I saw a pair of big black boots coming towards me, this guy was probably hunting for students hiding beneath the benches. I folded my tie and pushed it into my mouth so that I wouldn’t scream. The man with big boots kept on looking for students and pumping bullets into their bodies. I lay as still as I could and closed my eyes, waiting to get shot again. My body was shivering. I saw death so close and I will never forget the black boots approaching me — I felt as though it was death that was approaching me. The blood curdling and chilling words are those of a child who survived the barbaric attack yesterday in Peshawar. He took two bullets and though he will live on, life will never be the same. His soul has been trampled by those black boots. But he was lucky to be alive. Death approached him indeed but changed her course. But that was not to be for 143 others. This could be their story:

It was a morning just like any other. The young boy must have gotten up early, or perhaps he was a little late and had to hurry to get ready for school. He grabbed his bag and stuffed the lunch box so lovingly prepared by his mother. As he left home, he heard his mother bidding him good bye but he answered hurriedly  as his bus was coming. Little did his mother know that she would never hear his voice again.

School began as usual. In between two periods he took a bite of the lunch his mom had given him as he had not had time to have his breakfast. It lay on the table untouched. This would be the last meal his mother made for him. And the hurried bite he had surreptitiously swallowed would be his last meal. The fourth period began. Then suddenly gunmen burst into the room, their black boots stomping the ground and the teacher screamed to the children to hide, but it was too late. Bullets riddled the young body and he fell without a sound.

Nine pairs of black boots destroyed the childhood of over a thousand children and snuffed out the life of 143 children with their bullets. This was done in cold blood. Children were lined up and shot in their heads, some were shot as they hid under desks or watched helplessly as their friends and teachers were killed.

This is no horror movie. This happened.

So what will we do? Express our outrage. Hold vigils. Write blogs. And though it is being said ad nauseum that the perpetrators are not humans, the sad reality is that they are. They were born just like any other human being. So what went wrong? How did they turn into the monsters one is making them out to be? What made them don the black boots of death that fateful morning and execute the mission they were entrusted with? In what and whose name did they commit this crime? Which God, if God it is, allows such reprehensible acts? Why do children pay for the perceived sins of adults?

True we are outraged at this moment, but how long will our rage last? When will this aberration become fodder for political ends? And what do you do. The nine pins of the bowling game have fallen. How long will it take for nine or nine hundred more to rise. Will the death of these 132 tiny and blameless souls bring anyone to their senses.

Without being cynical, the answer is no.

The death of children are too soon forgotten.

In a small town in India, a seven year old boy died. He was brutally beaten by his school teacher for not doing his homework and not paying his fees. Who will pay for this death.

There is no footprint too small to leave an imprint on this world says an anonymous quote. Today over 100 children were killed in a dastardly attack on a school in Peshawar. The terrorist group responsible for the attack said it was in  retaliation for the army’s continuing operation against militants. The operation was even lauded as a success. I am stunned beyond words. What can one say in front of such horror. What kind of being can shoot a child in cold blood without flinching. And what does one call such a being. How have we allowed our world to come to this. What is the use of all our education and so called progress if a we are unable to keep a child safe. How does one pay for such a deed.

The death of a child is the death of God as it is in the eyes of a child that God abides. Have we become a civilisation that has perfected the art of killing God day in and day out, without remorse.

These tiny souls that have flown today leave an imprint in each of our hearts, if hearts we still have. How will we react. By more killing or will we have the courage to look into our frozen souls and break the deafening silence.

Only time will tell.

Will those who have died today, and their comrades who die every day because of our failing ever forgive us.

No footprint is too small to leave an imprint on this world and in our hearts. Let us remember that and let our collective conscience mourn the departed children.

This world is not a place for children; neither it is a place for God.

You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed wrote St Exupery in the Little Prince. This is an indubitable truth. Just like St Exupery, a little prince landed in my life about 12 years ago. he did not fall from the sky. He walked into my heart after a terrible accident and filled a space I never knew existed. I christened him Popples and he made me his Maam’ji! Thus began a love story that is still enfolding. Like all love stories it has had its share of laughter and tears. As we both grew, we faced new and unpredictable challenges but as in all love stories we had no option but to weather each storm. I must admit that the scales were tipped in the little man’s favour and the old biddy had to adapt and conjure miracles at the drop of a hat.

I had done all my growing up by the time he came into my life and he still had all his to do. The bonny baby became a toddler, then a child and now is in the throes of adolescence. Like all children it is a surprise package you cannot begin to fathom and you have to come up with answers and solutions on the spot knowing that what you do or say may have lifelong repercussions.  In the case of this boy, the answers are not easy as his life has not followed the tranquil course one would want every child’s life to follow, but has been and is replete with challenges that test every fibre of your being. There are the formulated questions that are easy, but there are those who remain unsaid and compel you to read between the lines. There are the challenging behaviours that are cries for help and need to be understood and addressed. It is no easy task and yet you know you have to meet them head on because on one fateful morning you dared look deep into trusting eyes and held out your hand. Once you take that step, it is irreversible till does you part.

You are responsible forever!

For the last few years I go back to school twice a year and have worked byway up from class I to VII! Wonder why and how? Simply courtesy Popples’s homework. It is uncanny how much home work children in India get. The whole meaning of holidays needs to be revised altogether. No wonder why a new business has seen the light of day as you now can outsource your kid’s homework. But that is not the way we do things Popples and I. Quite frankly much as I look forward to him being home, I dread the homework like you would the plague. He hates homework and I hate the monster I turn into to get the work completed.

As soon as I collect him from school and we enter the house, my first task is to fish out the homework sheets and gather the courage to look at them. The truth is soon revealed: charts and models, the dreaded pages of writing – this time cursive – essays and paragraphs and even stories to be written, project files on many subjects to be made and more of the same. Stationery lists are made and will be bought today itself and the battle will begin. The biggest challenge is to tame the child and make a timetable that I know will not be followed easily as all the lad has to do is look at me with his melting eyes and plead for relief. And come on, these are holidays and on holidays you sleep in, you play, you have fun. How does one make a child take pleasure in sums and equations and learning lessons. But I cannot change the system.

I need to muster all the patience I can and find ways to get the darned homework done. Wish me luck!

On the very day the Nobel laureates were receiving their award and addressing the world, I had my own moment! The venue was a palace hall replete with the pomp and splendour associated with such places. My audience was a group of CEOs of the French tourism industry. My mission was to bring to life the dreams of the project why children and make those present not only believe in them but reach out and help them come true. A tall order it was! How do you give life to the aspirations and hopes of slum children standing in a space that is so alien to the reality they belong to. Most of the persons in that hall had never been to India and the little they had seen was touristic spots, luxury hotels on the one hand and annoying beggars on the other: the antipodes that India is far too often known by best exemplified by the jaded image of maharajas and snake charmers! I can never forget how angry I was when a classmate of mine refused to believe that Indians lived in houses; she thought we all lived in trees! This must have been way back in the late fifties. I had requested my nana to send me a picture of our home to prove that we too lived in houses.

So here I was, in this magnificent hall that was once used by a maharaja to hear petitions from his people, having less than an hour to get this people to cross the line, albeit virtually, and  be touched by the vibrant and real India far too often concealed and misunderstood. I decided to share my own story of discovery and how I one day had crossed the invisible barriers and fallen in love with a part of my land I barely knew existed. I talked about my tryst with destiny that had changed my life forever. But that was just the tip of the iceberg as what I had to do was also share the problems and challenges that these souls faced everyday and how we could overcome them with a little help from friends like them.

It was a stroke of serendipity that the Nobel prize was to be conferred on the same day and that the invisible ones were centre stage. I pegged my discourse on this and could talk of children and education with ease. I spoke from the heart urging all present to hear from their heart what they could not see, hoping that my words would evoke the images in their true colours. I shared stories of success as well as stories that captured the harsh reality that such children lived in but that could be easily resolved if one wanted to.

It was much later in the day that I heard the speech of one of the Nobel laureates and was amazed to how akin our thoughts were. I guess that anyone who has had the courage to look deeply into the eyes of a hurting child is compelled to react in the same manner. Kailash Satyarthi recalled the words of a little girl he had saved from bonded labour and who asked him why he had not come earlier. Earlier that day I too had reminisced about the young man who was the local goon of the area we worked in and had apparently threaten to ‘kill’ me. When I met him, I did not see a thug, but a young boy with gentle eyes who assured me that no one would touch our school as long as he was around, a promise he has kept till date, and then who asked me in the quietest of words: I wish you were there when I was growing up. I too see God everyday in the eyes of every child of mine.

I know I poured my heart out in that glitzy hall. I was the voice of all my children and of all their dreams and aspirations. I simply hope that at least one person in that gathering was able to open the eyes of his or her heart. 

Godmen are in the news for all the wrong reasons like the one whose followers pitched an armed battle against the state, or the other one who has been frozen for the past 11 months as his followers await his resuscitation. I do not know what adjectives to use to describe these absurd oddities, but nevertheless they feed on the ignorance and credulity of innocent people who get swayed by their absurd discourse. Never have Marx’s words been more appropriate: religion is indeed the opium of the masses! Well with Godmen being in the news, I have been asked about my opinion on these deviant beings. Here is my take.

First of all, I absolutely and unequivocally condemn such individuals. Let that be understood. Nevertheless one has to be admit that they exist and hold power on millions of followers and thus are agents of change and transformation, albeit of the wrong kind.

Hinduism was first and foremost an oral religious tradition where the sacred texts were cryptic and meant to be the learnt by a few chosen ones. It was left to to them to fulfil the mission of spreading the word. They were given the responsibility of adapting the essence of the precepts to the time and audience. This made the religion dynamic and open to change. At some point however, the texts were written down and the religion slowly turned static. It lost its vigour and adaptability and was only interpreted to suit vested interests. Had it remained oral, things may have looked very different.

The power of Godmen and their ilk is humongous. Sadly these supposedly religious creatures use their power to fulfil their greed in every which way. From amassing obscene wealth to satisfying their base instincts, they do it all.

With the power they yield, these characters could be true agents of social changes but they do just the opposite! One never hears them condemning social evils like child marriage, child sexual abuse, female feoticide and infanticide, bride burning, honour killing and such evils. Imagine the difference they could make if they did!

Whenever I have been on the verge of giving up, and God knows I have more than one would imagine only I keep these moments of weakened to myself, the God of Lesser a Beings, that I strongly believe should now be rechristened God of Project Why, sends me an unexpected miracle to bring me back on track. Today it came in the shape of a Facebook picture I was tagged in. It came all the way from a place I did not even know existed Lliria. It is a small town in Spain, close to Valencia and with a name as lyrical as this no wonder it is the musical capital of the region. It also has a large number of immigrants, many from the UK.

That I guess explains the presence of Spainsburys, a British supermarket stacked with all the goodies you can imagine. more so as Xmas is around the corner. You must be wondering what the link of Lliria and Spainsbury and Project Why is. Till this morning I did not know of the existence of either! So imagine my surprise when I opened my Facebook page and saw a picture that warmed the cockles of my heart and took my breath away.

The heading looked all too familiar as it was the homepage of our old website but the content was different. Hold on. What its said was that Spainsburys was organising a raffle for the benefit of Project Why and the draw was rot be held on December 17th! You could win Xmas Goodies, wine, chocolates and much more. Imagine how humbled I feel. In a little town thousands of miles away people are thinking of our children and reaching out to them. And not just humbled but grateful and loved. Tomorrow we will talk about Lliria with our children and tell them of all the wonderful people who will be sharing their Xmas joy with all of us.

This is nothing short of a Xmas miracle and I feel blessed.

Thank you to all who made this possible.

Love you and Merry Xmas

First picture with Papa Prague 1952

I just realised this morning, whilst rummaging for pictures to put in this post, that the first picture with my father and the last one were both taken in Prague the city where I saw the light of day. Strange that the last picture with him was taken more than three years prior to his demise, but that was before the days of digital photography and smart phones and taking a picture was a pother for two souls who preferred anonymity. In hindsight though, it seems that the Fates were conspiring to ensure that both these snapshots were taken in the place of my birth. Blessed I guess.

It has been 22 years since he left me on a cold Sunday morning, shattered and alone wondering who would knock at the door I just banged. The truth is I never banged a door since. In that instant the child in me died and a lost and shaky woman was born. She would have to pick up the pieces of her past life and build something that he could be proud of. No mean task. More so when you have no one to show you the way and catch you when your steps falter. How much easier it would be to slink into a hole and shut the world around and I did for far too long! But on a hot summer day in the year 2000 another lost soul would show me the way. I wonder if Papa had anything to do with this life changing encounter.

Last picture with papa Prague 1988

One may wonder how an ungainly beggar can thaw a frozen heart specially in a land where beggars abound and we master the art of making them invisible. But Manu did. Was it his heart rendering cries or was it the fact that he always was there no matter what time of day I passed by, almost as if he knew of my coming and waited with aching patience for the moment when I would finally look at him with my heart. Or was he simply taming me, just like the Little Prince tamed the Fox! I do not know. All I know is that one day I did open the eyes of my heart, eyes I had closed shut on that fateful morning 22 years ago to the day when the one who taught me to see everything with my heart left me forlorn and heartbroken. You could not see with a broken heart. Only Manu would be able to mend that heart and teach it to see again.

And he did. He did in a way that would make up for all those years when I barely existed frozen heart and eyes shut tight. I set out to help Manu, something I first believed would be an easy task: a few phone calls an adequate purse! But that was not to be, as helping Manu would entail setting up project why. I did it with my heart and soul as it meant redeeming myself in Papa’s eyes and accounting for the years I had lived forsaking what he taught me. Today I can say that I think I am on the way to redemption.

I learnt many lessons at papa’s knee; the essence of them all would be that in everything thing you do in life, you must retain the ability to see with your heart. And true to his wisdom, I keep him safe in my heart!

Welcome to our brand new website. I just uploaded it! It took umpteen hours, breaking back aches, gazing cross eyed at the screen for hours, looking for errors over and over again, making sure there were no broken links till the one moment when you say: enough and upload the files. I know there are many issues but I beg your indulgence and promise to set them right after giving eyes and back a few house break.

This is I think the fourth or fifth edition of our site, and this time I got a little help with the design and the technicalities but all in all the content and feel is mine.

I wanted the site to be a mirror to project why and impart its spirit and essence. It had to reflect the fourteen years we have been in existence and share our journey.

When I think project why I smile! And that is what I hope the new site will urge you to. In spite of all obstacles and challenges, we have always smiled and sought joy in everything we do.

While designing the site, I realised that project why is replete with stories of hope and fortitude that need to be told. This was the needed push to get me to continue writing the project why story that I had begun some time back but somewhat set aside. I intend resuming writing it instantly.

Enjoy our new site!

Two wonderful souls decided to celebrate their 60th birthday by bringing smiles to less privileged children thousands miles away. In the country where these children live, another birthday is being celebrated. It is the 75th birthday of a politician. He decided to celebrate his birthday by riding a buggy imported from the land the two souls belong to. I wonder if the two birthday wishes crossed in the sky! But that is not all. The man will also cut a 75 feet long cake. Hubris! What else. There seems to be an abundance of it in our land. I wonder what was the need of importing a buggy all the way from England. And if the buggy, why not the horses, or are local horses good enough. Where will the hubris end.

I often wonder whether politicians and their acolytes are of a different mettle as they seem to have the capacity to be totally oblivious and impervious to everything that happens around them. I guess their eyes cannot see the pain in that of another. They cannot hear the deafening cries of the hungry child or the bereaved mother. They cannot feel the anguish of the very people who put them where they are and believed in the promises they made to get their vote. They seem to suffer from post election amnesia that lasts five year when once again promises are resuscitated for a short spell. You have to cultivate a hell of a toughened skin to be able to ride in a buggy and be blind to what lies around you. Or is power such an intoxicant that it makes you forget the very reason of your being.

Those in power should hang their head in shame as long as there is one beggar child in their fiefdom or as long as one person has to go to sleep hungry. How can anyone think of a 75 feet cake when 5000 children die everyday of malnutrition. A 75th birthday should be a day where you take stock of years gone by and pray for enough time to set things right. But who does that. Certainly not your politician. They seem to live in an impervious rosy bubble where you behave live the proverbial Queen of Hearts and  spout your share of ”off with their heads”!

Politicians more than anyone else should have the ability to see with their hearts. But I guess that happens in only in Wonderland!

What do you normally do for your birthday? Have a party, treat yourself to a day at the spa or to a dinner in a costly restaurant. And if it is a special birthday like you 50th or 60th then you mate go overboard, particularly in India. But when you are a person who see with his or her heart then you do something quite different. This morning when I opened my mailbox a very special mail awaited me. It simply said:  Andy and I are on the brink of our 60th birthdays, Andy next week and me the week after. We thought about what would make us happy on these BIG birthdays, and the nicest thing we could think of was contributing to the smiles at Project Why, so via Jenny you’ll be receiving an extra 120 GBP, a pound for each year of our lovely, happy lives.

You may wonder who Andy and Irene are? Two lovely beings who came to project why on the first day of 2008 and spent the day rebuilding the Okhla Centre floor with the help of the children and the staff. Though we met ever so briefly, I think we walked into each others heart as Irene and Andy have been a huge support particularly when things were hard and I needed a pat on my back. Irene never misses a blog and often leaves a note that warms my heart.

For the past years they have been staunch supporter of project why.They have run marathons and organised garage sales and never forgotten to share what they have with the children of project why.

Andy and Irene are the kind of souls that make the world a better place and help us carry on our work with a smile. God bless them!

Happy birthday!

This is the state of one of the numerous toilet block built over the years in our capital city. I have very graphic pictures that I chose not to use as they are revolting to say the least. The reason I write this blog is subsequent to yet another speech of our Prime Minister where he urged NRIs ( non resident Indians) to build loos in their place of origin. He has also exhorted big business to make loos their CSR mantra. Whereas I am all for loos, I cannot but shudder at the thought of what they may all become if the programme does not have an in built sustainability component, in other words adequate funds to pay staff, buy cleaning material, maintain the building on a regular basis and that ad infinitum. Hence the loos should be able to ‘raise’ funds in some way of the other.

A few months back an NRI had shown interest in building toilets and asked my humble opinion. That is when my staff and I went on a loo visit in the slums were we work and this had been an eye opener. I had shared my views about the matter in this blog. What we found out was that most of the toilet blocks we visited were in a sorry state not because of the fault in design or even quality but because no one had given adequate thought to how they would be maintained. The poop story needs to be heard.

It is no wonder that the maintenance is so poor. We met the man in ‘charge’. A tired looking thin man who seemed to carry the burden of the world on his frail shoulders. In seems that the blocks are built on a supposedly and ludicrous sustainable model as the in charge only gets to keep the money collected from usage 1 to 2 rupees. In that he has not only to feed hid family but keep the loos clean. He is given nothing: no broom, no pail, no disinfectant, no floor cleaner, no soap- nothing! Normally it is a jet of water, if water there is, that is meant to do the job. No only that, not all people pay. Some get so violent that the poor man has been beaten more than once. A woman goon even slaps him every night as he refused to pay her a 20 rs a day commission. On a good day he makes 150 rupees. Such a model is doomed to fail.

My fear is having loos doting the country that will find the same outcome. I do hope that someone will think about this before it is too late a nd millions and millions of rupees have gone to waste.

What we need is not only to build loos but raise awareness about the dangers of open defecation and above all have communities take ownership of the toilets that are built. Unless we do that, the loo sag may well become a tragedy.

Angels exist. Believe me! In times of despair, they have descended upon us without fail. They are not the winged creatures that fairy tales are made of. They look just like you or me. We had one descend on us yesterday to save the dreams and morrows of our little ones and ensure that they remain safe. Every morning, 35 children from the most deprived homes wait for our three wheeler to arrive and ferry them to project why. They remain there till 4 pm when they are ferried back to their homes. For a few hours they regain their right to be children. They laugh, sing, learn, play. They do what children are meant to do. Sometimes they even to to a park or for an outing as they did some time back when another Angel dropped by and took the out for a treat.

In the time they spend with us in our creche, sometimes 2 to 3 years, they prepare for school and learn their alphabet, their numbers, their rhymes and songs. They learn to hold a pencil, to sit a a desk and to share with others. It is always a delight to stop by and spend some time with them. It lifts you out of the darkest mood without fail.

A few months back we are informed that a large chunk of our monthly donation would be cut, force majeure of course, and we were at our wits end to figure out how we would carry on. As always, it is the weakest who faces the axe, and it was decided that, if the need arose, then we would have to close the creche. Post that decision, I found myself avoiding the creche as I could not face the little eyes that always look at me with the deepest trust.

So I did what I do best and what has always worked. I took to my pen (or rather my keyboard) and poured my heart out. I also turned to the God of Lesser beings, begging for a miracle. The days passed. Then one fine day Angel no 1 appeared and told me that things would work out. She set to task and ferreted Angel no 2 who came with his invisible magic wand and showered invisible dust. My babies were safe.

I think I need to tell you what the plight of children like these is. They come from extremely poor families, often of migrant labour where the father earns a daily wage and the mother struggles to survive. Sometimes she would turn to brewing hooch to bring a little relief tot her loved ones. The father is often a drunk and thus the situation is precarious not to mention the violence that accompanies the bottle. The house, if one can call it that, is actually a damp hole often surrounded by factories that spew smoke and vile discharges that flow in the drain next to the house. The home is so small that children are pushed out and condemned to play in the filthy and insalubrious surroundings, or the busy road where car and track  fumes abound. Far too often the drains are blocked and what goes for a playground is covered in drain water. Yet children play there all the time. Is this what India’s capital city has on offer for its tiniest inhabitants?

I sometimes or rather too often wish that I had sufficient resources to reach out to every child in need, but alas even protecting my 35 is sometimes a challenge.

Today is children’s day. Maybe we should remember the children who have been let down by all of us.

Once again my super girls have done me proud. I just got a call informing me that Babli, Meher and Manisha, the three project why girls who study in boarding school had got prizes for their academic performance. They were felicitated at their Annual day which is still underway and where all three are performing. My thoughts go back to the day when I decided to send them to boarding school in spite of all the criticism, mostly from the rich and privileged who could not accept the fact that children from the most deprived homes should be given such an opportunity. But I stood my ground and sent them anyway. Some of you may know their stories but for those who do not I think they should be revealed again.

Babli came to us way many years ago. The child could barely breathe as she had a hole in her hearts and her family was too poor to come up with the money needed for her surgery. In spite of her poor medical condition, Babli was a spirited child with big dreams: she wanted to be a policewoman. We raised the money for her surgery and she was back on her feet. She came back to project why for some time and then stopped coming. To our horror we discovered that she was managing her father’s cart while he played cards. It was time to take out the big guns and we did. When the opportunity arose and with the help of some kind hearted supporters we were able to send her to boarding school. She has never looked back and is now in class VII. I know her future is bright and she will fulfil her dreams.

When we first saw Meher, she was rummaging for food in a garbage dump. She had been severely burnt she she was a few months old and was  badly scarred. But more than that her fingers had fused and she had lost the use of her hands. Thanks to the determination of a volunteer who moved heaven and earth, funds were raised for a series of reconstructive surgery that gave her back the use of her hands and took care of the worst scars. But what she needed to break the cycle of poverty in which she was born was an education and she was admitted to the same boarding school. A true imp, she excels in all activities and is set to conquer many heights.

Manisha comes from an extremely poor family. Her mother is a rag picker and her father barely works. A bright child she was doomed to a life of poverty and would have most probably been condemned to child labour. Today she is studying hard to be able to change her destiny.

To all my detractors I would like to say that every child deserves a bright future and the fact that they are denied this, is because we have forsaken them.

I have never regretted sending these girls to the best school and they never stop doing me proud.

Well done little ones. I love you.

I rarely visit swanky buildings that house corporate offices but yesterday I needed to meet someone whose office is located in one such building. The building bears the lofty name of International Trade Tower and is located near my home. I had gone with Rani and as we alighted from the scooter, our eyes fell on a pile of rubbish. Now rubbish, dirt, filth and all the synonyms possible are the flavour of the day post our new PM’s Clean India Mission. We at project why have been thinking about how to approach the issue and many debates have ensued. My take is that what is important is not to rush with a broom and ‘sweep’ the surroundings but look at the problem differently. It is quite useless to clean areas if one does not go to the root cause: where does the filth originate from. I have asked my staff to take this up with the students beginning with a simple exercise. Each child should be asked to make a list of the rubbish he/she sees on the way home and identify its origin. It is obvious that 99% of the garbage comes from us in the form of wrappers of all kinds and things that we simply throw without a thought. To Clean India one has to find ways of education and sensitising people into not throwing, spitting etc. How does one do that is a million dollar question. I think, like was suggested by a participant in a recent debate that one should get schools involved and work ones way up.

But let us come back to the building. After our meeting Rani and I decided to walk down the six flight of stairs as I do not like elevators and as we walked down we find these two cups of unfinished tea on two steps with of course no one in sight. Proves my point does it not? We have got used to chucking our garbage just anywhere. No one is in the habit of looking for dustbins or garbage cans.

Where does it all stem from? It is anyone guess. Is it because of the ingrained division of labour that  makes us believe that someone else will come and clean after us and makes cleaning below ones station in life unless you are born in the cleaning clan? Is it because many of us, particularly boys that have grown into men have never done an iota of house work always having mom or sis to clean up after them? Funnily the person who litters with alacrity and impunity in India will never do so in another country. Is it because laws are stringent in those lands. Maybe we should have a law like in Singapore where you are fined 1000$ the first time, 5000 the next and the third time have to wear a lovely sign, which states, “I am a litter lout”. Will the name and shame work in India? I do not know but I know that laws do not work. We have had a law banning plastic bags for years now with no avail. Seems like laws are on paper or better than that: you can always pay your way out. Even laws for your own safety like wearing a helmet are violated. Maybe we just do not like laws.

I could not end this post without talking of yesterday’s gem. As Clean India is the flavour of the day everyone is cleaning but some do it with for photo ops and tone politically correct. A bunch of politicians decided to pick the broom and clean a road. However the road in question was perhaps one of the cleanest in Delhi and thus dirt had to be bought and dumped on the clean road for our well dressed politicians to pick a broom and sweep. I have nothing else to say!

Meet Nirvi. She is all of eight months old and is the new admission to our creche. Everyone, her mom and gran most of all, thought she would cry and make a fuss but our little Nirvi took her new class better than a fish takes to water. Far from crying the little imp had an array of tricks up her sleeve to charm one and all. Like a true pro she handed back the toy given to her by one of her classmates to show that she knew all about the game of give and take. She played with all the toys given to her by the over solicitous teacher who like all else believed that this eight month old would need special handling. In no time Miss Nirvi had established that she new the rules of the creche and needed no special care.

But that is not all. Our little fiend to took the show one step further. She decided to ‘charm’ the volunteers and particularly one young man out of his wits. She fluttered her eye lashes and doled out sweet smiles and in no time had walked into the unsuspecting man’s heart. Wonder who will shed tears when parting times come.

The one thing she does not do is cry. Crying is for babies. It is certainly not fore eight months old like our Nirvi. She spends the whole morning in the class playing with her mates and entertaining the likes of me. Two days back after a long I spent some time at the creche with, your guessed right, Nirvi! We played a host of games and laughed a lot but more than anything, the moments spent with her showed me how important our creche was in the lives of little souls, more so those who are deprived of everything a child needs and should get.

Thank you Nirvi. I needed this lesson.

Many have been wondering why I do am not writing as regularly as I did before and I think that I owe all an answer. First and foremost let me let the proverbial cat out of the bag. For the past months I have been writing my next book which is the project why story and gave decided of late to hurry it up a little and hence have been neglecting the blog. Mea Culpa. In my defence I can only say that though the heart is still young the body has aged and thugs cannot perform as efficiently as earlier. I really think that the project why story is one that needs to be told as it is in many ways the story of India viewed through a unique prism and seen with ones heart. Much of the story lies in the recesses of my memory and need to be ferreted out before synapses snap.

But that is  not the sole reason for my silence. As it is revealing time, I guess I need to share a rather covert tactic I have devised to ensure that my incredible team and support team take on the reporting role I have held till date. This tactic is borrowed from Randy Pausch head fake tactic, which is a way of getting people to move in another direction surreptitiously. I would urge you to read Pausch’s Last Lecture at Carnegie Mellon, delivered shortly before he passed away. It is most touching and ends with these words: So today’s talk was about my childhood dreams, enabling the dreams of others, and some lessonslearned. But did you figure out the head fake?It’s not about how to achieve yourdreams. It’s about how to lead your life. If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take careof itself. The dreams will come to you.Have you figured out the second head fake? The talk’s not for you, it’s for my kids. So maybe my silence is the head fake that will bring my team to begin writing about project why. I can feel that we are at take off point and wait with bated breath for the first salvo.

Even though I have been absent from project why and that too for a well thought of reason where my gamble has paid handsomely, I share each and every heart beat of the project and am privy to all its trials and tribulations. You see seeing with your heart is nothing short of magical.

I miss early days when I spent time at the project but I know that every parent has to accept that the child will fly the coop and cop me on which teenager likes to be watched by his/her parents and project why is 14! I will simply watch from the wings to make sure that I am there when needed.

Serendipity is the occurrence of event by chance and in a happy way and synchronicity is the simultaneous occurrence of events which appear related but have no real causal connection. So says the dictionary. Life is full of both, but we often fail to make the connections. I am in the midst of reading Being Mortal by Atul Gawande a book that has been heralded as life changing. That the subject matter is death should not deter you in any way; it is a moving and humane and urges you to aspire not for a good death but a good life lived to the very last in dignity and joy. As I read the pages, a host of memories long forgotten come back and took on a new meaning. I could now understand my mother’s obsessive and sometimes childlike desire to not live where she not able to walk to the bathroom and wash her own undergarments. It was her choice. Just as refusing treatment for her advanced cancer was her choice. I must admit rather sheepishly today that pa and I did resent it though our love for her was so strong that it transcended logic. Kamala knew that if she took one step in the direction of conventional medicine it would be a free fall and strip her of her dignity. For her pain was acceptable, loss of dignity was not and she died on her own terms with a smile on her face. So remember this if any loved one makes a choice that does not seem right to you; he or she has the right to make that choice. Atul Gawande puts in words what we all refuse to accept: the obsession medical fraternity has to prolong life at all costs is more for us then for the elder we subject to it. I do not think any one in our right state of mind would want life at all costs. I for one have stated in no uncertain terms that I do not wish to be put on life support.

When mama was detected with cancer, though the word C was never mentioned in our home, she told us in no uncertain terms that had I been younger she may have considered medical support but she felt she was ready to go on her terms as she had seen me married, played with her grandchildren and wanted her husband to send her off. That was her choice and we agreed to play along. There was no place for logic or reason. It was all a matter of seeing with ones heart.

I still do not know where I stand but Gawande’s book made me aware of how serendipitous Project Why was for me personally. He argues that the quality of life in our twilight years greatly depends on our sense of purpose and usefulness. He recounts how Dr Bill Thomas decided to bring ‘life’ into a nursing facility for sever lay disabled elderly residents: he simply brought in plants, animals and children and everything changed! The residents who earlier had no ‘reason’ to love for suddenly felt ‘responsible’ for the plant in their room or animal on their floor and played with the staff children when they visited. The results were for all to see: the number of prescriptions diminished and so did the cost. I was reminded of the Little Prince and his rose: he has to go back to his planet because he is responsible for his rose.

Project Why saw the life of day when I was touching half a century and somewhat lost. The children had grown, the parents had moved on and life seemed without purpose. Enter Manu and with him countless children that still colour my day and whose dreams are in my custody. And if God remains on board then this will remain true all the way till the end. This I realise today is the greatest gift of all and I am humbled and deeply grateful.

We all need a purpose in life and whereas once life expectancy was shorter and not prolonged by medicine with contented itself to a palliative role, today the spectre of death in a brightly lit ICU where the concept of time is warped and where machines taken the role of the body is very real. In the name of love we subject our helpless loved ones to a terrible ordeal.

Gawande recalls how death once happened in the comfort of the home, with some medical care, where one was surrounded by familiar objects and those one loved. Today there are scant famous last words or simple farewells, be it just holding hands. The whole art of dying has been rewritten in language that is sadly inhumane. No priest or chants but the whirring of a ventilator or the bleeping of a heart monitor. How lonely death has become.

I was blessed again to have bid farewell to my parents at home and on their won terms. I heard their last words and could say good bye in what was home, giving them their final sip of water and chanting the prayers that they had so lovingly taught me.

Mama and I Algeria 1966

Mama 

Tonight of all nights the heady smell of the jasmine papa planted for you is redolent of memories of you, and it should be so as tomorrow is your birthday. You would have been 97, but you left 24 years ago, at the age of 72, barely 10 years older than I am today. We were only blessed with 38 years of togetherness, but how magical and fulfilling they were, only you and I know. I cannot begin to fathom who was the  winner in this incredible relationship: you who had accepted the life of an old maid rather than give birth to a slave child or I who was given the gift of a freedom you fought for in a silent but poignant way. All I can say is that my life is replete with memories of you, each laced with your special brand of love.

As every year I ferreted through boxes of pictures to find the ‘right’ picture and this year I chose one of the two of us in Algeria when I must have been 14 or so. The reason is that today I heard that a young girl who celebrates her birthday tomorrow and is very dear to my heart was slapped by her mother for a trivial reason, a typical example of mothers who take out their frustrations on their children. Sadly it happens far too often in slums in India where women are given a raw deal even after seven decades of freedom. This young girl celebrates her 14th birthday tomorrow. I held her in my arms when she was 2 days old.

I remember you telling me about the beatings you got from your young mother whose brand of parenthood was  to beat the eldest child, you, and you would then take care of your siblings. I am not one to judge my Nani as I know how much you loved her and how you never seemed to hold any grudge against her. The only thing that you told me was that you had sworn never to raise your hand against your child and you never did. I do not even remember you scolding me, that was left to Papa! My earliest memory of you is that of a friend I could share any and everything with, and we did, didn’t we. You set the bar of motherhood incredibly high. I was never able to meet it, however hard I tried. 

In all my years with you, I always felt that you placed my on a pedestal just like in the picture. For you motherhood was to place your child on your shoulders so that she could see further than you and aim at the stars. If you could, you would have plucked the moon and laid it on my lap.

But that is not all. Mama, you wove a fascinating web of lessons each wise and humane that I am still unravelling today. Your legacy is daunting and even though I try hard, I do not feel I have been able to come up to your expectations. I hope that you will guide me and steer me in the right direction so that I can fulfil your dreams.

I miss you Mama

Anou

Kailash Satyarthi and Malala Yusufzai have won the Nobel Prize for Peace. It is a victory for all the children who are denied their very basic rights, children who have no voice, children who are used and abused, children whose rights are hijacked with impunity. It is truly celebration time for all those, who like us at Project Why believe that every child has the right to a childhood, a right to go to school, to play and laugh and a right to dream. We have strived for the past 3 decades to ensure that the children who walk into the doors of Project Why dare to dream.

The two laureates are crusaders who are fighting to end child labour and trafficking in any form and ensure that every girl goes to school. The reason we need to celebrate is that with the Nobel Prize, these issues have come out of the closet and are now centre stage. We cannot shy away from them even if we want to and that is cause to celebrate. The office of Bachpan Bachao Andolan is close to ours and I have been an admirer of what they stand for. Kailash Satyarthi is someone I hold in high esteem, and yes I am one of the few of have followed his crusade! I guess most of us Indians must have wondered who this Nobel Laureate was and Auntie Google must have been very busy indeed. It is a matter of shame that we Indians are not aware of those who fight for children and even our State who revels in handing out civilian honours to movie and sports stars, rarely does it for the quiet and committed workers who shun publicity. And tough Malala is known to one and all courtesy the media, Kailash Satyarthi remained unknown till the Nobel prize lights were directed to him.

We are nothing in comparison to BBA whose work is stellar, but we too work with children who may have been forced into child labour were we not there. Many of you know how tough it is for us at project why to keep our head above water, come to think of it seven as I write these words, I am facing the daunting challenge of having to make up for the loss in funding we are facing since last month: 100 000 whopping rupees. In times like these, I feel let down by my own people who have never felt the need of reaching out to us and helping our lovely kids. This is when Satyarthi’s words “If not now, then when? If not you, then who?” come to mind and one feels the need to scream them out loud and clear.

I have always held that children cannot wait for the right time, the right place, the right decision and its implementation, the right law and its promulgation and so on. By the time the rights whatever happens, millions of kids would have missed the boat. We need to help them NOW and if it is not we who do it, then WHO? I hope you get what I am trying to convey.

But then this elusive US has never really learnt to look with its heart, more so at children who remain invisible. Come on! How many times have you felt the urge to help a beggar child or at least asked yourself why this child is begging? How many times have you chided your friend, acquaintance, neighbour who employs a child as a house servant? How many times have you asked yourself why as child is working when he or she should be in school? I leave you to answer. Did you know that three quarters of domestic workers in India are believed to be between the ages of 12 and 16 and 90% of them are girls. The Indian government’s 2001 census says 12.6 million minors between the age of 5 and 14 are in the workforce.

Time and again a horror story about someone ill-treating a maid comes out and we make the appropriate noises but then we forget the whole matter, just as the press does. Do we need the press to  realise that all is not well with the children of India.

We need to do some serious soul searching. I do hope the Nobel glare shakes our collective conscience from its inertia.

“If not now, then when? If not you, then who?” Kailash Satyarthi Nobel Peace Prize 2004

The photo ops were many as India launched its Swach Bharat or Clean India mission. Everyone who was anyone wielded a broom on October 2nd 2014. Millions even took a pledge. The mission comes at a whopping price: lacs of crores rupees. Our tech savvy PW even initiated a challenge that roped in celebrities of all shades and hues: each one was to get 9 more people and so on. From sanitation for all to clean drinking water; from littering to garbage disposal the task is daunting. That it is needed is unquestionable. But many questions do come to mind.

First and foremost why did it take us as a nation almost 7 decades to realise we needed a clean India. And why have all the previous efforts failed. Unless we answer these questions, we will not be able to ensure its success. What first comes to mind is why we as individuals have failed to keep our surroundings clean. We do pride ourselves as a civilisation that promotes cleanliness above all else, but having baths everyday does not ensure a clean land.

To my mind, the main problem is our social structure that assigns the task of ‘cleaning’ and particularly toilets to one group of persons who it is believed are ‘born’ to do so. I get enraged when I see people unwilling to pick up a piece of garbage themselves. They would rather wait in the dirt for the right person to appear than clean the mess themselves. As long as this remains our attitude, things cannot change. After the launch of the said mission at India Gate, one would have hoped that those present – be it school children or VIPs – would not leave litter behind. But that was not the case, they place was left littered with water bottles and discarded copies of the pledge and as is always the case in India, the cleaners came by afterwards and did the job.

These people sadly do not always work in ideal conditions. The picture above shows how a clogged drain is unclogged in India. Maybe the need of the hour would be to provide protective gear to ALL those who have to handle garbage or dirt of any kind. My heart goes out to the rag pickers, often children whose hands and feet get cut because we have placed broken glass or open blades in our daily garbage. I wonder how many of the photo op subject would have agreed to plunge their bare body in the drain in the picture. I guess were that to be necessary than as was done in Slumdog Millionaire, the pit would have been filled with chocolate or peanut butter and the said VIP would have then agreed to descend in the ‘dirt’ and have his picture taken.

As long as casteism is the order of the day, things cannot change. We will always look over our shoulder for the right person to come and clean our mess. But things are not sacrosanct. I remember my mother meeting a cleaner of Indian Origin and of a higher caste in a Heathrow bathroom. She was quick to admit sheepishly that she would NEVER tell her family back home about the nature of our work. That is who and what we are and unless we change this attitude, we will never have a clean India.

In free India, everyone should have equal opportunities and no one need be branded by birth. Those who belong to what we call the lower’ castes want out of this stranglehold and have aspirations and dreams for their children, and they should as they too are protected by our Constitution. Laws and punishment will not bring the change we seek. It is mindset that have to be changed. We have to change our habits and ways: spitting pan, throwing wrappers, chucking plates and cups anywhere and so on. But we also need to change our attitude and accept to clean anything, even a toilet.

I have had several occasions where I have been compelled to lead a toilet cleaning campaign often in conference centres and other institutions. Now my team comprised of well educated youngsters of hallowed caste and class. I could see resentment on their faces when they realised I was about to embark on a loo sprucing mission. That is not what they had signed for. But I must admit that each and every time it took only a few moments before everyone hitched their saris or rolled their sleeves and took to the task. All I needed to do was start scrubbing the filthiest loo. Even today I have no qualms undertaking any cleanliness campaign as I will not sit in a filthy place. At project why every staff cleans the classroom and toilet they work in.

Traditions and mores have to change with time and though we need to keep the good ones, we also need to have the courage to cast away those that have gone obsolete or are impediments to our development.

I will urge all to give some thought to what I have said and to lend your voice to the people who still clean our filth in inhuman conditions.

The last few days have been rather euphoric with all the hype given to the Prime Minister’s visit to the USA and his pitch for INDIA. I guess we all got a bit taken in and felt that things would change on the round in no time. It was indeed heartwarming to hear the PM talking of sanitation, poverty removal and imparting of skills to the young. The elation was short lived though as a snippet of information given to me by one of my staff made for a rude awakening. The children of our Govindpuri centre simply shared a piece of information of their daily school life probably unaware of the effect it would have on me. Hold your breath! In this new India that is being feted with super zeal, class VIII children of a Government school located in upmarket South Delhi are being taught four subjects by guess who: their physical education teacher better known as the PT Master.

This may sound like a light hearted piece of information but to me it is nothing short of scary. If good education can change a life for the better, we all know what no or poor education can do. I will not dwell on that. The fact is that in overcrowded classes, where a period is 35 minutes and with a Gym Instructor teaching all true subjects, your chances of breaking barriers and ceilings is minute. Thus the prospect of a child studying in such circumstances being able to get a school leaving certificate with sufficient marks and thus aspire to the skills mentioned by our PM is close to nil. Unless something is done for such children NOW, they are certain to miss the boat altogether and condemned to the same plight as their parents. What is sad is, that it is not the fault of the parents who took the decision to come to the city for their children’s future, but of the powers that be who have allowed state run schools to come to this. What is baffling is that there is no dearth of potential teachers in our country so why does a gym teacher have to teach the 3Rs is beyond comprehension, unless of course it is part of some wily agenda we are not privy to.

When I heard our brand new PM talk sanitation and other such matters,one felt a ray of hope, but though one does not want to join the rank of naysayers who find fault in everything, it is a sad reality that many change will come too late for many children of India, as children cannot wait for change to happen.

Hearing the PM and his plans for India, one may have thought that NGOs like ours would soon be redundant and would have to either close their doors or reinvent themselves, but that is not so. As long as classes are overcrowded and teachers few; as long as state run schools do not become centres of excellence, we are needed to provide the bridge they need to cross to better morrows.

In life, I believe that what makes you a better person is to be honest enough to alter your opinion when needed and have the courage to share your changed views with others. It does not demean you in anyway; on the contrary it makes you a better person. A few years ago, I would have bet my bottom dollar that I would never see the day where I voted for the one who is our Prime Minister, and yet I did. At that time it may have been thought that, for anyone whose heart beat for India and who carried  a legacy in the shape of her father’s last words: Do not loose faith in India, could not have voted for the party she had always supported. So the vote could have been a TINA (There Is No Alternative) one! Maybe it was, but the disenchantment with the Party I had supported for so long, had let India down in too many ways. The India my mother fought for was not safe in their hands.

Perhaps, had I not decided to walk the road less travelled in the summer of 1998 and remained shut within the four walls of my home as I had for six long years, I would remained ‘faithful’ to the Party that bore the name of the one that had brought us freedom. But that was not to be. With every minute I spent in the dusty lanes of Delhi’s slums, I realised how the people of India had been let down. And one did not have to be a rocket scientist to realise who had let them down. Be it water, sanitation, electricity, schools, hospitals, roads, you name it, nothing had percolated to the millions who remained faceless and voiceless. What was visible was the exponential increase in the amounts diverted in scam a after scam. What was unbearable was that  things seem to be worse for the poor. The figure that made my blood run cold was the one of the children dying from malnutrition: 5000. Any self respecting State would have done something but everyone seemed jaded. I could not extend my support to  such people anymore.

Recent scams, rapes of women and children, lawlessness and the abysmal condition of the poor made you want to hang your head in shame. The fact that sixty years were not enough to provide drinking water, three meals a day and a roof on every ones head was a cause of immense pain. And the question that haunted me mercilessly was how had we come to that.

The past decade was probably the darkest. India needed to regain its pride and place in the world. Somehow our new PM seemed to be the right person and any respecting Indian had to give him a chance. I did as many others.

I am not a cynic and understand that no one can conjure miracles. His detractors can split hair and find fault in any and every thing. Those with a modicum of wisdom know that he needs time. But one began hearing the right things: sanitation, housing, jobs. I guess this sounds strange for a country who has been independent for many decades, but is the reality, a reality we need to address and not shy away from. It was music to my ears to hear our PM talk about these issues at the UNGA and also when he addressed young people at central park.

But the biggest gift Prime Minister Modi has given to the voiceless children of India, is to dare to dream, and deem big. Till now everyone believed that the hallowed portals of high positions were only for those who spoke the coloniser language to perfection and had studies in ivy or similar institutions. Mr Modi has changed all that. Today any child can aspire to become PM.

For me his speech at central park, delivered in good but accented English, freed millions of Indian kids from the stranglehold of the Queens language and opened new avenues for them. What a gift. I hope it will motivate our project why children to aspire to greater heights.

Our new PM had rekindled a sense of nationalism in each one of us as was amply proved by the ovation and chants he received in New York.

If he delivers his promise of sanitation, drinking water, housing and I hope education to every one in the country he would have done more than all his lofty predecessors.

Once again, I am proud to be Indian.

The controversy or should I say controversies over Teacher’s Day 2014 has filled me with sadness and even a sense of hopelessness and that for more reasons than one. September 5th is Dr Radhakrishnan’s birth anniversary and he is the one who wanted it celebrated as Teacher’s Day. He himself was a teacher in the true sense of the word. I had the honour and privilege of having been blessed by him at my birth. Dr Radhakrishnan was on an official visit to Prague in April 1952 and he heard of the birth of an Indian child he insisted he had to meet mer even if it threw the protocol haywire. He even named me Anuradha. I think my mother had other names like Mandakini in mind but both my parents accepted his suggestion with joy. I met him subsequently a few times and he never failed to impress me by his gentle and erudite ways. Today, I am sure he must be feeling some hurt at all this drama around a day that should be celebrated with dignity and decorum.

But though September 5th still has to dawn, the controversies are in full swing: be it the renaming or attempt to as Guru Utsav or the row about whether the Prime Minister’s address to the children is compulsory or voluntary. And in the case of the later, would the ‘voluntary’ entail any detrimental action. The problem is that the timing of said speech does not coincide with regular school timings, something that has far more consequences than what one can imagine. And then of course will the market meet the demand on said day: I mean TV sets, set top boxes, etc. And what about the funds required: who will foot the bill. It is really sad that a day made to remember a great and humane personality and celebrate teachers has come to this. Whether you call it Teacher or Guru, Day or Utsav, what difference  does it make. What is important is to express gratitude to those who have taught you.

In India today, a country whose constitution has adopted a Right to Education for every child born within its boundaries, I feel that Teacher’s Day has to also ‘remember’ all the children who do not have teachers, not because of any personal choice, but because we as a society, a State, a Government have not been able to ensure sufficient schools for each and every child and not been able to contain aberrations such as child labour, begging etc. I believe this day to be the one where we commit ourselves to ensuring that these lacunas and make it possible for every child to be visible and have the right to have a teacher.

However let us get back to the famous speech. As a child I would be very excited to have the Prime Minister address me! Wow! In times where children have no role models, no people to emulate, no hero barring Bollywood ones, a connect between the head of the Government and a school kid is far more important that one can imagine and again I would like to reiterate how sad I feel about the controversies and the attempt by politicians to hijack a sacrosanct day. How I wish it could have been better organised.

I was born a Hindu by virtue I guess of both my parents being Hindus. But I chose to be a Hindu through a personal journey orchestrated by my mother with inputs from my father too. I was unwavering in my faith for a long time, but the emergence of a new form of ‘hinduism’ in the past years has sometimes made me question my own religion and has needed me to dig deep in my past to renew my faith.

Being Hindu is again in the news with sparring going on on the use of Hindi and Hindu.’ leaving me a tad flummoxed. First of all I think someone should come forward, by someone I mean an eminent religious or spiritual personality and put an end to this Hindu business. Hindus are those who love in Hindustan, a name that find its roots in the river Indus. The religion we follow when we call ourselves ‘hindus’ should be, in my humble opinion, called Vedism from the Vedas the precepts of which are the tenets of our religion. Maybe that would solve issues.

Today I simply want to share why I embraced Hinduism with pride. I grew up in different parts of the planet and always in countries with a different faith: Muslim, Christian, Buddhist but never Hindu. Hence all my friends belonged to diverse religions. On the other hand, my mother who was not into ritualism, mutated into this uber ritual persona and celebrated every festival following all the rites to the T. Come Diwali, Holi, Janmashtami, Shivratri and all else our home was transformed and I was guided through every step of the ritual of the day. Yummy sweets and food was cooked and in her inimitable style which would have made Socrates proud, Mama never said anything but waited for the questions to come from me and answered them to the best of her ability, keeping in mind the age I was and always adding some stories and tales. The one thing I remember of all these celebrations was that everyone in the home participated, irrespective of their creed. At the end of each puja I was asked to touch the feet of everyone elder to me and seek blessings. That included the staff! So festivals were a happy time and the stories of each fascinating to a little girl.

But that is not what endeared me to my religion. What really made me want to be Hindu was how I perceived its relation to other faiths and for that I have to thank my wonderful parents. Whenever I asked them if I could: go to church with my Christian friends; fast on the first day of the Ramadan with my Muslim friends or partake of a sabbath meal with my Jewish friends, go to the Pagoda with my Buddhist friends the answer was always the same: yes as long as my presence was accepted by my friends and their families. Needless to say it was always a yes. Those were days before extremism had raised its ugly head. Hence to me, a religion that accepted all other religions and houses of God was the best I could get.

And that was not all, you could chose a God to pray to and you had so many to chose from. As a child I ‘chose’ Ganesh! And if I needed more proof, I remember how upset I was when my father cut my holiday in Mauritius because his spiritual leader who was in London wanted to give me a mantra. As a rebellious teenager I entered the sancto sanctorum of the Ramakrishna Mission in London with a frown on my face. Swami Gananandha sat me down and told me he knew that I did not want to be there and that I had come against my will. I looked sheepish but nodded my head, I guess I knew you did not lie in the house of God. But being who I am I told him that I would not chant the mantra. he smiled and told me that it was OK, I could forget about it, but he would still give it to me in case I ever needed it. I did forget about it for a long time, but at a time of extreme need it flashed through my mind and brought me the solace I needed. I chant it every day.

We have a small prayer corner in the house. There always has been a prayer corner in any house I have lived in, even if it was just a shelf in the cupboard. Anyone and everyone is welcome to pray there. The little alter has many idols but if you look carefully it also has a cross, a Virgin Mary and the name of Allah, all gifted to me by dear souls. Every Diwali we are joined by the pwhy volunteers that happen to be here and they too pray with us. In the picture you can see Alan, our beloved magician, who is from the UK and lives in New Zealand. I do not know who will be with us this year but the more the merrier!

That is what Hinduism is to me. A religion that encompasses all others and accepts them with love. And that is the faith I will always follow.

You would have to be a total hermit to not have heard about the ice bucket challenge, an initiative of of the ALS, an organisation promoting awareness about amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. The challenge is to pour a bucket of ice over yourself or pay 100$ and then go on to nominate 5 people to do the same. The challenge went viral and the association has raised millions of dollars. Good for them. I wish I could come up with a challenge that would raise the money I need to secure project why’s morrows. Am still waiting for that epiphany.

The reason for this blog is not to criticise; neither it is a case of ‘grapes are sour’. It is just a gentle reminder, particularly to those of us who live in country’s like India, of the value or water and thus the famed ice bucket that is water in another from. Water is a precious resource that we take for granted until its scarcity hits us. Remember how irate you feel when the tap runs dry as someone forgot to switch on the pump or because of an electricity outage. At most, when there is a water crisis, we have the means to ‘buy’ water from a tanker and use it with alacrity and impunity till the need of another tanker. But that is just one tiny side of the story.

The picture you see is a picture taken by one of our Okhla kids. It is a picture taken in his ‘home’. This is all the water a family of 5 has for a day and that too if someone got up in time, at some unearthly hour, to go to the municipal tap/tanker, fight her/his way and fill as much as possible. This will be used to bathe, clean, cook and drink! And this is the daily routine of most families living in slums. You can see in the picture that one cannot vouch for the quality of the water.

Women have to walk miles and miles in certain states to get access to water and that too is limited to the amount they can carry. Imagine how much energy is spent each and every day. Our project why girls start getting fidgety around 3.45 pm as water comes at 4pm and they have to fill it before the tap runs dry and hour later. Sometimes the queue is too long and they are unable to get their water, that means a sure trashing when they get home.

We have got so used to opening a tap and getting water that we cannot imagine life without it and often do not think at it as the most valuable resource in the world and our critical lifeline. Just imagine if water was taken away from your life for a day, week, month? And yet we waste it every moment of the day. Do you realise that to live you need water first and foremost and then food, the two things we waste with abandon. You would agree that marbled homes, and costly jewellery and outrageously priced cars cannot replace the simple H2O.

But that is not all. Not having access to clean drinking water is the cause of the death of 5000 children a day. It is also the cause of malnourished children, malnourished adults who then tend to catch infections as their immunity is extremely low. Most diseases are water borne, and some can even be fatal.

Lack of water has under consequences. Most of the community toilets and toilets in schools have to be locked up because of lack of water to keep them operational and clean. With no toilet facility in schools, girls often drop out, more so after reaching puberty. Adults have no option than defecate in the open and the risk of illnesses grows by quantum leaps as human faeces carries many diseases. Adequate toilets with proper disposal could end this aberration. And yet in a city like ours we still waste water every second of every hour.

So a challenge like the ice bucket challenge seems absurd in a country where there are still millions who do not have access to clean drinking water. The fact that many of our country mates joined the challenge compelled me to write this blog in order to highlight a reality we all seem to have forgotten: that water is more precious than anything else in the world and it is time we stopped wasting it.

This picture must have been taken sometime in the summer of 1999. The location: the Bhatti Kurd village located near the Bhatti Mines. I had forgotten its existence and was reminded of it last week when reading an article on the very same village. The article begins with the chilling words: most girls in Bhatti Village have never been to school. My memory got a huge jolt as I time travelled 14 years back and recalled our tryst with this very village. This was way before project why as you all know it existed; not even in an embryonic state. At that time, pwhy was still searching its identity and had a multitude of activities mostly related to nutrition. As I have said time and again, the sight of a child begging had and remains unbearable and makes me feel angry, sad and helpless at the same time. That is why one of the very first avatars of project why was a programme aimed at urging the people of Delhi to stop giving money to beggar children and give nutritional cookies instead. The idea was to give every car owner a smart box that would contain 50 cookies and have a tie up with petrol pumps where people could ‘refill’ their boxes. The cost 100 rupees for 50 cookies! The idea was to stop mafias from using children as children would not get money.  For me it was a win win situation. I was really naive.

Then came the version 2 whereby we found children in organisations and distributed them these nutritive biscuits which had been specially designed and contained the required daily vitamin and mineral needs. An organisation ran a programme for the Bhatti Mine children and we began distributing them cookies and also a frothy chilled drink called Ice Cream Wash. This was obtained from ice cream factories and was a kind of milk shake that was the result of washing a machine with high pressure potable water before changing flavours. We collected the same in large igloos and every kid bought a glass from home and got its share. Needless to say the kids loved it and so did we as the distribution was accompanied by games and dancing!

It was heartbreaking to read the article as it took me back 15 years in a time warp. It was as if I was reading an piece written in 1999. After 15 years the only thing that seems to have changed is the age of the children. The village still has no amenities: roads, schools, dispensaries, a waste disposal system and even sufficient drinking water.

I sat for a long time lost in my thoughts and in some heavy soul searching. Had I made the right choices? Should I have soldiered on working with the nutrition programme and the very deprived children in villages? Should I have marketed my ‘don’t give them a coin; give them nutrition!’ mantra with more conviction? Could I have, with all my shortcomings been able to make a difference in their lives, keeping my abysmal track record of battling wily politicians and greedy bureaucrats? And most what would have happened to Manu, my alter ego and conscience keeper and above all the indomitable spirit I still draw strength from.

As I always say, I simply do what the (wo)man upstairs wills me to. I cannot afford to look back with regrets or remorse. But I can surely shed a quiet tear for my Bhatti Mine children.

Incredible India. It can never cease to amaze or infuriate you. Even when you think you have seen and heard it all wham, you are hit by another salvo you could not have imagined even in your wildest dream. You may recall the ‘incident’, as that seems to be the word of the day, when buffaloes belonging to a Minister went missing and the whole police set up was on their toes till they were mercifully found. Humans of course do not get the same attention but jack fruits do! This is India my darling and yes you guessed right buffaloes are in the news again and the protagonists are the same: the police and the Minister.

Our buffalo loving Minister, does not seem to like people even if it is they and not the buffaloes who vote him in, wanted some more and someone who states he can give everything to the said Minister decided to gift him… buffaloes! Now these had to be transported and from point A to B and the men in uniform laid out the royal treatment for our 4 legged friends. They were fed hot and fresh chapatis and jaggery rich fodder and a bonfire was lit up to keep the mosquitoes at bay. I wonder if buffaloes can get malaria but I know humans do and die of it. In Tripura there were 67 deaths last month, and the average in India hovers around 50 000 a year. But we are blessed. The Minister’s new buffaloes are safe. 

What really made me see red was that police personnel in uniform was making hot chapatis (flat breads) for the buffaloes, mothers in the same State ferret rat holes do find grain for their starving children. These are the Hunger Games that will never be talked about. Should you care to know more, read Ash in the Belly. I am just quoting some lines: On days where there is no food in the house the whole family sets out to find food. They scour the harvested fields of the landlords with brooms to garner the gleaning of the stray grains of wheat and paddy… they follow field rats to their burrows and are skilled in scrapping out the grains stolen and stored underground by the rodents…after each weekly market ends, they collect in their sari edges, grain  spilled inadvertently by traders or rotting waste vegetable… they even sift through cow dung for undigested grain. (Ash in the Belly page 6).

It all seems so wrong and absurd and yet no one reacts and people will still vote for the man and his buffaloes. We are not a democracy but a feudal society.

As if that was not enough for the day, another incident! This one called rape: a beast that lurks at every corner looking for its prey that can be aged a 6 months to 80 years! We all recall the Delhi rape with horror and every single rape after that with despair and helplessness. Well one of our brand new Minister qualified that horrifying crime as one small incident of rape that cost us billions of dollars in terms of global tourism! he has tried to ‘defend’ his comment but come on Mt Minister no rape is a small incident. Imagine if the victim was your daughter. Are rapes gone be looked  at as revenue loss?

Incredible India!

Sorry guys here is more about loos and apologies for the ‘illustration’ but it has not been downloaded from the net but taken by one of our teachers. Poor man! He had to do this on a Sunday and told me that he could not eat a meal for the next two days. I will spare you the innards of the place but I have a collection of pictures that would make you gall.

 This picture was ‘commissioned’ by someone who wanted to make loos. He was spot on as everyone is vying for the title of the Loo King of India after our Prime Minister stated the urgency of making loos in his I Day Speech. Today two mega industrialists have pledged 100 crore each, that is one billion! I think I gagged more than my poor colleague. 200 crores are on their fast descent to waste. And I speak with confidence. What makes me choke more is that if someone placed 5 measly crores, the interest could run project why forever and we would do more than make loos.

In our capital city there are loos, believe it or not. There those for the poor like the ones in the picture that are often locked, like the one in the picture or so filthy that you can barely use them, more so as you have to dish out a rupee to do so.

Then there are the ones that were built for the Commonwealth Games but never got used. What you see is not a monument but the Defence Colony loo when it was being made. I do not think it has ever been used. It lies locked waiting for its first user. I believe they are under litigation and I guess will be totally unusable by the time the case is settled.

You may have also seen the new kid on the block: the bright red loos made by the  DIMTS, better known as the BRT gang. They are good looking but are often locked for reasons beyond comprehension. Delhi also has the horrid portable toilets and of course all the walls and open spaces available to ‘relieve’ ones self. All these have been made at some cost to the tax payer. It is time we asked for an audit before throwing crores to make more such useless structures.

The problem that arises is why these toilets that were at one time totally acceptable reach such a state. The mistakes we often make is ‘think’ we know what the ‘other’ wants. Girls need toilet in schools but they also need clean and safe toilets where they live. Why do we always decide for others and never ask them what they want and WHY things have gone wrong. I was myself surprised when a the mother of a teenager brushed aside my worry about safety when we were talking about the toilet in her area. She in the inimitable style of survivors told me that her brother could accompany her. What irked her most was the 1 rupee to be paid reach time. They are a family of 8 with one earning member. Do the maths. Think of how many times we use a loo in a day then multiply by 8 and then 30. It is a huge chunk of the 5 or 6000 the bread earner earns.

The main issue was all cleanliness. Beautiful structures are erected sometimes after international or national competition and then no one sits and thinks of how they will be maintained over the years as loos are needed as long as humans are there. Thinking that the 1 rupee per use will do the trick is ridiculous. A block of toilets needs water of course but cleaning implements, products and people who are given a proper salary. Toilets have to be cleaned almost after each use. But that is not the real solution. The real solution lies with the community taking ownership of the block and then all is well!

When we began our work in Okhla almost 8 years ago, the local mafia did not want us and thus they use to break our ‘school’ every week end. We simply rebuilt it every Monday and carried on. Today it is located in a flimsy structure that can be broken with a kick but no one touches it. We have expensive equipment that is safer than in a bank vault. The same has to be the case with community toilets which are a must as if the ‘fashion’ of everyone making some makeshift loo continues, it would be a disaster for the environment. That is why work like we do is important. You can make diamond studded loos but unless you make the community accept and respect them they will have the same fate as all the others.

So you can understand how I feel when I see 200 crores going down the drain as I struggle to keep project why afloat.

If there is one topic that has received unprecedented publicity in the last months it has been loos! Unfortunately, the reason ‘we’ remember the importance of loos are often tragic: rapes, girls dropping out of school or having to defecate in the open even in cities and all related problems the worse in my mind being fatal diseases related to poor hygienic conditions. The reason ‘we’ think of toilets only at those horrific moments is because ‘we’ are the privileged 52% of Indians who have access to a loo. Should you be interested in knowing the hazards of open defecation here are some shocking facts: A single gram of human faeces contains as much as 10,000,000 viruses, 1,000,000 bacteria, 1,000 parasite cysts and 100 parasite eggs When ingested it can therefore lead to typhoid, cholera, hepatitis, polio, pneumonia, fatal worm infestation, trachoma, stunted physical development and impaired cognitive function. It makes open defecation a lead cause of diarrheal death; 2,000 children under the age of five die every day, one every 40 seconds, from diarrhoea. These should make us hand our head in shame and scream our outrage, but the reality is that we have access to toilets so why should we waste our time on human waste(sic).

But for the past months loos are the ‘flavour’ of the day and everyone and anyone wants to set up loos.  The latest commitment came from as high as the ramparts of the Red Fort on Independence Day. Yes 68 years after becoming a free nation we are yet to solve our ‘shit’ issue.

A few months back a modern Croesus came my way and upon learning that I worked for the urban poor stated his desire to build loos. His benchmark was to give the poor the best loo possible. He even went to state that he wanted to make Indians give up squatting and sit instead. Hoping to have a few pennies come my way, I accepted to help this person and in my own realistic way requested him to come and visit some of the existing loos in the slums we operate in. The visit was an eye opener to me though I think our Good Samaritan did not get the picture. My plan was to first try and find out why the loos that already exist do not work and in Delhi we have quite a range: from the filthy loos set up by the State, to the swanky ones made at humongous costs for the Commonwealth Games that have never been used, to the new red ones made by a Transport organisation that seemed locked too! Unless we find out why these have not worked, it is pointless to make new ones. To me it seems not so much the design of the structure but the maintenance, safety and upkeep etc. And the only people who can give these answers are the users themselves.

The state of toilets placed in slums is so bad that one of my staff who lives in such a slum has had to ‘rent’ a room across the street that has a toilet facility for hide extended family and come rain or fire, if you need to poo then you have to take a walk. Everyone cannot afford such a solution so as it is impossible to even enter the stench infested toilet blocks, you have to find your place in the sun. So to my realist and cynical mind all these promised loos may just go the same way. If I had a say, I would first fix the existing ones and then go on to making new ones that would meet the requirements of the end users.

Should you go to Defence Colony Market or Kailash Colony Market and feel like peeing, then in spite the super fancy loos that were meant to house cafes and flower shops you cannot as these are closed and unused and I am told in litigation. That they were build with millions of our hard earned money does not matter. It never does.

Making more loos in markets or slums makes no sense as they will go the same way unless we audit them and run proper surveys to find out where it all went wrong. If we do not do that, then apart from some pockets becoming heavier nothing will change.

I guess we were all waiting for our new Prime Minister’s address to the Nation with bated breaths. Many of his admirers as well as detractors were a little discomfited by the fact that one had not heard him at all after he took over as PM. I do not know about you, but I fell vindicated today when I heard his address from the ramparts of the Red Fort. Sixty eight years Kamala my mother was part of the delirious crowd and never forgot the range of emotions she had experienced. All the trials and tribulations she and her family had suffered were forgotten be it the pangs of hungers, the lacerated backs that had to be tended by a 7 year old, the humiliation and sneers. Nothing mattered any more. India was free!

I am happy Kamala is no more as her heart would have been shattered at how badly we tended the fragile sapling the likes of her had gifted us. I do not want to go into details, not today. Today let us celebrate the tree whose roots still stand strong.

Yes we all heard the the new PM’s speech and we all heard that he addressed us not as the Prime Minister but in his own words as the Prime Servant. This was balm to the heart but what made me want to hug him was when he addressed parents and asked them the questions never asked. Why did parents question every action of their daughters and not ask then same ones to their sons. As he rightly said, rapists have parents too and maybe if they were challenged at the right time they would not go astray. I guess that is where it all begins. Screaming for rapists to be hanged is not the solution.  

It was refreshing to hear a PM speak extempore! It was comforting to see a PM standing in the open like all his fellow Indians and not behind bullet or whatever proof glass. But what I loved most was when he said that he could not understand why a bureaucrat who comes to work on time is Breaking News!

This again is something that has always annoyed me. In my past avatar I often worked in high profile meetings and my team and I worked our a****** off to say the least. Yet when the time to reward those who were truly responsible for the success of the event, the medals went to bureaucrats. To me it was inane as they were just doing their duty, whereas people like us who were employed for specific tasks and found ourselves cleaning bathrooms or carting luggage because some bureaucrat had forgotten to employ porters or cleaners, we were ignored even when our names were sent up by our immediate bosses. So a bureaucrat who comes on time is no headline news and should never be.

I do not know what will happen tomorrow or in the next months, years or more, I only want too savour what I heard today.

Happy Independence Day!

I think I am well placed to write an apologia in defence of the English language which has come under fire in recent days. Courtesy my sometimes quirky parents I barely spoke English as a child as Kamala, my unique mom, wanted her child to speak Hindi which thus became my mother tongue in the true sense of the term, and Papa’s love for the French language and culture made French the language I would be educated in. On the other hand I spoke Hindi like a native and French to perfection, and as a toddler perfect Mandarin as being posted in Beijing I had a Nanny who only spoke Chinese. Sadly I lost my Chinese as there was no one to speak it with.

English did enter my life as not only was it spoken at home but was the second language I took in school and the brand of English I did speak was the kind spoken by any school kid going to a French school and having taken English as a second language. We were often taught by non native speakers and the abundance of the sound zeee was proof of that: Ze book iz on ze table! . I guess the fact that English was sort of spoken in my entourage made me a tad better than my school friends but just about. My parents thumb rule was that I would learn English somewhere along the way and I guess I did as is proof of the fact of me banging these words in English and having been a bilingual booth interpreter in more conferences that I can remember. However were you to ask me whether I have learnt English in a structured manner, the answer is NO!

After school I was hoping to be sent to the Sorbonne but again my unconventional parents decided to send me to a all  girl college in Delhi where speaking Hindi was infra-dig, and a strange social stratification based on which ‘school’ you came from conferred gave your status. Strangely it all boiled down to how well you spoke the colonial language. My friend corrected my atrocious pronunciation and an old friend of my father’s told me that the only way to improve your language was to read as much as you could. I did. Books were my saviour. You would be amused to know that a few years later I realised my French had become wanting and remembering the old man’s advice I embarked upon reading the complete works of Balzac. Now I make sure to read both languages regularly.

My grandson who barely writes though he is 5+, speaks 4 languages: English, French, Hindi and Italian and navigates from one to the other with utmost ease depending who he is talking to. We Hindi speakers have an extraordinary talent to master languages and can speak them as natives. This is not the case with many other populations who can never lose the accent and lilt of their mother tongue. We have one such example in our political firmament.

Today I feel saddened when misguided youngsters are bent upon removing basic English comprehension questions in a examination that will make them senior administrators and decision makers should they succeed. I feel outraged at our politicians who are supporting them to pursue their own agendas where the success of these kids is not even a minuscule footnote. I wish someone realised that in our quest of becoming a super power one of the big advantage we have is English. Today English is being taught in China in a frenzied manner and we are busy undoing our asset with impunity.

When I sat for the IAS in the seventies there were no preliminaries and we had a compulsory English paper where the most difficult question was the (in)famous précis. You had to condense a passage to a third of its size using your won words and not repeating any idea. That was definitely something that made the grey cells work overtime. The aspirants who will succeed in their examination will need English if not to write reports but certainly to access information and interact with the world. English should be taught properly in every single school, more so in State run ones. And to amuse you a little and end my tryst with the IAS, I must share what happened in my viva. I sat for the IAS with a 2 year old baby and had little time to mug statistics that anyway would change by the time I would need them. I also found the idea of mugging statistics of coal production, and so on totally futile. So unlike others who were waiting for their turn with yearbooks and last minute revision and went in without a stat in my head. The interview began with the eminent Chairman asking me a slew of statistics and hearing a slew of ‘ I do not know Sir’! He finally looked up and asked me what I knew. I told him that by the time I would finish my training and get a posting all the figures would have changed but I knew where to get the information and would make sure to have all the yearbooks etc on my office shelf. Everyone burst laughing and that was the end of my interview for which I got the highest mark of my batch.

But let us some back to this English comprehension question that is dividing India. If you can read the passage in the picture you will see that it is so simple that a class 6 kid can do it. Does it mean that we will have officers that will be unable to answer such a simple question.

The first thing I was asked by both parents and kids of the first slum I began work in was: teach our kid/us English. Even the most illiterate parent knows how important it is for his child to speak English. No one looks at it as a colonial legacy or a diminishing of ones Indianness. It is again politicians who want to nurture vote banks and do not care about anything else.

A language is not limiting in anyway. On the contrary it opens endless doors and avenues and when we have been blessed with a palate that catches unknown sounds without problems then we should make the most of it. 

I urge you to read this post and give your take on it. Thanks. Anou

It was more than a decade ago that my dear friend and mentor DV suggested we have a detailed budget on our website as he felt that total transparency would help us gain the trust of people and hence get the support we needed. Actually he is the one who designed the page for us and we have been updating it since without any transformation. I was in complete agreement with him as I felt it showed the potential donor exactly where his money went. And that it worked needs no further proof that we are till today a vibrant organisation that is thriving in spite of a few hiccoughs.

Till date I have been the one who has headed, virtually single handed, the funding aspect of project why and I have been overwhelmed by the support of I have received. However the new laws that may soon come into force make an organisation like ours very precarious as we depend on the famed FCRA – the government stamp that allows us to receive funds from outside India -! It seems that the Intelligence Bureau has now set its eyes on all of us FCRA holders and may revoke it almost at will. In that scenario we sink, as ours is a cause that is not dear to our countrymen. It may or may not happen but I feel that one has to be prepared for the worst as one is responsible for so many tiny dreams. The option is to raise money from our own and that is a herculean task.

As luck would have it, a mail dropped in my inbox a few days back offering a fund raising workshop. I jumped on the occasion and sent my two coordinators even though it meant a hole in our pocket, one we could ill afford. But I really thought that we would get some new ideas if not an epiphany and also prove where I had been wrong.

R & D – and it is not Research and Development but why two hands Rani and Dharmendra – travelled the unending distance in heat and rain and attended all lectures attentively. If had not yet had my full debrief – I am dreading it – but from the little they shared I think that from from an epiphany, it seemed like a Oh No! moment.

Before I go on, I need to share my world view in the matter. When I was a donor, what mattered to me was that the money I gave reached to the beneficiary as directly as possible and not through some devious round about way. I my early days when I was still finding my way, I visited an NGO that is extremely successful and flushed with money. They had a swanky building designed by some foreign architect that to me seemed quite futile as it did not house any of the main activities of the said NGO. The Director’s office was huge and had not one but two air conditioners blazing and though it was midsummer I froze and wished I had a jacket. I could not resist asking him how much the maintenance of such a building cost and he had no hesitation in replying: 100 000 a month! That meant that the first rupee reaching the beneficiary was after the 100 000 were in the bank. I swore to myself never to go that way. Of course nowhere on their website would you find mention of this useless cost as it was well hidden.

So when R & D told me that one of the funding options suggested to them during the workshop was telemarketing I did a double take and candidly asked: but how do we get the money? The deal is you get 100 000 from a donor and if you can use that to generate 200 000 it is a win win situation. I guess many large organisations do that, but to do so you need to ‘hide’ cots, something that makes me gall. I know of one that started as small as ours but today has a huge fund raising department that not only does telemarketing, but also door to door campaigns as well as expensive mailing. I also know of many who have stopped giving to that organisation.

For me it is morally unacceptable to ask any donor for money that does not go to the beneficiary as directly as possible. I have refused more than ice the offer of four wheel drives as transport at project why is provided by auto rickshaws owned by parents of students and ex-students. How can I ask anyone for money that will go to some funding raising agency. I would rather close he doors. So here goes one suggestion.

The other was to have a good ppt that would showcase our achievements and be transparent. Whereas  we have been wanting in the first instance and never been able to show the scale of our achievements, I though we were spot on on the later: transparency! I was soon to learn that it was not quite so.

A friend from the US, who is knowledgeable in the field of fund raising: making presentation, writing proposals etc happened to be staying with us and I requested him to help R & D with the presentation part. It all went well till we reached the slide that would show expenses. Being extremely proud of my expense page, I would have bet my bottom dollar that all  that was needed to be done was to translate it into a chart of sort like those colourful pie charts! Our expert said that that would be counterproductive as we were too explicit as we mention every expense and have foot notes to elucidate if and when needed. However apparently this is not the way it works in the big bad world.

I need money for project why but I strongly believe that it cannot be at the price of giving up what has been my strength. I do not see why someone who wishes to donate to a cause should feel upset to see where her/his money goes even if it is cleaning material that we truly need and for which I can produce bills. I for one would prefer that then a section of the pie stating: project costs!

My intuition tells me to follow my heart but I would love to have your take.

In the past days we have been ‘treated’ to what I can call call the absurdities of one Dr B, who has taken on single handed the mantle to defend India in a rather inane way. But beware this is not just a lone crusader that would at best be laughed at and set aside. Far from that. Today his books are being ‘taught’ in all primary and secondary schools in Gujarat. A sample of his ‘beliefs’ can be savoured here. One particularly caught my attention for two unrelated reasons. In one paragraph it quotes Sarvepalli Radhakirshnan saying that Indians are the most loved people.”Once God wanted to make a chapati. He was not able to cook the first chapati properly and he (God) termed the first chapati as ‘Britishers’; he failed in his second attempt as well and overcooked the second chapati as well. Thus were born the African nationals. The explanation goes further and it points that the third chapati, made by the God, turned out to be perfect. Thus God gave birth to Indians.

The reason this quote my attention is two fold. First of all I am named Anouradha because of Dr Radhakrishnan. The name my mother had chosen for me was Mandakini but the day I was born Dr Radhakrishna, then Vice President was in Prague and when told that an Indian baby was born, decided to visit the hospital and thus me and suggested I be named Anuradha. My parents esteemed it an honour and he became my the facto godfather. Over the years I met him a few times and have read most of what he wrote being a Philosophy student and cannot imagine him being the author of this absurd quote. A humanist and eminent thinker, I do not see him state anything that could be derogatory to any other human being.

That is part one.

Now comes part two and that pertains the quote itself. I must have been 4 or 5 when I once came back in tars from school and asked my mother why I was not white. To soothe and assuage a disturbed child, Ma related this ‘story’ as she knew that I needed a boost in my self esteem and more than that to accept with pride the colour of my skin. The tears dried up and the story was forgotten till Dr B brought it up again.

Dr B is also on a crusade to do away with all English and Urdu words, words we use daily and perhaps without even realising that they are ‘foreign’. Often we add a bit of India flavour and appropriate them so it is Masterji and Professor Sahib. And there is much more Dr B dislikes. Again you can read it here. Now according to him we should not blow birthday candles and so on.

His dislike for English is scary as as things stand today English is what can make our children’s morrows brighter. Way back in 2000, when I first landed in Giri Nagar, the first and only thing every parent asked me was to teach their kids English. I am taking about illiterate parents from humble homes who are ware of how important its is for their children to learn a language than came get them access to what they could never get. If Dr B gets his way, our kids will regress irreversibly.

On the other side of the spectrum we have Kamal Ataturk who decided to modernise and thus westernise his country and thus make some fundamental institutional changes. One of them was the adoption of the latin alphabet. That meant that Turkish children need only to learn one alphabet that would lighten the burden of their further learning. We need a Kamal Pasha, someone who can change India without altering its ethos.

When I blow my birthday candles I do not feel less Indian or Hindu for that matter. But I feel my blood run cold when I see the kind of ‘valued’ the likes of Dr B suggest. In my opinion they will annihilate the very essence of Hinduism and India.

Neil Gaiman begins his book American Gods with the following quote quote from Joe Miller’s jest book: The boundaries of our country, sir? Why sir, on the north we are bounded by the Aurora Borealis, on the east we are bounded by the rising sun, on the south we are bounded by the procession of the Equinoxes, and on the west by the Day of Judgment. It may have been words mouthed in jest way back in the XVIII century but in our times where boundaries seemed to be placed within boundaries and more boundaries, these words are poignant to say the least. All across our planet innocent people are being killed. Missiles bring commercial flight down, and missiles rip through schools for children. People are killed in the name of religion leaving us wondering what religion truly is and what kind of God allow such aberrations. I for one am lost. Children die each day by the thousands whilst their country mates throw food with impunity or pour milk on stone deities. Again in the name of religion making me almost feel that ‘religion’ has become a multi-headed hydra monster.

 The blood of every human, whatever her or his creed, caste, social or economic status, colour is red. A child is born from a mother’s womb after nine months. The pain of a mother losing her child is the same the world over. People suffer pain the same way no matter where they come from or which God they pray.

How wonderful then if we could in all seriousness define the boundaries of our country as it is in the quote and do away with all the divisions and barriers and walls created by humans and see ourselves as inhabitants of this beautiful planet whilst remembering that one of the boundaries is the Day of Judgement. Wishful thinking but worth a thought.

I embraced Hinduism with pride. That is not because of what its written word is, but because as I was growing up in a Hindu family though my parents were not overtly religious and far from being fanatics, whenever I asked a question pertaining to other religions and how I should view them, I was always told to embrace them too! As a child I, lived in Morocco where I had Muslim and Jewish friends and whoever I asked my parents whether I could fast with them during the Ramadan month or partake of the Sabbath meal, the answer I always got was a resounding yes with a small caveat: provided you do not hurt their sentiments. Having spent some of my school years in a Convents I, like all my catholic friends, said the Lord’s prayer with conviction and attended mass as I was in the choir. For me I was just praying to God, and my God had no specific religion. To a child growing up far from her country, Hinduism seemed a wonderful religion and making it mine was a matter of pride.

Then came the fanatics and everything changed. I was deeply hurt when a mosque was destroyed in the name of a temple and other terrible things happened in the name of religion. No God can approve of killing innocents. It does make sense.

Religion to me should be contained within the walls of your home and should not cross the door. The problem is that it is a wonderful tool that all rulers have used to control populations and exercise power with impunity.

The day of Judgment that lies on the west according to the quote awaits us all. I still believe that the maker we will ultimately meet whether we are cremated, buried in a shroud or grave or left to the vultures will never forgive us what we have die in His Name.

I just hold on to the religion I was taught, even if at times it is almost impossible to do so.

Dispassion is a gift not given to all, certainly not to me. I found this turn of phrase in the personal histories column of last weeks Tehelka magazine. The piece is entitled How Does One Deal With So Much Suffering Every Day. This is a question I ask myself day after day and having been doing so for as long as I can remember. The author, a young student cruise out: Every day, we encounter tragedies that by all means should tear us apart emotionally. However, confronted by these happenings, we sigh, we sympathise, we pray for those in distress — sometimes we even help them in our small ways — and then we just continue with our atomised, quotidian lives, moved yet unaffected. It disturbed me how we all seemed to live like islands in impervious bubbles, which pain and sorrow would touch, but never invade. The problem with me is that it has more than invaded me. I have lived with this feeling since I was barely 3. Human suffering has always disturbed me and still does every time I step out of the house.

For the author the human tendency to forget and heal is not a character flaw. Nor is it a virtue. It is a survival tactic. I guess when you are young you are able to forget easily and heal faster. This tactic does not work for me. Actually it never has as I feel the same knot in my gut each time I recall the dancing bear that my grandmother lovingly invited to ‘treat’ her only grandchild. What she did was open the eyes of my heart.

I wrote about this incident some time back. I share it again.

The big bear has just finished the last of his antics. The noose around its snout ensured he did not step out of line. The owner in his tattered and threadbare clothes stands proudly hoping to get a good take. The house is imposing; its inmates look rich.

It is a chilly morning in this small Indian town. A watery sun is trying to break through the late morning mist. The grandmother has specially arranged the show for her 3 year- old grand daughter who has come from across many seas. She gets up and gives the man a few notes. A lot for a simple bear show in times when a few coins bought a lot of ware.

The man still wants to try his luck.

“It is very cold, Memsahib, would you be kind enough to give me an old coat”

The grandmother knowing the game smiles and tells him to go. The man insists. The grandmother raises her voice and repeats her words. The game goes on for a while till the man realises he will get no more and packs up his ware, urges his bear to move on and walks out of the gate.

As everyone gets off the rope chairs that had been laid out in the veranda for the performance a loud wail is heard:

“You are all very mean, you have so many coats hanging in your cupboards and you could not give the man one”

It is the little girl who has been watching the show from a corner, a tad frightened by the huge animal. Maybe she saw much more than the simple antics of the performing bear.

The grandmother and all present try to reason with her and tell her that the man has got a lot of money and must be happy. But the little girl refuses to be quietened and goes on crying and repeating her now almost incoherent pleas.

The grandfather who had remained in his office now comes out to find out what is happening. The little girl is still saying in between wrecking sobs:” you have so many, why did you not give him one”.

The grandfather somehow sees beyond the words and simply asks his wife to find a coat and send the house servant on bicycle to find the man and give him the coat.

Only when the servant comes back and tells all present that the coat has been given does the little girl stop crying.

The year is 1955, the small town Meerut. The little girl was me!

I am still the girl who said: ” you have so many, why did you not give him one”.  I cannot begin to understand why those who have plenty do not feel the need to help another. I have been shocked beyond words at the callousness and the kind of reasons for not giving that I have had to hear. I recently cakes across a person who could sponsor project why without it making a difference to his lifestyle, a person I took to see the children in their homes hoping that would open his heart, but no way. It did not affect him at all. All it did was made me mad!

The young author of the article I mentioned in the beginning quotes a passage from Neil Gaiman’s book American Gods that freed her of the guilt of not feeling lasting pain. Gaiman writes: “No man, proclaimed Donne, is an island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other’s tragedies. We draw lines around moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearl-like from our souls, without real pain.”

I pondered on these lines for a long time wondering how you draw lines around pain and remain on islands and cover our pain with safe layers, however nacreous. If that were so, than the bear story could have been recalled without the hollow feeling in my gut. Maybe I am the odd one but I am who I am and like what I see.

These is how the  author ends her piece: Human suffering is limitless. If you see what I see, you’d realise, it is limitless. We expose a tiny fraction of our hearts to it, and yet we get burnt. If we could expose all of ourselves to it and feel its true immensity, it would cripple us. We would never be able to do our jobs. Dispassion — it is a gift.

Dispassion is a gift but not for me!