made of: his mother committed suicide by hanging herself, probably because of domestic violence. His maternal grandparents then asked the father to come to the village proposing that he marry the dead wife’s sister. the father thought it would be a doable option for his two children as Himanshu has a younger sister.
In the village, in some remote part of Bihar, what awaited him was a family seeking revenge. The man was shot by the brothers and the whole deed made to look like another suicide.
Today the children are being looked after my the dead father’s sister who has chosen no to marry in order to bring up these two children.
I wonder what Himanshu saw that made him the way he is, locked up in a strange world of his own, trying to deal with something he cannot understand.
In the face of such tragedy I remain speechless.
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an unsung mother courage
I have always loved the Greek word ‘hubris’. The dictionary gives many meanings to it: from arrogance, to pride to cockiness.
According to me there is only one being who has the right to be hubristic and that is God him/herself, in whatever shade or colour you may want. Only God can turn desperation into hope.
Many of you may have forgotten J a.k.a Mr P’s mom. There are many who may have written her off as a gone case alky, a bad mother, a woman of lose morals and many more such explicatives.
I have always held that God makes mistakes and then sets on to paint very large and sometimes incomprehensible pictures aimed at setting them right. J is one such case. Her lonely battle to turn the leaf began on a terrible night when little Utpal fell into his boiling pot and we landed in his life. A series of occurrences followed as time was not ripe. Many drunken brawls had to be endured and the abandoned daughter had to make her journey back!
Then on a fateful day in April things hit rock bottom and made us take a tough decision: we had to separate mother and son, Utpal went to boarding school and J into rehab. It was not easy for this woman who was a free spirit. But she held on the nine long months needed to heal.
Next week J will be taking her first hesitant steps towards a new life as she goes to work in a institution where her daughter is waiting. It is time for this mother to make up for lost time with a daughter she has walked away from to live her own private hell. And during the Xmas holidays Utpal will join his little family for a few days.There are still many battles to be won, many pitfalls to avoid but somehow I feel that they will be. It is just a matter of time!
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