It was on January 7th, 2011 that Manu left us. I guess he had completed what he was sent out to do leaving many questions unanswered. I have often tried to understand what this saintly soul meant to me but know deep in my heart that I still have a long way to go till I fully comprehend the reason of our meeting as only a God of some kind could have engineered this unbelievable tryst between a beggar and a lost ageing woman. The only thing I can say with confidence is that it changed both out lives forever and that the equation in this case was not what many would think. When beggar meets well to do woman, one would tend to think that the beggar is the beneficiary. But this is not the way it happened with Manu. I know for certain that he gave me much more than he ever took. And what is more is that he is still giving abundantly at every crossroad of my life. In return, what he got from me is paltry and tangible: food, shelter, clothes, a bed and even the ample love he got cannot match what he gave me.

You may wonder what a beggar can ever give to someone who many think was born with a silver spoon in her mouth? What if I told you he gave me a reason to live and made me discover who I really am. Manu came into my life when I was rudderless and unable to pick up the pieces of my life that had been scattered the day I lost my father. His deafening cries that no one had heard pierced the armour I had built to protect myself from a life I was unable to find my way in after the loss of the ones who had always steered me in the right direction. It was Manu who stirred my soul and made me realise that I had a life beyond my parents and helped me take my first faltering steps in this new world.

Manu was a child of God, one who had been sent with a mission to fulfil. He was and is the living proof that no soul, however wretched it may appear is useless. Every life has a purpose. If not for him project why would not have seen the light of day. His life changed the life of thousands of other souls, big and small.

When Manu left I was shattered. At first I thought that it was an ominous sign that somehow meant the end of project why but mercifully I was quick to realise that a pure soul like him could never bring grief or destruction. There had to be a deeper meaning, and again I knew deep inside me that it was not because he had given up on life. The child of God who had bravely lived years in the most horrific conditions till that fateful day in May 2000 would and could not quit without reason. There had to be a deeper meaning in his passing and it was for me to unravel it.

I have been doing just that for the past 3 years but do not think I have been fully able to do so. At first I thought that his demise was a sign that Planet Why was not to be as it had been primarily conceived for him. I took some time and gave up the idea but still could not find the peace I sought. I then started thinking of the alternatives but groped in the dark as none of the numerous ideas that came my way bore any results. I knew that I had to carry on the search but also felt that there was more to Manu’s lessons than just project why.

In July 2013 I had to face the greatest and scariest challenge of my life: my husband’s cancer. I could have completely broken down and was at the verge of doing so when I felt an inner strength yet undiscovered filling me with a reassuring warmth and somehow I knew that no matter what the outcome would be, I would come out a winner.

Today as I write these words to honour the one who gave me so much, I know that it is Manu’s incredible spirit that has enabled me to go through this dark period with a smile. He is the one who surreptitiously taught me that one can smile through any adversity just as he did all his life.

As I continue walking the twilight of my life, I know he walks with me and will till the very end.

Today’s news was music to my ears. The new Government in Delhi which has been in place for just a couple of days has done something that I had always hoped and prayed a Government with a conscience should and would do. The news I talking about refers to the homeless: Delhi government today announced a series of measures to provide roof to the homeless in biting cold sweeping the city and decided to replace all night shelters being run from plastic tents with porta cabins. We who sit in the comfort of our homes, with electric blankets, warm quilts and blowers cannot begin to imagine what it feels like to sleep under the stars in the bitter cold with just a tattered blanket to cover you. We cannot begin to imagine how the conditions in which the poor live and how the manage to survive. I have often wondered why our collective conscience does not get outraged when we see families with tiny children living under flyovers. To us they are just irritants and pests as they dare bother our comfortable ride in a heated car and disturb our thoughts which could be about the new sweater we are off to purchase. I have also wondered why the rulers and administrators of our city, irrespective of their political hue or bureaucratic responsibility do not shudder when they see children who according to existing laws should be in school, knock at their car window begging for a coin. Just like every one, they too ignore them or scare them away with a glare.

Many do not know, but it is not just beggars who live on the streets. My first encounter with such people was way back in 2001 or so when I first saw the Lohar (gypsy) camp next to the Kalkaji bus depot. This is a nomadic blacksmith community that settled in various part of the city. The one I am talking about is a settlement of 30 odd families that have lived on this pavement for more than 30 years. Thanks to wily politicians they got a postal address, voter identity cards and ration cards. As I got to know this proud and dignified clan, I found myself drawn to their wisdom and philosophy and spent many hours taking to Tau, the leader of the said clan. I heard their story, the promises they were made that remained unfulfilled. I heard how their camps were razed with obsessive regularity and how they had to line pockets to be allowed to build their homes again. It was almost a cat and mouse game. I was horrified to hear that they had been visited by several politicians and petty officials and promised rehabilitation as they came under the nomadic tribes.

I saw the bits and parcels of documents that had survived the many razing and decided to do something. These were early days when I was still naive and had yet not lost my faith in the system. I decided to approach the NHCR ( National Human Rights Commission) hoping that they would do something. I was sent an answer saying that the Commission had asked for an Action Taken Report. Nothing happened after that.

I was thrilled to learn that the SDMs have been asked to prepare a list of all homeless in 2 days. talking of SDMs I too have my story to tell. I was told one day that there would be a demolition of the camp on the next day. I tried to contact the Chief Minister as I knew someone in her office. Could not. Then remembering that we still suffered from the British raj syndrome I called my friend who was the British High Commissioner’s wife and asked her to intervene. You guessed right. It worked. Well in a manner. The next day we got visitated by the SDM who diligently heard our plight and story, took notes on a green pad and left. Must have thrown the papers on the way. So much for approaching the higher ups.

One day I witnessed yet another demolition and it was heart breaking. And knowing that this happened again and again was unbearable. I decided to file a PIL in the High Court, as that was the last door to knock at, in the name of these beautiful children condemned to live in inhuman conditions. But to no avail. The case is lost in translation.

Sadly no cat and mouse game is endless. The cat ultimately wins and courtesy the Commonwealth Games the final razing happened in 2010.The day I had always dreaded did dawn. I know deep in my heart that my Lohar friends are survivors and must be well. It is I who miss them so!

The reason I recounted this story was to tell you about the reality of this city. I could fill pages describing how the poor live and survive. This city has done nothing for the habitat of the poor. I hope this new Government does something not only for the homeless but also for the slum dwellers who have found their ways and survive with dignity and a smile.

Here are some pictures of how people in this city, the ones that often make our lives better, live:

And I told you that a little girl with brittle bone disease lived for many years in this house below, would you believe me?

They are a family of 6 and had to crawl into their home. Don’t forget that any child with Osteogenis Imperfecta, breaks a bone at the lightest touch. Radha must have had more than 50 fractures ion her life.

I hope and pray that the new government addresses the terrible plight of people living in this city and gives priority to the basic right of shelter to these citizens of Delhi.

2013 was a year that I will remember forever. It is a year when I had to put my life in parenthesises as I was faced with the biggest challenge of my life. Ranjan’s cancer came as a cruel reminder of the cancer that had taken both my parents as I watched in total helplessness and hopelessness. This time I would have to come out a winner even if that meant stopping life as I knew it. That is what I did. My strictly regulated life that had run almost like a clockwork orange since 2000 was put on hold. One of the first casualty was Project Why! It would have been impossible for me to juggle pwhy and Hodgkin as the same time. Mercifully, thirteen years had been ample to train my team and I knew that pwhy was in safe hands whilst I got on learning, then taming and finally overpowering the demon that had entered our lives. I got on with the task and feel I did good, though the battle is not quite over. It will take another six months to really find our way out of the woods. I am confident that this will not be as arduous a task as it has been, as I have now evolved a comfortable pattern that seems to be working. As a new challenge crops up, I know the way to go to overcome it.

Today, on the eve of a New Year, I wonder how I was able to set aside everything that was so dear to me till that fateful July day: the cup of tea and blessings I got every morning, the good mornings of the children, the little problems that one would hash and rehash as it gave one a sense of worthiness, the bigger challenges that required skills you sometimes did not realise you possessed, the long virtual exchanges with friends, supporters and well wishers, the little achievements that turned into huge celebrations, the sense of belonging to a large family and knowing that they were always there for you. All of it had to be put on hold because the one person who held it together for me was in danger. I knew that without him, I would not be able to carry on. So there was never an iota of doubt in my mind when I took the decision to temporarily suspend my life.

Was it easy? Not at all. Did I have coping strategies? Indeed I did. Today I can reveal how I could survive these last months without losing the essence of who I was.  One of the things I found myself doing almost surreptitiously was looking at pictures of project why, pictures spanning all of 13 years. It was a comforting walk down memory lane that I took leisurely, sometimes staring at one snapshot for a long time and letting memories flow back. The picture I chose to illustrate this post must have been taken 8 years or so ago. The little chap in my lap is Popples! Each picture told a story: a story of courage, compassion, fortitude and joy. Each picture brought a flutter in my heart as I knew I was a little part of each one of them. I found myself smiling and even laughing alone. Thank heavens I rise well before dawn and these little escapades happened when everyone else slept. I also must admit a tad sheepishly though, that I often felt a sense of pride laced with humility. In fact, I was truly never away from my beloved project, I simply tuned it to my reality.

In spite of my physical absence and forced sabbatical, project why was very much part of my reality. In some ways this forced vacation compelled me to look at the future realistically. I know that we will have to make changes, so may have to be drastic because of elements beyond our control: the imminent loss of our women centre tenancy, the probable razing and relocation of the Okhla slums in keeping with the new social avatar of this once neglected area, the state of our funding and also because it is now imperative to reassess matters as more than a decade has passed since it all began.

I was telling a friend and supporter about how the social profile of the street where we began in the summer of 2000 had changed. What was once a motley amalgam of mostly single storeyed mud shacks with tin roofs and where our computer centre and maybe a handful of tenements were in brick and mortar, is now a series of multi storeyed brightly painted tenements, with dish antennas and even washing machines. On a street where you barely saw a bike let alone a car but many bicycles, you today see cars, bikes and hardly any bicycles. This is proof that a decade in the life of an urban slum brings about social mobility. However difficult it may be to accept, one has to realise that it is time to move on. I am sure this would have happened irrespective of our presence, but somehow I think that we have had a role, albeit tiny to play in the empowerment of this slum.

Another failure, if I may call it so, that we have to accept is the fact that the model we adopted has resulted in our inability to keep in touch with the majority of our students once they have graduated or left for a variety of reasons: gone back to the village, moved because of the nature of their family’s occupation, moved because of the inordinate rise in rents and so on. This fills me with sadness as it shows a deficiency in our approach as we never thought of setting up an old students group or make sustained efforts to keep in touch with those who had left. I guess this also stems from our initial desire for reaching out to as many children as possible. Numbers did mean access to more funding but also made us take hurried decisions that often did not stand the test of time. We had to shut certain centres because of non availability of space to rent! And let us not forget the fact that when we began there were no NGOs. Today they have proliferated all over.

As our sustainability plan did not come to be, project why’s future is again a cause of concern. Its funding is still very fragile as it depends on goodwill garnered by constant interaction with people. I would be naive and foolish to believe that I will continue to have the energy needed to keep the pace. It is time to find alternative avenues that we can nurture in the coming time so that they can replace the present funding structure. This will be a slow process but needs to be initiated at once. The face of project why has to change and those who have till now been in the wings need to come to the fore. My being AWOL has already started the process.

I am aware of the fact that those who will take over do not have the same skills as I do though they have a host of skills I never had nor will. I feel that what would work best for them is to have a well defined structure that they can take ownership of. What I mean by that is that we need to build our own centre in a location which is approved and hence that will not be razed or relocated. That will ensure that the children we reach out to will remain with us. My idea is to sell the land we have and find a smaller plot near the women centre as it is located near a rehabilitation colony. With the remaining funds we would build a small centre that can be extended in times to come. I truly feel that a building that belongs to pwhy will motivate the team to walk the extra mile needed not only to keep it going but to make it grow.

This is my line of thought as of now. I have six months to fine tune it.

So help me God!

I have not written about recent occurrences and happenings. One of the reason is that I have been somewhat AWOL from life as it once was. But there is another reason which is the onslaught of totally disparate events that defy every norm and challenge reason. Let me try and explain the course of my thoughts. Just as I get in the mood to write about an issue, pops comes another one that stops one’s thoughts! And believe it or not, just as I had written the first line of this post, the news of a mother burning her five month baby to appease the Gods to bring good fortune to her family and feeling no sense of remorse. Speechless.

But that is not all. In the past days/weeks we have heard of a bureaucrat stating that no one dies of cold as if that was the case, no one would be alive in Siberia. This in the wake of the death of many infants and children in the Muzaffarnagar refugee camps! This is so typical. The authorities would concede that children died of pneumonia. My dears Sirs, pneumonia is a result of being exposed to cold. This goes the same was as the misguided assertion that no one dies of malnutrition. True they die of diseases caused by malnutrition and an impaired immune system. I cannot understand the difference. Children die and that is cause enough to hang our heads in shame. I totally agree with the politician who quipped back and stated that the bureaucrat in question need not go to Siberia but simply spend a night preferably with his family in the conditions the children were living in.

As if that was not enough, the CEO of the state where these children are dying of cold, has organised a 14 day carnival with merry making and splurging. Is this simply yet another example of the two Indias? I find it revolting. Needless to say the carnival is funded by our money. Seems like the people who ‘rule’ us have sold their conscience to God knows who. To add fuel to the fire, today’s news says that 150 families were forced to leave their camps. Does anyone even think of where these families will go in this bitter cold.

In another part of India, legislators are off on a study tour! They will visit exotic locations, view exotic dances and partake of exotic meals. Their programme does not seem like a study tour at all more like an R & R with lots of shopping thrown in. Apparently each legislator has the right to 2 such study tours during his/her tenure, all paid by the tax payer. One legislator stated the following: We are not committing a big crime…don’t you send school children on vacation..similarly MPs and MLAs are being sent through the legislature committees…. Yes dear Sir, we sent children on vacation but we pay for their trip! Another legislator who is on a ‘study’ trip to Australia stated that they were meant to go to Japan, but Japan was ‘to chilly’ hence they decided to cross the Equator to warmer pastures. Mind boggling is it not! Seems like the public outrage that has followed this news has made the Chief Minister put all trips on hold.

In Delhi last week 900 person’s homes were left in the cold after their homes were demolished. This in spite of a supreme court order banning demolition during winter months. Many lost everything they possessed. Seems the new Government in the city has promised relief. Let us hope it comes in time.

I guess it is just not the politicians or bureaucrats who has lost their conscience, compassion and empathy. It is said to be the coldest December in 10 years. There are over 50000 homeless in delhi, children, women and elderly people. They are not INVISIBLE. They often huddle under flyovers we go by with the eyes of our heart tight shut. Maybe it is time we opened our eyes and did something. A blanket, a hot meal, a cup of tea, anything to ease the horror of the cold nights these people have to face.

I love Utpal’s new school. It is a school after my heart, the kind I would like every child born in India to go to. The first time I visited the school I felt an immediate empathy as you see the Principal is a daughter fulfilling her parent’s dream! But that is far from being the only reason.

When things became out of control in his old school, I had to do something. I suddenly felt transposed to the terrible night way back in 2006 when I scoured the Internet in search of a boarding school for 4 year Utpal. Not easy but I did find one and he spent 8 years in that school. It worked well in initial days when he was still what many would call a baby, younger than what Agastya today. Bu then things did not turn right as grew and understood his reality in bits and pieces and poor child, coped as best he could. He had to deal with the disappearance of his mom, the constant bullying about his scars and a very depleted emotional bank that could only be filled when he was home with us. Things got from bad to worse and the once enabling environment became a depleting one. When all our interventions failed, Utpal auto mutilated himself, thankfully with a blunt metal ruler. It was time to move on.

Another search on the Internet, undoubtedly guided by Utpal’s Angel, helped me find a new school immediately. Utpal, the eternal survivor, took to his new school like a fish to water and once again was to the manor born. The credit goes to his school as much as to him.

There are some very special and probably invisible and intangible elements in his new school. First and foremost in my opinion is the fact that all the children of the school staff from the lowest to the highest have to study in the school as the Founder felt that if anyone thought the school not to be ‘good enough’ for her/his kids then s/he could not give it their best. So the one who cooks, cleans, watches, drives, supervises and teaches ultimately cooks, cleans, watches,  drives, supervises and teaches his/her own child and you always do your best for your child. But that is not all, this non negotiable rule also ensures that children from all walks of life learn together and is thus as close as one can get to my dream school which is the neighbourhood school where children from all walks of life learn under the same roof and bond ties they never would have otherwise. This is a true case of my driver’s kid sharing a bench with my kid, something that is still anathema to many.

The other aspect of this school is that there are kids from across India and some from other countries too! This is a true celebration of diversity.

But the real litmus test of any school, is its ability to highlight the plus points of each child and work on the weaker ones without demeaning the child in anyway. The stunning proof of this is the fact that though Utpal was barely two months in the school which has almost 2000 children, he was part of the Annual Day celebrations where he showcased his skating skills. Need I say more! I am sure that in days to come he will improve in his studies and gain fluency in English. It is only a matter of time.

I have attended two PTMs in this school. The first was barely a few days after Utpal joined. I was overwhelmed to hear his class teacher say that he was an intelligent child, very creative and very polite. In the next PTM, his grades were not bad and again his teacher was full of positive comments. In a short time the school was able to understand the child and work towards boosting his self esteem. The school also has a lovely counsellor who has understood Utpal’s problems.

There are many other things that I have found very impressive in this school: staff quarters are interspersed across the campus so children are always close to adults; the meals that I have share twice are well balanced and varied; children have many sports and physical activities and thus are out in the open for extended period of times.

I hope and pray that Utpal blooms in this school and fulfils both his and my dreams.

Elections results are out. This time I too voted as for many years someone had decided to strike me off the rolls. This time wonders of wonders my name was on the list. On voting day I wrote a post entitled to vote or not to vote, because I truly felt that there was an option to arrogant style of politics we have been subjected to over far too long. Yesterday’s results are witness to the fact that many of us have had enough of the high handed ways, the corrupt ways and the hubris that seems to have engulfed politics in our land.

I have been on the hit list of local politicos for a long time. The reason? Simply that I had the audacity to empower people who were best left ignorant and subservient and thus easily manipulated. There was time when, because of old links, I had sought the help of the very powers that stand defeated today. What I got was false promises after being sent from pillar to post and treated with contempt. When a community centre was made in the very park we taught in and promised to us but given to a page 3 NGO, I had approached the ruling CEO and still remember being told to continue teaching under trees to which I of course retorted I do not need any one’s permission to do that, and would teach on the trees if need be. That is when I decided to find my own ways. The rest is history!

I was asked last week by a friend why I was so disillusioned as Delhi had improved in the last 15 years. My answer was simple: come and see how the other half lives. It is great to talk of the flyovers and malls and other glitzy buildings. But I would like you to look at some pictures which also are from the very city we live in

This is a ‘house’ where a little girl with brittle bones lived for many years with 7 members of her family. This house is barely 4 feet tall. You had to virtually crawl and tuck yourself in it. No wonder Radha got many broken bones when she lived here as the lack of space resulted in everyone having to walk over the other. The family had to pay 500 Rs a month rent and feed the ‘landlord’. There was one saving grace: this house what a street level. When it was razed during one of the famous slum clearing exercise, the family moved into another ‘house’. The house they live in is about one and half feet below street level, in other words a hole! Like all slum dwellings there is no window, no sunlight, no fresh air and let us not talk of bathrooms and toilets.

But people who live in such holes are still house proud and that is the most touching factor of the ‘survival’ story. It is not easy to store your whole life in a hole and yet that is what slum dwellers manage to do with elan. They find space for their Gods, their belongings, their utensils, their clothes and even the odd decorative object. At night, particularly in winter, 6 or 8 people will sleep in this space, but come morning it is transformed into a space than can even welcome guests as the generosity of such people surpasses ours. I am witness to this fact.

This was the Lohar (gypsy blacksmith) camp next to the Kalkaji bus depot. For many years we ran classes there and were witness to the many razing and rebuilding of this camp. It was almost a cat and mouse game. The authorities came and bulldozed the camp. A day or so later when money exchanged hands, the camp was built again and again, till the fateful day before the Commonwealth games when it was destroyed for good. This community is a nomadic tribe and according to the law should have been resettled. The city gave them and identity as they all had ration cards and voter cards and even a postal address! Every election promised were made to them and never kept.

This is the sad saga of the slum dwellers. They come to the city and find some unused land and put up a shelter of sorts. Instead of the shelter being demolished immediately according to the law as these are illegal encroachments, the corruption drama begins. The authorities ask for money and politicians promise to legalise the settlement. This emboldens the slum dwellers who ‘build’ a better house and even add floors and rent rooms and become ‘landlords’. The whole drama can carry on for decades till one fine day the land is needed and the slums demolished. Some people get relocated but not all. Needless to say that on demolition day no politician is available, they have all gone AWOL. Who cares about what happens to the children, the women, the men; to their schools and livelihood. They are just pushed to some faraway place and given twelve and have square yards of barren land.

I love this picture. It was taken years ago at the Lohar Camp. It proves beyond doubt that every one has a destiny that no one can change. The boy behind me in an orange shirt is Sanjay! He is today a model who walks the ramp not only in India but in Paris! want proof? Here it is.

I had to write about this fairy tale story as many still believe that fairytales do not happen! A much needed breath of fresh air.

But let us move on. The reality is that no one looks at the way the poor live, eat, learn, work, in a word survive. Many slums have been erected next to factories that spew all kinds of toxic smoke and discharge strange coloured chemicals in the drains that flow just in front of tenements, with children playing nearby. I wonder if any study has been done on the health of people who live in close proximity to toxic waste. And talking about health, whilst new swanky hospitals mushroom with alacrity all over town (we have a handful walking distance from my home) nothing new has come up for the poor who have the option of going to local dispensaries if any often to be referred to a bigger hospital miles away, or to visit the local quack who will hand you a set of pills in a plastic pouch without telling you what they are. Often I guess the body takes care of the healing! And if you do have to go to that speciality hospital it means spending the whole day or more and often losing wages for that day.

Instead of building new facilities for the poor, the Government came up with yet again a reservation solution. How we love reservation, it seems to be part of our collective genes. So if you have a BPL card, and let me tell you that this is no easy feat, then you can go to the swanky hospitals. The problem is that many of the poorest of the poor do not have these cards, and most of the poor are unaware of this facility.

Most of the programmes for the poor never reach the really poor as these do not have any documents. Think of the homeless, who should be the first in line for these programmes. On the other hand they are many who hold BLP cards even though they are not poor by any yardstick.

And talking of reservation again, when the Right to Education was adopted, rather than building new schools and improving the existing ones, the Government decide to ‘reserve’ 25% of places in existing public schools from the swankiest to the humblest. Here again the true beneficiaries are either unaware of the scheme or do not have the required documents. However I know of many children from the middle classes who study for free in good public schools as their parents found the ways to get themselves all necessary documentation.

All these populist programmes are just a drain on finances and look good on paper but never reach the intended beneficiaries. If they do, their implementation is a far cry from what is on paper. Just go and visit any of the government run creches under ICDS schemes and you will be horrified.

Corruption is rampant and somehow has become a way of life. Political parties of all hues follow the same practices. Gone are the days of ideologies. It is all about money and power. You will be surprised to know how many bottles of booze and wads of money were lavished on potential voters by all the parties we know.

The arrogance of politicians again of all shades, hues and size is galling. A young widow with three children who works for me told me a shocking tale. When she went to the local Corporator’s office to get the widow’s pension she is entitled to, she was told by one of the minions that she was young and should get remarried. The poor child left and never went back. The reality is that most of the beneficiaries feel that politicians dole these goodies from their pockets. Forget democracy! Feudalism serves politicians better. I always gall at the ‘touching of feet’ syndrome politicians so enjoy. Does it give them a sense of false power

I could carry on and on but I think you get the picture.

So when a new party comes by and does not chose their candidates based on caste, creed and winnability, it is a breath of fresh air. When these unknown candidates trounce old hands then we see a glimmer of hope. One cannot tell whether these motley crew will uphold their principles, but there is no place for cynicism or doubting Cassandras. We have an option. It is up to us to grab this once in a lifetime opportunity.

2013 has been a very special year for Project Why! A watershed year in more ways than one. For 13 years I had been guiding project why at every step. The first few years saw me present almost 24/7 with hours spent on the field and the remaining on my computer or thinking new ways even when I slept. The next years, I withdrew my daily presence which I felt was a hindrance to my senior staff who were unable to grow their own wings as they felt compelled to be the wind beneath mine. I use to go to the field every morning as I could not stay away from the children and then leave after a cup of tea and my daily fix of Good Morning Ma’am and smiles. In the first months I received umpteen calls seeking guidance and reassurance. But as time went by, the number of calls decreased both in duration and number till the time when there ware almost none. I use to to call to find out how things were and was greeted by a cheery: all well!

My task was a bit little the one of the King in the Mother Goose famous nursery rhyme: Sing a song of sixpence. Substitute ‘finding’ to ‘counting’ and you got it right. My duty was to keep the coffers full now and forever. The now bit worked, the forever sadly is still on the anvil with the iron barely warm. It was an comfortable solution that worked well for all and soon became a habit. Researchers have found that it takes 66 days for anything to become a habit. I discovered this fascinating theory a short while back. Hence we were all set in our ‘habits’ and comfort zones. 2013 was to be a rude awakening that would require creating new habits.

My husband who had been unwell for quite some time took a turn for the worst. The problem was that no one was able to diagnose the cause of his slow fading away. For me, the year began with innumerable visits to innumerable doctors of all kind, and even soothsayers and star gazers. With every day my worry and fears grew my quantum leaps. My presence at the project was severely truncated as most of my time was spent accompanying my husband to all hues of the medical fraternity. Every test was inconclusive or within parameters. We groped in the dark till the fateful day when the final diagnosis was made: cancer. It was a turning point for me as I knew that for some months to come, I would have to give all my attention and time to my husband.

I convened a quick meeting of my senior staff and handed them project why to run till the time I was emotionally and physically able to return. My incredible team had no hesitation in telling me that I should do what my heart dictated and not worry at all. They were true to their word and I am deeply grateful to them.

Last week I requested them to give me a quick rundown on how the year had gone and this is what I want to share with you today. Over and above the day-to-day running of the Project I was astounded to learn about the multitude of things that had been achieved during the year. It goes without saying that every child passed her/his examination and that once again we got good results in the Board exams. But that is not all.

All festivals were celebrated in each and every centre. In March, April and May our children performed a show in the Ashoka and Hyatt hotels for foreign guests. The dances were perfect as workshops had been held prior to the shows.

A group for Stanford University ran workshops with the students of all our centres in based on their SMILE (Stanford Mobile Inquiry-based Learning Environment) and mobile phone were donated to our children. The children are using this learning approach every week and really enjoy it.

Gender equality and adolescent issues workshops were also held in every centre and a sex education workshop was organised for the teachers.

An adult education programme for women has been set up at our women centre and is doing well.

A partnership with Vintage Rides gave our Okhla children the the opportunity to learn about Royal Enfield bikes. Selected students from Okhla school were given  mechanical classes and training in which they learnt about the construction and function of bikes. Vintage Rides has also offered internships to interested students.

A science workshop was organised in all centres as well as a magic show. This was thanks to our favourite volunteers from New Zealand Alan & Em!

A photography workshop was also held with our Govindpuri children as well as an animation workshop with some of our computer kids.

The Khader children were taught to care for plants and our special kids have their little kitchen garden.

Many in house awareness programmes were also held. The topics were water, hygiene, gender equality, pollution etc. Posters, drawing competition and essays were held in all centres.

Some outings were also organised and the children loved them.

The Okhla children painted their school for Diwali and the brave special kids painted their classes and decorated them. Awesome.

And let us not forget the lovely diyas painted by the special children!

There is much more, I am sure. What is overwhelming is the fact that the project ran without any glitch and that is the greatest gift I could have wished for.

I am so proud of my team!

Here are some pictures that will give you an idea of it all.

Dharmendra, Shamika, Rani and Mamaji

And very a very proud Maam’ji

I have not voted in the past 3 elections as my name had mysteriously disappeared from the voting list. This time it surprisingly reappeared. Wonder why! Actually the last time I voted was when I exercised my right not to vote and made it to the newspapers! I guess that was when someone decided to strike my name off the rolls. Now I am on the rolls again. Things have changed since and we even have the NOTA option. But quite frankly what is the use of this option as nothing comes out of it. We need to give the None of the Above option some teeth.

Voting is our duty, specially we who have been given the intellectual capacity to truly understand what democracy means and the responsibility it entails. It is not enough to vote for someone who has given us infrastructure and glitzy malls with the desire to make our city as beautiful as Singapore or some other fancy city. when we vote, we also need to think about the children begging at red lights, the children working in abysmal conditions when they should be in school. When we vote we should also think about the millions in our city who lived in dreadful and disgraceful conditions rucked away in cramped damp and dark holes because no one ever thought of proper habitat for what we call poor, but who are an integral part of the life of a city. When we vote we need to think of the school children who are packed in classes like sardines in a box, who have no drinking water or basic facilities. When we vote me must keep in mind all the unfulfilled promises as well as all the wily agendas and vote back manipulations.

I have witnessed several elections where candidates go make promises to unsuspecting people, promises they know they cannot ever honour. How many times have I not heard that slums will legalised if you press the right button or tick the right box, slums that I have then seen raised before my eyes while the candidate goes AWOL and his phone rings and is not answered.

When we vote we must think about the children who die of malnutrition every day in our very own city, of the innumerable homeless who sleep in the winter nights. There is so much that is wrong around us. It is time something changed.

The known political parties are sides of the same coin. Corruption is rampant and out of control. Money power is everywhere. This year people were paid 300 rs a day to participate in rallies and the much preferred padh yatras or walks. We had one come by the project why lane. You first hear drums beat from far and then an ‘advance’ party rushes with garlands they thrust in your hands so that you garland the candidate. Then comes the candidate followed by some workers and an army of paid campaigners. This time we had a lady volunteer from France who was given a garland and played the game. I was most amused when I was told that the candidate asked for her vote. She looked European to the hilt. The candidate seemed in a daze and playing a well rehearsed script. Bottles of hooch have flooded the slums and I believe money is abundant.

Till this election, I really did not want to vote. More so because I was experiencing first hand the lies that had been carefully woven to entice voters. This time we have a third option. It may not be the best but it is at least a beginning. If they put up a respectable show then we may see a new breed of people coming into politics, people who can at least act as watchdogs and ensure that things run better. If they fail then it will be a long time till we see a change in our political scenario. So this time we have to vote, and vote consciously.

The choice is ours!

PS: I just cast my vote. The booth was in the local Government school. I was appalled at the state of the classrooms, the broken window panes, the desks and chairs that looked like a legacy of a Dickensian novel, the neglected play ground! This one of the better schools. I can only admire the kids who study there and their motivation. I would have run away. What is worse is the fact that these classes are in one floor barracks. All that needs to be done is build a proper multi storied school. Are we not paying a cess on education. It is time to ask where our money goes.

A couple of months ago we were horrified when Radha’s mother came one morning to the project and told us that the Doctors of the hospital that has been treating her for years now had suggested that Radha’s leg be amputated. The reason a festering wound on her shin that cannot heal as her bon has become thin and as sharp as a scalpel and the skin taunt. For those of you of may not remember or do not know who Radha is, let me give you some background. Radha has brittle bone disease or to use jargon osteogenis imperfecta. She came to us in 2008 when she is just 7. She is the most beautiful child I have ever seen and a very brave and spirited young lady. I cannot forget how my grandson reacted when he first saw her. His only question to me was: but she will walk tomorrow! Radha lost her father a few years back and lives in a tiny hole with her mother and 3 siblings plus of course a nomadic population of relatives. Her mother runs a food cart to support the family.

Since we have know her, Radha must have had scores of falls, each resulting in a broken bone and a huge plaster. By now she even knows how to cut her plaster when the stipulated time has been completed. I get dismayed and awed by the matter of fact manned in which she handles the situation. I guess this is what is called: survival.

Radha has the most endearing smile, infinite grace and a gentle demeanour but also a quick temper when needed! She dances like a star!

She came back last week, leg intact. Thank God for that as though her little lugs are useless, they are part of who she is. I hope the amputation never takes back.

We know she will not be with us forever. We only want her to keep smiling all the way.

If you have a moment watch her dance. It will warm the cockles of your heart.

It is easy to talk of one’s successes and achievements. It takes more guts to talk about failures and take responsibility for them. And yet it is the way in which you handle your failures that really defines you.  Churchill said: Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. You may wonder why I am writing about my failures today. Let me elucidate.

A few days back I got an email from a young Indian living in a foreign country. He and two others have decided that is was time to do something for their less privileged brethren and set up an organisation called Pankh. Their mission: to provide unskilled men and women with valuable skills, enabling them to build a sustainable source of income. I was touched by their ingenuous fervour and at the same time frightened by what awaited them as I had walked the same path with stars in my eyes more than a decade ago and it had/has taken all my wits and doggedness to survive in the world I had decided to enter and make mine. Charity, for want of a better word, is fraught with hurdles and sustainability is a far away pipe dream that I have still not been able to conquer. I had a long phone chat with one of the founders and tried to share my failures in the hope not to scare them, but make them aware of the possible pitfalls they may encounter. Quite frankly they would have to dare to jump in the void without a parachute and see whether they have the wings needed to fly. After I put down the phone it struck me that I have never really sat down and listed the failures that we have faced in the last 13 years and more importantly analysed the reasons behind these failures. Come to think of it people would learn more from our mistakes than our successes.

I will try and rely on a tired mind which is in its own chemo fog for the past months. Maybe one of the good side effects of my husband’s cancer would be to force myself to take a long walk down memory lane looking not for ah ha and eureka moments but for the blunders and disasters and above all the reasons therein.

One that comes straight to mind before even going into details is that most of our botch ups were either due to my being naive and easily taken in, or to my passionate nature that often acts before it thinks. Some of this could have been avoided if I had selected to have a professional team. But being instinctive and a little marginal by nature I wanted to select my entire team from within the community I worked for. This is a decision I have never regretted. The only minuscule flip side I now think occurred was that it took some time for my team leaders to understand that I was open to criticism and new ideas. Till they figured out that, they felt compelled to do whatever I said even if they in their hearts knew it would not work. Once they crossed the imaginary barrier they have guided me and made sure I do not make more boo boos! Today they have a free hand in running the day-to-day activities and do it better than I could have dreamt of. I must admit I have given up my zany ideas and gone by their wisdom.

But that does not mean it has all been smooth sailing. We have had some difficult times where staff hastily recruitedwere manipulated by local politicos and wily trade unions and got us into trouble. We came out of these thankfully almost unscathed.

The one thing I have found difficult to accept as it went against the grain of my beliefs was the lack of gratitude – for want of a better word – and at least acknowledgement from beneficiaries. I was brought up with a certain values, and expressing gratitude was one of them, and I guess I judged everyone from that platform. It was difficult for me to palate some of the unkind words and even insults from people one had helped in ample measure. It took me some time to understand where that came from. Actually it seems logical that people who have been denied the basics do want to grab as much as they can at any cost. When they feel let down they do nor have the wherewithal to deal with the situation in a calm manner. We work with people from what is unfortunately clubbed as ‘backward’ classes and they have an enormous complex and even anger towards those of us who have all. I guess it will take time for things to change. Till then one has to have the grit and patience to bear and keep smiling. What one has to understand is they are few among many who have stood by us, but humane nature makes you always look at the bad through magnifying glasses.

However our biggest failure has been in our sustainability efforts. Right from the outset making the project sustainable was first and foremost in our minds. Our mission statement did emphasise that we wanted to empower the community to take ownership of the project and run it themselves. This turned out to be utopian. Even getting one rupee a day from the beneficiaries proved impossible. It is difficult to assess why this happened. I guess the one thing that all NGOs have to encounter is the mistrust people have in you. The moment you say you run an NGO, you are looked at in a strange way. I understand that many NGOs have dubious intentions and are often set up for wily reasons, but to colour every one with the same black brush is not fair. Our biggest detractors have been the local politicos who tried every trick in the book and outside to make us pack our bags and go. This was of course after they tried to take us over by wanting to impose some of their kin in our Board. I can never forget the horrible man who use to visit us time and again first to ingratiate himself and then threaten us. At one time my short hair made me a Christian who had come to evangelise the flock. Then I became the one who received millions of dollars and pocketed most of them. This was in some way aggravated because of my foreign connection which resulted in many volunteers coming to my Project. Most of them were poorer then a church mouse, often friends of my daughter or kids of old friends but the politicos spread the rumour that each came with a bag full of greenbacks! There came a time when I use to make them open their bags in full public view and shout: no dollar, no dollar.

It would have been alright if it stopped at that. One would have thought they would give up. But no! Which set me thinking of the reasons that made one old woman trying to educate a bunch of children so dangerous. What comes to mind in hindsight is the fact that one was not only teaching children but empowering people from the day one. My decision to select to employ local people did not sit well with politicians who need vote banks they can manipulate. They need people to remain illiterate. I guess the watershed moment was when the local councillor realised that one of my students could speak and read English better than he could. And when some of my staff decided to exercise their right not to vote in an election, I was was branded enemy no 1. What followed was threats to me and my daughter and razing our school several times when we taught in parks and on street corners. Ultimately one wore them down, or rather made them change tactics.

When we decided to raise money from within the community be it by making nutritious snacks for children to carry to school, recycled paper copy books sold at a pittance or soap that we made from milled Pongamia seeds, our detractors roped in the wily trade unions that are set up by them and we were hauled to the labour court and it was nothing short of a nightmare. We finally managed to settle matters but our idea of raising money from the local community had to take a back seat. Even the one rupee a day was put on hold. So sustainability from within the community was not a valid option. I think it will take more than a generation to do that, particularly in urban slums. Coming to the city does give a chip on the shoulder and a misguided dream of getting a government job.

We then turned to what many NGOs day: card, candles, Diwali diyas, costume jewellery, paper bags etc and the market was the numerous melas and fairs organised by diplomats and expats. We soon realised that we could not compete with larger organisations and that every one seemed to be selling the same things in different shades. We spent more than we made so that too was abandoned. We then tried making chocolates and believe me they were excellent but again the rich and famous did not like the idea of buying chocolates made by slum people.

We also realised that such projects could never make us sustainable. At best we just made even. We needed a bigger project that would rake in big money. The increase of what is known as voluntourism or tourism with a heart made us zero in on building a green guest house the proceeds of which would run our education and other programmes. It would also enable us to take our students to the next level by teaching them skills linked to hospitality which is a growing market.  It seemed such a great idea and we even had a promoter. We managed to find and purchase a piece of land, get a design and a business plan duly vetted . But then our promoter ditched us and in spite of our best efforts we were unable to raise the funds needed to build. After 3 years we had to bury this idea altogether. We were unable to find the funds. The amount needed was way beyond our league. The fault was perhaps ours, or rather mine, as I did not make PR an integral part of our organisation and did not have a fund raising wing. I have always felt uncomfortable with NGOs that are run like corporates. It maybe the way to go, but not mine. Maybe my inheritors will select this option.

It was back to the drawing board after a lengthy postmortem to figure out what had gone wrong. What was evident was that we did not have the profile needed to access large donors and our page 3 was practically non-existent. Maybe many were not convinced by hospitality as a sound sustainability option. Sustainability can only come from a market where the demand remains constant. When we conceived planet why we felt that a green and not-for profit  guest house was something that would attract a niche market. I still think it would as in spite of the proliferation of guest houses at ever street corner, I have still not seen a totally green one, or one that is not a commercial enterprise. But this was not to be for us.

We now need to come up with plan B. For us it will have to be something that is low on investment and high on returns. What comes to mind is imparting skills at a competitive price. The skills have to be those that would help students get employment. They could range from IT skills and spoken English to technical skills like computer repair, electronic repair etc. For women stitching and beauty remain the preferred ones. We would need to do a market survey to find out what the good options are.

That is where we stand today. Unfortunately, due to personal reasons, 2013 turned out to be a sabbatical for me. I do hope that 2014 will get us the answers we seek.

It is the courage to continue that counts.

I normally do not like writing about scandals and wrong doings but today I feel compelled to give my two penny bit for whatever it is worth as two troubling occurrences are hogging the headlines. The first one is the judgement on the double murder of a child and a servant in 2005 and the other is of the sexual assault of a young journalist by her boss. Both are very troubling in more ways than one. In the first case the killing of a young spirited teenager by her own parents seems difficult to accept. more so if the motive is her relationship with a servant old enough to be her father. Somehow the whole trial seems botched and the idea that two parents, who may be innocent, can be accused of the crime is somewhat preposterous. But this is India my darlings and everything is possible in the name of misplaced morality and righteousness. I am not privy to what occurred in the case of the teenager, but I can tell you first hand how a 12 year old was accused of having loose moral character in order to whitewash an elder who molested her. I just hope that today’s judgement is fair to the parents as I would not like to begin to imagine how a mother and a father would feel if they had to live with the accusation of killing their only child if that were not true. And if that was the case then the murderers roams free. What is also perturbing is that this case was given great importance by the media who had a field day and great TRPs. It was as if the whole country was sitting in judgement. As the same child whom I mentioned earlier said: Only God, the victim and the perpetrator know the truth, everything else is suspect.

The other case is as disquieting. A case of sexual assault by a employer has become everybody’s business. It almost seems as if no one is truly concerned about what the victim wants. In the case of perpetrator known to the victim, the later may not want to send the person to prison at all. However in this case the everyone wants to play judge and pronounce the sentence. The fact that the letter in which the victim describes almost graphically what occurred is now on the net reeks of voyeurism and makes me sick.

Abuse is something you have to live on for your entire life. It remains with you however hard you try to wish it away. It lurks in the recesses of your mind and a small trigger is all it needs to open the flood gates. I do not know if a victim really wants the whole world to take the cudgels on her behalf, more so when one knows that for many it is just a way of forwarding wily agendas. The first thing is to ask what the victim wants and respect her wishes.

Is anyone listening!

In a world where every excuse is used and abused to create chasms between people, where religion creates walls built by politicians and others comes a heart touching story I experienced today.

On the spur of the moment I decided to go and wish Utpal a happy Diwali as he had decided to stay in school with his new friends. I bought some sweets and goodies and a few board games that he has asked for. It was a delight to see him run to us with a broad smile and a happy gait, something I had not seen for long. He was all excited and could barely express his thoughts as he told us everything that had been happening. You could feel his happiness. He then wanted us to meet his best friend. So we all marched in search of the best friend who turned out to be a delightful boy from Afghanistan. His Altaf if I recollect correctly. The two boys share a dorm and are in the same class and are both skaters. They showed us their bruises.

After some time Utpal asked us to buy him some crackers are a small stall of Diwali items had been opened in the school for the staff. We did not quite know if we were breaking rules but the boys’ enthusiasm was irresistible and we gave in. Both the lads chose their crackers as they made plans about how they would celebrate Diwali in the evening. It did not matter what religion they were, all barriers are conquered when you are best friends!

We left them both plotting about how they would light the crackers as matches are only allowed for class XI and XII kids but then Altaf’s brother is in class XII!

We tiptoed out of a world that was not to be disturbed with moist eyes and a happy smile.

Keeping up two blogs and being a cancer buddy is taking up more waking hours than I have, and if I were to give up any more sleep I would collapse! Not to forget remote controlling project why and brain wrecking about its future. More than enough for even superwoman and I am far from that. The unexpected news about Ranjan’s cancer has also made me realise that we are not masters of our time. That is a secret only God is privy to. In trying to juggle all the roles I have had to suspend writing my second book after 100 odd pages. However this has to be done too, as is recounts the Project Why story and that is only in my head. So I beg your indulgence in case you do not see as many posts as usual as i plan, like any self respecting writer, to write for at least 3 hours a day. Hope you will understand!

Election time is looming large over us with almost daily rallies, shrill speeches that not say much more than one leader attacking the other in a perpetual cat and mouse game that turns annoying. Every party is blowing its bugle and enumerating its achievements and seeking our seal of approval that should translate in our vote on the right symbol. Some statements are so ludicrous that one does not know of one needs to laugh or cry. In a recent speech a young aspirant to the highest office stated: that when he had first come to the region, he had suffered mosquito bites and when he had consumed water in a village, it had got his stomach upset. “But I was happy. Politicians should know the hardships faced by people“. I heard the speech and it made me jump. To many questions begged to be answered: why after 60 years of Independence when the said politician’s party has been in the seat of power for decades does one not have clean drinking water for every citizen; did he know that it is this very water that gave him a stomach upset quickly cured by the best doctors, that kills 5000 children a day! And will having faced this hardship for one day make him do something to make things better. What he suffered for one day, millions have to bear everyday. Do our politicians realise how many of their voters spend their lives in survival mode in silence and dignity, pursuing small goals that they strive to realise? Not many, if any!

A well known magazine celebrates its 18th anniversary and in its special issue includes and article entitled: Eighteen yellow roses in a bouquet. They are the thoughts from 18-year-olds who have much to prove, to themselves and to the generations before them. They are stories of gentle and simple hope and I urge you to read them. I will profile the two that touched me the most.

Shamsher ( I chose to place his photo as his face touched me deeply), is a lad who had to drop out of school because of illness and poverty. He wants all Indians to be happy. His goal is to be a tailor and his idol the tailor master who is teaching him stitching.

Sunita was born in a Naxalite infested Gadchiroli and at 12 had to chose between marriage or forced employment with the Naxals. She chose neither and ran away and joined a boarding school. Her dream to be a police officer and her fantasy: to fly in the sky!

They are young Indians with simple dreams, dreams that could be fulfilled if anyone cared. Shamsher and Sunita are the true faces of India, the ones that have been let down but have not given up hope. The ones that build a life in spite of all odds. The ones we should all care for. But do we?

An article entitled Hands off do gooders caught my attention this week. It begins with the words: come April, big corporations in India will be mandated to spend 2 per cent of their profits on being responsible citizens. Even a person like me who has no head or concept of figures can work out that this is a hefty amount. This caught my eye as I have been deeply disturbed by the future of project why, more so in the wake of the present situation at home that has made death to real to me. As you know we were not able to raise funds to build our guest house cum children centre we had fondly called planet why! Then it may have seemed to many as complete silence. Yes silence it was, but not in my head where new options churned madly amidst a feeling of failure at not having been able to raise the funds we needed. Quite frankly it was a paltry sum for many, yet one that was as inaccessible as the moon for us.

The fault was mine as I should have put on my designer (sic) clothes and fluttered my eyelashes at page 3 does and maybe would have got a percentile of the big profits of corporate houses. This may have been possible in the era before project why, but when the need arose I had already mutated into a recluse. The big planet why dream had to be quietly entombed. Since project why has been running on auto pilot (not a bad thing). Every end of month the heart flutters a little when salaries and rents have to be paid and one heaves a sigh of relief when all monthly payments are made. Yet this cannot go on. We have to become sustainable and also have our own building as being at the mercy of landlords is not a solution.

What you see in the picture is a plot of land close to our women centre and to the Madanpur Khader rehabilitation colony. This means the it is legal and the people who all belong to underprivileged sections of society will not be moved (or so one hopes). Actually most of them were relocated from the Nehru Place slum and other South Delhi slums. This is not the case with Okhla where slums clusters can be razed any time and all our kids moved.

The plan that is churning in my mind is to sell our plot in Najafgarh as it has appreciated substantially and purchase a smaller plot. The remaining money would be used to build a centre tailored to the amount in hand. I believe it will be easier to raise funds for one additional room at a time according to the needs. At present we would like the centre to accommodate roughly what we run at the women centre in addition to a day care for special needs children and a creche. And in keeping with the sustainability need, have space allocated to activities that can be offered at reasonable prices. Though one has to yet defined those as this would be done after a survey of the area and the needs of the target audience, one is thinking on the lines of TV and AC repair, spoken English etc. These classes could also be held after working hours and on Sundays.

So to those who may feel that I am AWOL, believe me Project Why is on my mind day and night. I watch it running perfectly with a sense of pride and humility. What an incredible team we have! I must make sure to leave them a solid legacy, particularly to those who have stood by me through trials and tribulations over the past years. Something they can build on as no matter how hubristic one may be the saying: The King is dead Long Live the King is so true!

This picture may look a bit incongruous to illustrate any post. It was taken at Utpal’s sports day when the children released balloons in the air and one was a little late in clicking the camera. But the balloons triggered my involuntary memory and to took me back to my childhood and to a lovely movie that I saw many times: Le Ballon Rouge or the Red Balloon. It is a must watch film even after half a century! It i a movie that makes you laugh and cry at the same time.As a little girl the the red balloon had magic properties and the ability to follow and lead his friend the little boy. It had a mind of its own and yet got destroyed by an gang of bullies. But then when all hope is lost, balloons appear from nowhere and take the little boy on a balloon ride over the city. When I first saw the film I remember now how the smile came on a face where tears had not yet dried!

When the balloons flew over the hazy Delhi sky, I felt transposed to the moment when I first saw the film and all the balloons that came to wipe the little boy’s tears. I knew I had to take a picture of the moment, even if it was not a great one.

Project Why is my Ballon Rouge. It came one day into my life one day when I was lost and when all my feelings had frozen and led me for the past 13 years on a magical expedition that made me discover things are never knew existed but more than that on a journey within myself where I discovered strengths that I never knew I had. Today I fear for my Ballon Rouge. A simple prick could kill it. The balloons in the sky were a reminder of the fact that I need to anchor Project Why as soon as I can.

If you have 34 minutes, do see the film and try to imagine what your Ballon Rouge is!

Over the moon part 1 was on my other blog! It was about one man in my life. This one is about the other : Popples. Today was his sports day and PTM in his new school. The programme was from 9 am to 3 pm. I must admit I was a little apprehensive as the old biddy gets tired and the prospect of watching races was not very appealing as the day promised to be hot and Popples was not participating as he has been in school for less than a week. We reached around 10.30 am and tried to find our way to the grounds. We thought we would sneak into the back row as I do not like being late and Mamaji as usual had arrived late! Imagine my surprise bordering on shock when I saw the Principal’s Secretary heading our way. God I was embarrassed. She led us to the podium and Shaku Maa’m the Principal got up to greet us and sat us next to her in the VIP podium. I was giving dirty looks to Mamaji for having not got us there on time. Mayla, a young volunteer from Germany was with us. We watched the races and clapped with enthusiasm. I spotted Utpal distributing bananas at the other side of the ground where the children were seated. But that was not all, the three of us were even requested to hand out medals and cups. It was a great moment.

After the programme we were escorted to the Principal’s house where a table for 12 was laid and we ate a wonderful meal, the same one that was served to the children and the other parents.  On the way we briefly saw Utpal who looked a little perplexed. I wondered why. After lunch it was PTM time but I spent a moment with Popples and he was all excited about the school. My worries were allayed. The Principal had told me that I could take him home for the night and he could come back on the school bus that comes near our house, but he decided not to. You see there was chicken on the menu tonight. He also told us that he would spend Diwali with his friends. He introduced us to some of them. I was over the moon. But there was more.

When we finally got to his teacher and I tried to be a little diffident in talking about his academic performance, his lovely class teacher told me was good in maths, very creative, excellent in art and a very obedient and helpful child. I could not stop my eyes from welling up. Was this the same child about whom I had been told just a few weeks ago that he was a liar!

The Colonel Satsangi’s Kiran Memorial school is a school with a heart. You see it was set up in the memory of a loved one and taken over by a daughter to honour her wonderful parents. To me it has the same spirit as Project Why.

I know Utpal will bloom in this school and find the right direction to fulfil his destiny.

It has been a blessed day.

I normally never get over excited during election. Often I only realise it is election time when posters and banners (thankfully not many now) are erected or when politicians gather in car convoys while one is going to work or when noisy cavalcades headed by drum beaters and preceded by party workers handing flower garlands to bystanders urging them to loop them around the already garland laden neck of the candidate who normally walks in a trance hands folded and a beatific smile on his lips. The whole thing looks farcical and makes me wonder how such a parade helps voters in deciding who to vote for. Today’s voters, even the illiterate ones are quite savvy though a bottle of hooch and a roasted chicken led could make them vote for you!

This time, I was reminded of forthcoming elections well in advance when two uniformed  cops landed home with a letter asking that I deposit my gun (before I go further I must state that I inherited a small pistol that pa gave mama way back in 1950; I do not think it has ever been fired. For me it is simply a memento of my parents and I have no ammunition. It have not got rid of it because I do not want it to in the wrong hands.) at the police station till the end of elections. This has never happened earlier and I wonder how it will help in containing violence when there are so many illegal arms around. Anyway this is just to tell you how I became aware of the Delhi elections well before the posters and cavalcades.

I have normally voted each time I have been in town and on the list, as being on the list has varied from election to election and all my efforts have not got us a voter’s card yet! Anyway let us see what happens this time. What I know is that I am no more the candid and naive person who voted with stars in her eyes. I did come from a nationalist freedom fighter family and Congress was the house mantra. My husband use to make fun of us by saying that in our home even the ants were Congress followers. My childhood had been replete with freedom stories that were more than real as the protagonists were my own blood and flesh. Congress was a hallowed word. When still a little girl I came to know that Pandit Nehru was the one to have coaxed my father to leave his judicial career in Mauritius and join the Indian Foreign Service. I still remember the breakfast we had at Teen Murti House where I was witness to Nehru’s proverbial temper as the omelette he was served was overdone. When I came to voting age there was no question of my not voting Congress.

The next chapter of my ‘political’ life was when I was called upon to be Mrs Indira Gandhi’s interpreter and was interviewed by her. When she came to know I was Kamala’s daughter she laughed and said had she known that she would not have bothered to call me. Being her interpreter revealed a very humane side of this iron lady. I remember her being the only dignitary I interpreted for who made sure that I was fed, even if that meant a few minutes delay in the programme. I must admit I mastered the art of eating faster than I do and that is saying a lot. When I accompanied her to Srinagar in May 1974, I was clueless about the weather in Kashmir and no one had told me it would be cold. I just went with Delhi summer clothes. When we got off the plane she saw me turning blue and asked me if I had any warm clothes. I told her I did not but would get something. When I reached my hotel room I found a shawl and one of her legendary capes on my bed! There are many more instances. Maybe I will write about them some day as I had the occasion of working closely with her in many international summits and conferences. Needless to say I still voted Congress.

Having launched myself as a Conference Organiser, I was asked to organise a Youth Congress North South Dialogue which was as sort of coming of age for Rajiv Gandhi. The bond we established over an argument about the placing of India delegates to ensure that Iraq and Iran would not sit together, an argument where he took my side would last till the day he was assassinated. I would work for the Asian Games (these too merit a book) and then spearheaded an evaluation of the 20 point programme across India and finally was his letter writer after he lost elections till he died. Those years showed me the innards of politics and it was nothing short of ugly. My heart was still Congress but somehow I did not vote for a few elections.

I could not have voted BJP. Any party that can whip up enough hate to break a house of God could and can never get my support. Any one who breeds hate is not for me. The options were few. In one election I even exercised my right not to vote but that seemed futile. Even the NOTA button heralded as a big thing does not make any difference unless there is some action if and when NOTA votes are above a certain percentage.

By now I was no more the starry eyed. I had not only seen the inside of a political party but also the reality on the ground, the false promises, the hijacked social programmes, the state of the schools run by the Government, the total lack of health facility for the poor, the inhuman conditions in which families live in the haphazard slums that erected any and everywhere, even next to factories that spew chemical laden water and smoke. I have seen how the children of this country have been let down, I have seen the political dramas enacted time and again and played for the media gallery. I have seen that nothing changes. So how does one bring about change?

In the forthcoming elections there is a new party the AAP that is fighting its election honestly, I hope, with candidates and issues we relate to. But how will they perform once in power. Power corrupts. That is a sad but true statement. However this time people are fed up and I a surprised to see how many of them want to give the neophytes a chance. From the humblest to erstwhile staunch supporters of political parties, all have decided to support the broom! The logic is to give a visibly honest and sincere party a chance.

I would like to exercise my vote if the powers that be ensure that I am on the hallowed list but I still do not know which way to go. I would like to give my vote to someone who sees children begging or working and remembers that too have all the rights enshrined in our Constitution including the Right to Education. I would like to vote for someone who realises that there is too much wrong around us and it is time to address situations head on, someone who works not for the interest of one class, one religion, one segment of society but for the poorest of the poor, someone who hangs his head in shame when faced with the fact that even today 5000 children under five die every day because we cannot give them proper nutrition, clean drinking water and basic health care.

Maybe I ask for too much.

Growing up is hard, child. Otherwise everyone would do it! This was his size when he first went to boarding school. He was 4 years and 5 months. Thursday last he set off for his new school with a smile and a spring in his gait. I did not even get my goodbye hug. He was very excited. The admission took a long time and we never knew he had to sit for a test. He did not like that part at all and apparently did not give it his best. But that was a formality. After all formalities and shopping for new uniforms, books and bedding, he was taken away by his hostel warden. What happened next is a mystery that will be revealed when we see him. That won’t be long as his Founder’s Day is on the 23rd.

This child of God has taken a new step in his life journey. When I look back at his tiny life that extends to just over a decade I am mystified by the number of changes this tiny chap has been made to endure. In the first year of his life I only know that he had to change many homes as no one wanted his dysfunctional parents as tenants. When he moved next to our office just before his accident it would take a few more shifts before I put my foot down and decided to get the family a fixed home. I still remember the day in March 2004 when we found them a home near our office and I was hastily summoned as the women of the family began abusing his mom and saying they did not want their neighbourhood sullied by a woman who drank. I stood by her with the two year old in my arms till an alternative was found. From an array of rather sordid homes Utpal landed in my house as his mom was sent to rehab. Two months later he went to Boarding school. Holidays were again spent in various surroundings: a midway home that accepted kids, our women centre when his mom was there, our women centre with staff, with a sprinkling of short stays in again sordid homes and finally at home with me. It took him time but finally he has accepted this as his home.

Shifting his school was necessary as for reasons beyond our control the old school had stopped being the enabling environment he needed. To fulfil his destiny Utpal needed to broaden his horizons. He needed to learn to communicate in English, widen his social circle and above all find a place where he would understood and nurtured. I hope with all my heart that tis school will be all this and more.

I will be seeing him on the 23rd when his new school celebrates its Annual Day. He will be a little lost I guess but part of the show nevertheless. I will be the proud parent watching with my heart.

Growing up is hard. But Utpal is a survivor and a blessed soul. He will fulfil his destiny.

May God always walk with him.

As I write these words Utpal is on his way to join his new school. I kept the promise I made him when he was crying his heart out. When he was with us for one night, I showed him the beautiful message someone he has never met sent him. It said: Do you know how amazing you are? You are a very strong lad. Good luck in your new school. It sounds like a lovely place where you’ll find many good friends and caring teachers. I’m so happy for you. I took the liberty to add a quote to this photo of yours: “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” You are truly a brave and  wise soul. I want you to know that you inspire me. Every time I look at this giggly pic of yours (after all that you’ve been through, still you continue to smile brightly) it lights up my day and gives me courage to move forward in life. I want to ‘THANK YOU’ for that! Better things are coming your way little one. My love and prayers are always with you. God bless!
I second every word!

I was  wondering what could be going on in his little head when my thoughts travelled back in time to the days when I was his age and even younger. It is funny that I never remembered till now how I too had to deal with change umpteen times and how traumatic it was. If he has his scars, I had the wrong colour of skin and a funny sounding name! In my school life I went to many schools in many cities: Paris, New Delhi, Rabat, Saigon, Algiers and Geneva. not counting nursery school in Beijing when I was a toddler. I realise today how traumatic these changes were and how difficult it was for me to be accepted and make friends and each time I felt settled Papa would come home and tell us we were posted to another country. To me it meant having to start all the saga of being accepted all over again. It also meant learning a new culture and sometimes a new language as I was sent to local schools. At that time I guess it was survival mode and I needed just like Utpal to build walls around me to bear the kind of bullying I was subjected to. India was not a known country and people had strange ideas about it. My classmates use to ask me questions like: do you live in trees in India? or do you all move around on elephants? It use to make me angry and as communication was non existent I use to ask my grandfather to send me pictures of our house and of his car.

As I went to the local schools, I felt different as we always had a chauffeured car and a big one at that. I remember asking the driver to drop me well before school so I could reach school on foot as many of my friends did. I hated being an Ambassador’s daughter! I would have settled being the butcher’s one. I guess things became more difficult as one grew up. When I was 15, my papa sent me to boarding school in Geneva for my final school year. The reason being that there was no proper French school in Ankara where we were posted. It was a school run by nuns and the students of my class (Baccalaureate) were daughters of the uber rich who had failed many times. Some of them had cars and they all wore branded clothes. The school was swanky and we all had single rooms. I was barely 15 whereas my classmates were much older, some being 20! They were not good at their studies and resented me as I was a good student. In the dining hall we had tables of 6 and no one sat at my table. They did not want to sit with the black one! Our names were written on our doors and in the evening they would stand by my door and read my name aloud and laugh. I use to lie in foetal position on my bed and cover my ears with my hands. When I shared this with my teachers they just laughed. One even said you are lucky you can eat all the butter on the table. I did not want butter I wanted friends, I wanted to be accepted, I wanted to be one of them.

I had forgotten about this but Utpal’s shifting schools brought all this back and the images were as vivid as if they had happened yesterday and the wounds as raw and the pain as searing. Even after half a century!  I know how difficult it is to get accepted and how terribly hurtful it is when you are not. I just hope and pray that all goes well with little Utpal.

The last I heard from him was that the admission procedures were still not over as they had to buy all that he needed. I cannot begin to imagine how this lad will feel once those who mamaji and dharmu bhaiyya leave and he moves into unknown territory with his brand new trunk and his brand new clothes! I also wonder how quickly he will fall asleep in a strange place where everything is new. Today I send a special prayer to the God of little boys to descend from the Heavens and hold his hand through the night. I am sure he will. Maybe in the form of another little boy who sleeps in the bed next to his.

I for one know sleep will not come easy!

Yes little one: It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. I have walked that path.

As promised, I brought Popples home yesterday. Today he will go to his new school. What a big step for a this tiny lad. We packed his bag, bough a few things that were needed and then it was time to enjoy being home. It all began with a carom game that was great fun, then his favourite dinner : chicken and chapatis. I left him with the girls and went to bed. Sleep did not come easy as my mind was full of thoughts and questions. Will he settle down fast? Will he make friends? Will he be happy? And then I started wondering what was going on in his mind. I know he is apprehensive about how other children will react to his scars, to his poor English, to the questions he has no answers for : what do your parents do, what is your father, your mother’s name. I know he will find  answers let us not forget he is a survivor and does walk into people’s heart. I pray to the God of small beings to sprinkle enough magic dust to enable him to conjure all the miracles needed to be accepted in his new school and do it proud. I finally fell asleep on this thought.

While I was ruminating dark thoughts, the magic had already begun. Imagine my utter delight when I switched on my computer and logged into my Facebook page and was greeted by this wonderful picture. After Ranjan and I retreated to our room, the girls and Utpal had plans I did not know off. They all went to the Ice Cream Parlour and got themselves a treat. For Utpal it was a chocolate chip cone! I now wonder what else happened before he finally went to sleep. He is still asleep as I write these words. I will wake him up in a while and then I hope he will smiles all the way to school. It has taken a long time for Utpal to consider my house as home. I will end this post by a quote from the Atharva Veda: Him that has control of departure, that has control of coming home, return, and turning in, that shepherd do I also call.

This picture always breaks my heart. It was taken a few years ago when Utpal when I had to leave him someplace he did not want to be in but we had no choice and the little chap could only express his feelings with tears: tears of hurt, tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears that just meant: you did not hear me. The fact is that we did but had no alternative at that given moment. I know that the resilient and brave kid must have stopped crying and moved to survival mode, but the unshed tears I shed stayed with me: tears of helplessness and of guilt. Even when I see the picture today, I feel as bad as I did now. Many a times I thought of deleting this picture but did not as it was part of the journey Popples and I began way back in 2003. This must have been taken in 2007. He was just five and already in boarding school.

Since that day we have had occasional tears but not many. Even when he was upset in school he kept quiet and what was missing was his smile. His cries for help matured with age: bad marks in school, confidential chats with his counsellor or at best a quickly muttered: I do not like the school, within my earshot. He was again on survival mode. Slowly we adults head his silent entreaties and took the step I guess we has hoping for: a new school where he would be heard!

On Monday he visited his new school and fell in love with it at first sight. I think what he saw was people willing to listen to him, people who wanted to acknowledge his plus points and highlight them. He put his best foot forward and behaved like a Prince. He even struggled to find English words to answer his new Principal. She saw his effort and gently switched to Hindi. When I presented his last report card that was not good, she simply closed the it and said: marks did not matter! On the other hand she urged us to send him as soon as possible so that he could participate in the skating zonal competition scheduled for the end of the month. Utpal was over the moon.

Yesterday Utpal had to go back to his old school. When the car came to fetch him, he came to say goodbye, but then burst into tears exactly the same way he had in the picture. He pleaded and wept his heart out. I told him that I did not want him to leave his old school like a coward and wanted him to leave his head held high. I promised him that we would get him home today and in his new school tomorrow. He finally settled down in my arms and picked up his bag and left. His last glance was one of total trust that said: please don’t let me down.

Utpal’s tears yesterday revealed how much he suffered in silence in the last year where he was bullied and even humiliated time and again, the worst being when his class teacher chose to state in a loud and shrilly voice that he was a liar! For me that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I knew his time in that school was up.

We will bring him home today!

Dear Ma,

Today is your birthday. You would have been 96. But you left me 23 years ago to live each day of my life with memories of you. But that is not all. You were such an extraordinary person in so many ways that I feel compelled to at least live up to your expectations and make sure that I remain worthy of all your sacrifices be it your decision to not to give birth to a slave child even if that meant remaining unmarried, or the acceptance of having just one child, you who wanted to have a whole football team! Had I got siblings then maybe we together could have fulfilled all your dreams, but God had other plans and wanted me to be the one to do so. That was/is a tall order. I am still busy fulfilling your dreams.

I chose this picture to illustrate this post as this is where it all began. You were so very ill at my birth and we almost lost you. This must be one of the first pictures when we ‘met’ and in spite of the terrible surgery you had and in spite of the excruciating pain, you gifted me your incredible smile for the first time. It is this smile I held on to all my life and still do. I wonder what your thoughts were as you held this little bundle with its funny hairdo? I know that I was in heaven as I was close to the first home I knew: your womb. As I grew up I came to know your unique life path from a hungry freedom fighter’s brave daughter to an ambassador’s wife! And above all a mother to a difficult and rebellious child who grew up to be a difficult rebellious woman. I guess you are at fault here as you too lived life in quiet rebellion by fighting for every right you could have been denied: the right to education as you grabbed every single degree available to you; the right to independence as you lived alone in Delhi and worked for the right of other women when people your age were married with umpteen kids.

I slowly imbibed your every word, and drunk your every smile. I cannot ever remember you being angry. Everything you told me was safely tucked into some recess of my mind, but ma I had to live my life before I could comprehend the lessons you so gently shared over a life time. And when pa left a few months later to join you, it would take a deep depression that lingered on for years and a chance encounter with a pure soul that was considered the dregs of humanity, to jolt me out of my almost catatonic state. Will you ever forgive me for the years I wasted, you who cherished life so much that you refused any form of palliative care and bore your pain with courage and dignity, a dignity you fought hard to maintain till the very end?

For the past 15 years now, Ma I have tried to fulfil a mission dear to your heart but that you could not complete as life took over. Ina very small way I am trying to give education to underprivileged children and skills to women so that they can gain some economic freedom. Were you not the one who always told me that it was important for women to keep their financial independence. You never believed in joint accounts!

When I look back at these 15 years I feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment though there is still so much to do. I am glad that you are not here to see how we have destroyed the country you and the likes of you fought for. Today there are more hungry and dying children than when you were young and over half of the population struggles to make ends meet. On the other side of the spectrum you have riches you cannot begin to imagine. We have malls that beat Faubourg St Honore! But what is missing is compassion and empathy. It is as if there were 2 Indias that moved in parallel concentric circles. Money is today’s measure of success and in this I have failed miserably. As for compassion I have it in abundance and feel so helpless at times.

The values that pa and you taught me are difficult to follow, in today’s world they are almost a handicap, something people laugh at! I only hope that I can live by these values till my last breath. I have tried to inculcate them in my daughters though sometimes I feel almost guilty, as it will make their lives that much harder, but then they too have your blood running in their veins.

There are times when I feel like the little girl in the picture, the only difference is that the there is no one to hug her and give her that incredible smile.

I miss you mama

anou

I am over the moon today! The reason? A smile that had got lost somewhere along the way is back. Utpal’s smile! The one that  could light my darkest hour in a jiffy. Sadly it had got lost for too long. The bullies and their allies had taken care of that! Yesterday we went to see a knew school for Utpal as he was having a tough time in his present one. I was apprehensive as the new school is far bigger and joining midterm is never easy. But all my fears were allayed when Utpal began smiling and never stopped. He proved us wrong in every way imaginable. We had feared that he would be fearful, withdrawn, edgy, clingy. Far from that. He was to the manor born. His body language, his smile, his gait, everything was transformed.

Me met the counsellor and had a long chat with her and was composed and serious in the Principal’s room. He was introduced to two students and believe it or not he initiated the conversation. My heart went out to him when he struggled to find the correct English words but did not break into Hindi. never mind the grammatical mistakes. I was so proud of him. I knew that once again Utpal the survivor had come out of his shell. He knew that his life would change if the school accepted him and he put his best foot forward and walked into many hearts.

The Principal was lovely as she told him he could join now and even said she would make sure that he participated in the skating zonal competition! When I gently pushed his latest report in front of her, she closed it and said marks did not matter, what mattered was that he be happy! Marks would happen in due course. I know he will shine and make us all proud.

Today he needs our love and blessings.

Come to think of it there were two of us smiling all the way!

Utpal maybe soon moving to a new school. If all goes well it could be in less than a month. The need for the move has been on the anvil for quite some time. It had to happen for more reasons than one. For the past 3 years or so, Utpal has been deeply disturbed and in therapy. This was to be expected as the violence, abuse and pain you suffer during your very early childhood manifests itself in your pre-teens. Utpal had a very violent and unstable early childhood as the child of alcoholic parents and with the mother being severely bipolar. When he was one he also had to bear the excruciating pain of third degree burns in a country where pain management is close to non existent unlike other countries were severely burnt children are kept anaesthetised in the early stage of their treatment. Then he also had to deal with his mother not giving sign of life for 4 years. As he grew up, he also had to deal with the scars on his body which make him ‘different’ and bear the bullying that ensued. All this put together was too much to bear and unfortunately the school was not able to comprehend the extent of his pain.

The school was ideal for the 4 year old who needed to find security and love. That was given in abundance in the early years by some very understanding and loving staff members but as he grew into a pre adolescent and deal with boys, self image and other issues, the one enabling environment became stifling. Moreover the need for him to be able to integrate an English speaking environment was not fulfilled as sadly in spite of 6 years in an English medium school, his spoken English is poor. I guess this is a sad reality in our education system. I was told that in a school somewhere in rural India, children were fined if they spoke Hindi and the only language they were permitted to speak in was English. A good model to follow.

Anyway nothing is eternal and the wheel of change has to move.

I am reminded of the song made famous by the Byrds :
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven.

So maybe the time for Utpal to move on has come! He has got what he needed from this school but now he needs more: widen his horizons, hone his skills, enlarge his friends circle by meeting children from other parts of the country. But that is not all. This school having day boarders and thus buses will enable him to come home often and have regular counselling.

Utpal has always been older than his years. I realised this when he was just a toddler. Somehow this aspect of his personality got obliterated by the slew of problems he had to face, when behaving like a child was what was the right cried for help: his grades fell, his behaviour was challenging to say the least. Had he come and said what was bothering him in a serious and adult manner either one would not have believed him or one would not have taken the required steps.

Yesterday he met with his counsellor has I wanted her to have a talk with him and prepare him for the change that awaits him. He said that he did want to change schools but had apprehensions: that his English would be poor compared to that of his new school mates; that they too may make fun of his scars and above all how would he make friends? His counsellor gave him coping strategies and told him she would visit the school and talk to all concerned and explain everything. He was relieved. But I know my little man will not show his fears. We will have to stand behind him all the way and be there when needed. The counsellor also asked to speak Hindi to him when he his home on week ends and that is his comfort zone.

Let us not forget, the school he is in has been the longest ‘home’ for this child of God. He entered its portals when he was 4 and is leaving when he his almost 12. Good, bad, indifferent it was the only place he knew. So leaving will not be easy for him. The counsellor talked of change akin to seasons that change. I think he understood. Now only time will tell.

In a few minutes we are setting off to have a smart hair cut and buy new clothes for tomorrow’s interview. I hope he likes the new school. One thing is certain: if he does not like it then we put our searching boots again!

For the past nine days, India has been celebrating Durga Puja, the nine days when the Goddess is celebrated in all her divine forms. She is celebrated by one and all, including the men who rape, abuse and denigrate women each and every day. I wonder if they realise that these very women are the image of the Goddess they revere with ‘faith’. Night long prayers, visit to temples braving unheard of queues and much more. A recent advertisement campaign chose to highlight domestic violence by a depicting a series of bruised Goddesses. The campaign was received with mixed feelings. Personally, I have nothing against it it can make even the slightest difference. But that is to be seen.

Every year, during Durga Puja, I have written about this dichotomy asking myself what a young girl who is normally abused and ill treated feels when she is worshipped, as on the 8th or 9th day people gather 8 or 9 girls and wash their feet and feed them. What about the other 364 days? To me praying to the Goddess makes no sense if we as a society do not respect women. To me you acquire the right of worshipping a Goddess only after you make sure that every woman be she 1 or 100 is treated with respect and dignity. In a land where girls are killed for falling in love, babies and toddlers are raped, all you need is to have a vagina, where women are beaten and kicked, Goddess worship has no place. But that is just my humble opinion.

Yet this year the rains have played spoilsport on all the celebrations and in another part of the country we await a cyclone of immense magnitude. I would like to believe that it is a sign from the Goddess to remind us of our place, rid us of our hubris, and makes us start hearing and seeing with our hearts. I would like to believe that every drop of rain is a tear from the heavens meant to jolt us out of our indifference. I would like to believe that we realise that the Goddess is not in the image we make of her but in the depth of the eyes of the most abused woman or little girl!

I cannot end this post without writing about another aspect of these festivities, one I call feeding frenzy. During these days it is said that one should feed the poor. On every street, at every corner people erect tents and cook meals and feed whoever passes by, it could be me or you. The food is often made hurriedly, the bread (puris) cooked on high heat are often raw and thrown away. At the end of the day you are left with food strewn all over the places, precious good quality food that could feed many hungry children. This makes me sick and angry as in this very country there are mothers who ferret rat burrows to find a few grains to feed their children.

Need I say more!

I’m not proud of it, but I cannot deny it: I’m angry at God!

I wrote these words 4 days ago when I heard that Utpal’s mom had reappeared. But then for some strange almost eerie reason, my fingers froze and I just could not add a single word. And though the anger still simmered in my had, I could hear a soft almost ethereal voice whispering what is best called my father’s mantra: the big picture, the big picture. I just switched off my computer and walked away. I needed to take a pause and take another look at the situation which had made me utter blasphemous words. I am glad I did. But I must confess not before I had sent out some seething mails!

Need to put all this in context for those reading this blog. On Friday last, as Dharmendra and I were coming back from the hospital after leaving Ranjan with his best friend in the chemo day care, Dharmendra got a call. I could see from his face that it was unexpected news, and not a pleasant one. And I was right. The Damocles sword that had been hanging on our heads for almost 4 years now, and indirectly on Popple’s head though he did not quite realise it had fallen. Utpal’s mother was back from the boondocks she had vanished to. In that split moment I was assailed by zillion questions needing answers I did not have and felt my anger rising as I asked myself why and how much more would this child have to suffer. What kind of God in the heavens scripted such unfair and hurtful lives where children were hurt time and agin and in every way possible.

Utpal is going through a very difficult time. When he needed his mother most she vanished. I cannot begin to make you understand the pain of a 7 year old who wonders why his mom has gone AWOL, and the total helplessness of the one who had to find the right words to answer questions without lying or fabricating a story that would make it easier for the child. I can never forget the innumerable times when the little lad floored me with one liners that broke my heart. You know why I eat so many biscuits he would say when I checked him on his gargantuan ability of gobbling down biscuits, it is because my mother always bought me biscuits!

When he did not get the answers he wanted, Utpal had a meltdown. It took us a long time to I would not say heal, but I guess the word would be mend or soothe his pain with the help of a child psychiatrist, regular counselling and medication, laced with as much love as one could give, to make him better. Then when we thought that things were finally getting back on course, he revealed to his counsellor how much he was being bullied by his peers in school because of his scars. In spite of several interventions with the school authorities, we decided that he needed a change of school as the enabling environment he needed to bloom was not possible in these conditions.

Miraculously we found a new school and were in the process of getting admission when this news blew us all of our shaky feet. Utpal will not be able to deal with the reappearance of his mom at this moment of his life, and more so because we knew that with her alcoholic ways and bipolar disorder she may just vanish again. Just imagine what would happened to the child.

Utpal’s mom is a very unstable person. True she has had an abusive life. But in many ways she is a very selfish person, almost childlike. She is what we call spaced out, batty! I could have bet my bottom dollar that her turning up out of the blue had nothing to do with maternal love, though knowing her, she is a great actress and would/will put up a great show when he meets he son next.

I am never one to separate a child from his mother. I did not want it for Utpal. For about five years we tried every trick in the book to stabilise her and give her a second chance in life. She was admitted in psychiatric care, went through many rehab programmes, spent almost a year in residential care. We set up our residential women centre primarily so that she could have a job and a place to stay where she would be safe and cared for. That would also be the place her son could spend his holidays with her. But she blew it all. Her Nemesis was/is? the man she ran away from leaving her daughter from her first husband behind. She had two children who died of neglect and then came Utpal. He too would have succumbed to his burns had we not been there to take care of him.

When her psychiatric suggested we help her set up home with her ‘husband’ we did, sparing no cost. They drank all the money and tools! They felt that because of Utpal they could extort anything they wanted. It was pure hell. That is when we approached the Child Welfare Committee and I got his guardianship. Realising that the hen that laid golden eggs was dead, they vanished.

I am willing to bet not only by proverbial bottom dollar but even my last shirt, that she had come back with a plan and not because of her child. Let us not forget that she did not make a single call since March 2010 to enquire about the well being of her son. So I did not fall of my chair when she announced quite merrily to one and wall that she was getting married and she wanted help to open a small cigarette shop! She would be willing to perform all the melodramas needed to get what she wants!

For some time I was mad, and hence the first lines of this blog, but then the big picture theory took over and I began counting my blessings. This time we are not alone, we have the law on our side. This is the time to get rid of the Damocles sword once for all. I wrote a letter to the CWC explaining the situation. As luck would have it most of the bench was present and free so I could discuss the case with them. It was time we found a permanent solution. I presented the case to the best of my ability and told them that Utpal is in no emotional state to meet his mom at this time as he as his emotional immunity was very low and he had to settle in a new school.

The Chairperson, a wonderful lady, gave me a patient hearing. I told her about Utpal of course but also about the possibility of further blackmail by the mother. She has asked to meet Utpal’s counsellor before she decides whether or not he should meet his mom at this time or later. She also added that any meeting will the at the CWC under the supervision of a social worker. She has also summoned the mother and will tell her that asking any monetary or other help from the people/organisation who look after her son is akin to child trafficking!

The convocation is tomorrow. In Scarlett O’ Hara’s words: Tomorrow is another day!

For the past months now I have been on a kind of sabbatical, one I did not really ask for and definitely did not want. Ranjan’s cancer has altered my life in more ways than one, some for the better, some for the worst but all in the game I guess as life’s journey is not always what we would wish for. Anyway one of the downsides is the fact that I am not as present as I would like to be for project why. I guess I could find the time if I did not have to battle my own demons and need to have a new kind of parallel personal life to the one that has made me into a poor ersatz of Florie Nightingale! But I do get my glimpses into my dear project, albeit indirectly and surreptitiously. It could be a picture I am asked to download or bribes of a conversation when my core team drops in. So this post is dedicated to the children of project why and their incredible spirit.

It is Diwali soon and as every year my very special kids are painting their diyas. This is one of their ways of earning a little money and celebrating Diwali together. To many of you the diyas in this picture may look shoddy but when I tell you that they have been painted by children who have a wide range of disabilities where some can barely hold still, let alone hold a paint brush without shaking, they take on a whole new dimension. These diyas are lamps of hope and love. Each one is painstakingly crafted by our kids in the expectation that they would all be bought. For them this is a matter of being recognised and accepted by the very people who think of them as hopeless. They are heart broken when no orders came by. I guess everybody does not see with his/her heart!

But believe me these diyas are special as they come to you from the heart of those that people have shunned but who are the children of a very special God. The one you see in this picture was made by Manu for me the Diwali before he left us. Manu was the quintessential example of the reality that no life is worthless, and every life a gift of God. Had we not met, there would have been no project why. His wretched existence was what stirred a soul I had thought dead after the demise of my parents. I guess it had just frozen, waiting for a tear to kick back to life. For a moment, after his death, I was ready to give up but then I realised that the only way to honour him was to ensure that the show goes on, in homage to this saintly soul. I am so happy to see that once again diyas are being painted just as they were when Manu was around. I hope those of you in Delhi will see with your heart and order a few. I promise they come with the magic of making dreams come true.

TO ORDER PLEASE CALL SHAMIKA 9899134340 OE EMAIL US AT: projectwhy@ymail.com

A child is God’s opinion that the world should go on wrote Carl Sandburg. The highlight of my day is the few minutes we Skype with Agastya my grandson and the days we don’t are not ‘nice’! We have been Skyping since the day he was born when just seeing him sleeping in his mother’s arms was enough to make the old fuddy- duddies (read nani and nanou) was enough make our day. Then smiles were added on, gurgles, nonsensical words and finally coherent phrases. Now our little fellow has turned four an a half and has his own takes, some very profound on the world and life. The lad has been in New Orleans for the past 4 days and we have not seen as much as we would have liked of him but he has appeared a few times and delighted us in is inimitable ways. Now our little chap is a great globetrotter and has seen more places than one could imagine so his concept of countries and cities are quite clear. He has also learnt many languages and at some point decided to speak like Elmer Fudd.

His opening lines when we connect are often: how are you guys in India? Is everything good there? and we respond with Good and how is Paris, St Louis, London  depending on where he is at that precise moment. And the conversation goes on. Last time we connected we asked him which place did he like most and pat came the answer: I like all countries and cities I go to. We were speechless. Though these words may be taken lightly, tome they were profound and touching. Here was a child that saw beyond colours, races, languages and all that divides. Maybe there is a lesson in these simple words for all of us and a true vindication of Sandburg’s words: A child is God’s opinion that the world should go on!

Need I say more?

Recently a staff member’s parents fell ill. This staff member has been with me for many years and over these years she and her family have moved up the social ladder slowly but steadily and are now what one would call a lower middle class family. They still live in the same ‘house’, but this house has been spruced up and extended. The children attend a good public school and the family’s life has changed in more ways than one be it the food they eat or the clothes they wear. I think their wardrobe is larger than mine! Gadgets have found their way in the home and from survival mode they have moved on to urban living mode and are empowered.

When you move up the social ladder you feel compelled to give up certain things that you had accepted for long and that is medical facilities. 10 years back they went to the local quacks when they were ill or doctors who are not really doctors but glorified compounders. There is even one whose boards states that he was trained in Vienna! When your were truly unwell, then you strutted to the closest government hospital.  Strangely or perhaps this is part of the social mobility, the first thing they lose faith in  are state run hospitals, even the ones I would prefer if I had the right contact, and rush to private hospitals that are expensive and with poor medical ethics if any. In this case they shelled out more than 100 000 rupees for the both parents! They did not have any medical insurance.

But let us talk about this new kid on the block: medical insurance! If you pause and think you will realise that  medical insurance covers only hospital stay. Now I cannot state a figure but based on my life I thing we as a family have not been admitted for more than 30 days in the last 40 years in a hospital. Papa, being a Freemason, went to their clinic for his tests and spent 9 days in hospital for his cancer surgery. Mama never went to hospitals and anyway in those time there were very few private hospitals and nursing homes. Having a dear friend in AIIMS, my parents had access to the best. Papa being a government servant could have used the Wellington hospital but never did. This was in the seventies and eighties. I spent 10 days in hospital for the delivery of my two girls. So the need of hospitalisation is very minute. But what we spend on are doctor’s visits, occasional blood tests and other medical investigations and medicines. And as we all know this is a substantial amount. Every visit to the doctor plus medicines cost a bomb that no insurance pays.

So who does this great new private insurance truly benefit! Certainly not the patient. Private insurances benefit the big medical business and fraternity. Have you seen how many new fancy hospitals are mushrooming each and every day! I am astounded! Once you cross the threshold of any of these fancy portals, you are drawn into an infernal spiral. Now let us do some maths! let us say you have a 600 000 insurance cover that you pay 15 000 rs per year and you never get hospitalised, then it is sound business! I wonder what the percentage is! Should you get admitted then everything is done to hold on to you and inflate the bill. My cousin brother was according to me DOA after a huge heat attack but was kept ‘alive’ and multiple surgeries performed on him. He was declared dead the next morning and strangely the bill handed to us was very close to his insurance cover. There was a client who would not get back so let us make the max we can!

So medical insurances cover only hospital stay. That is how it goes. I am sure more doctors are recommending hospitalisation! But today I could not repress a smile when I read a news headline: Insurers in spot as medical advances push up treatment costs! The once quite lucrative business seemed to be taking a beating as new and expensive techniques were available and as the patient did not pay from his pocket he sought the best provided it fell within his insurance. If I am insured for 6 lacs, then why should I take the 70 000 option, I will go for the 3 lac one! But as is said in the article, the insurers are now plotting ways to limit their costs. As I said it is all a matter of making money, who cares about the patient!

She was born on October 1st, 1981! From the instant I held her in my arms and looked at a puckered face, I knew she was special. It was visceral and instinctive. I did not know what life had in store for us, but I knew that she was a soul sent to this world to change my life. Shamika was your happy go lucky child that would walk into any heart. She was full of fun and giggles and delighted us at every moment. Her smiles, her one liners that would surprise anyone, her hugs and kisses and her huge fan club  which was headed by her Tatu (my dad) and had members of all ages.The two of them were parthers in crime and shared many things in common, the first and foremost one being their love for food. On the way back from school there had to be a stopover at the bakery where she gorged herself and made me wonder why she was not eating her lunch. Both she and her Tatu had to fight a battle of the bulge! When he left us, she was 11 and took a long time to get over her loss.

There was also an elderly colleague from my Asian Games days who drove many miles to reach our house at the dot of 8 am with a bunch of bananas and then take her for a scooter ride where she sat backwards and buy her anything she wanted from the local grocery store. She just had to point and it was hers. It could be a treat, a shampoo bottle or some other irrelevant thing, but that did not matter to Dear Mr Parwana who loved this child in a way I have never experienced. He called her Choottu Ram and she did the same.

Shamika was bright and spunky child and we all thought she would sail trough school and university and walk the easy road.

But I told you that I had an intuitive flash when I first saw her and knew she was not the one to walk the trodden path.  Shamika had to take the road less travelled very early in life. School was not meant for her as she was all heart, and maths and logic had no place in her mind. But as a parent I had to push her from class to class not hearing her many cries for help. I stand guilty of having not heard for 15 long years. She bravely did her best, but her best was not enough for the systems that exist in our world. Somewhere along the way she had to bear a pain that cannot be healed, a pain that shattered the very foundations of her life. What followed were some terrible years when her life was thrown out of gear and she lived in a shadowy world that the young girl had built to protect herself. It would take many years for her to come out into the light again. She eventually did but left me wondering if I could have done more to protect her. I still live with this guilt and will probably carry it to my grave.

School was never meant for this child who only knew how to look at the world with her heart. When she ‘failed’ an examination by a single mark something happened in me and as I took her in my arms wiping her tears the mother’s instinct made me say the following words: You do not have to school again! Her whole body language changed and I could feel her gratitude in every cell of my being. The ball was in my court. But I stood firm and parried all the silly inanities family and others flung at me. I had my priorities right: first and foremost was my child’s happiness!

Shamika had always told me she wanted to work with special children. So I needed to find in this world where success is measured in certificates and degrees and not in compassion and empathy, a place where my child could reclaim her life. It was not easy as I trudged from NGO to NGO. But ultimately I found what I was seeking. Shamika was 15 when she began to ‘train’ at Action for Autism. I can never repay Merry for accepting her, as she gave my child a second chance in life. Shamika worked for 7 long years with autistic children and in Merry’s words she was like a fish in water. From an unpaid volunteer she became a paid staff! Then one fine day she decided to join me at project why where she looks after our special children with an rare passion and compassion ! The children love her and so does her team.

It is sad that in a country like ours hands down work does not count and though Shamika has spent 17 years working 6 days a week, she cannot sit for a special educator test as she does not have a class XII certificate. I must admit that if Shamika had walked the travelled road I would not have set up project why as in many ways she was my inspiration. I feel humbled and grateful as she is the one who opened my eyes to a whole new world I never knew existed and fell in love with.

Today Shamika is a stunning young woman who has dreams of her own, exceptional talents and a quiet strength that is often not revealed or accepted. My hope is that she finds her way to happiness and will stand by her till my last breath.

I will end with a quote that sums it all: What I want most for my daughter is that she be able to soar confidently in her own sky, whatever that may be.

Happy birthday dear child and thank you for having come into my life.

Ranjan’s cancer, let us call it by its name as I always feel that is the best way to put things in the right perspective, has had a bitter sweet side effect: time to make our bucket list(s). I must admit that I had often thought of bucket lists and even written about them. Rereading the one I made on April 15, 2010 made me smile and cry at the same time. It all happened when I stumbled on a website that gave reasons for why we did not make bucket lists in time. I will quote the reasons stated:

– you’ve probably never taken the time to figure out who you really are, let alone ponder why you’re here.

– you’ve even avoided doing what really matters to you because you didn’t want to admit to everyone that you’ve got a hole in your blessed bucket;

– maybe you’ve just convinced yourself that, by some miracle afforded by the fountain of youth, you’ll never have gray hair or lose it, or ever have to “kick the bucket”.

Those were happy days! Healthy days! Days when you did not even think that anything could go wrong. Or were they simply days of hubris. Anyway I did start making a bucket list of sorts. In those days my list sounded rather airy and a tad flippant and I quote again:

As I sat pondering at what I would write on that my bucket list, I realised that I actually have already begun one surreptitiously and that it has one big item looming large and named: Planet Why whose bye line should be: ensure that my work of ten years does not go waste and secure the lives of those God in his wisdom dropped my way. Whether Planet Why will be the green haven that will house my wards, or a cold bank deposit that will pay its monthly deposits, or something still unknown I do not know. All I know is that this is the most important thing on my bucket list. I could expand it in many ways: see that Manu his pals live with dignity till their last breath, see Utpal and his pals graduate with honours and become worthy citizens, ensure that as long as God permits hundred of children are given the skills and education needed to break the circle of poverty they are locked in and so on. Ambitious maybe, but a matter of life and death for me.

I would also have a small personal and somewhat selfish list: see my daughter settled and happy, write at least another book, see my grandson grow, take that long due holiday with my life partner, heal all unnecessary hurts, be healthy and brimming with energy and exit with a smile.

It sounded as if I was in control of the rest of my life and quite content.

Let us forward to 30 September 2013, 3 years after I wrote those words. Planet why is now a distant dream, Manu left me but lived his last breath with dignity so that is a big check on the list; Utpal is fighting demons I could have never conjured in my hubris, and project why is thriving on the field on  very fragile foundations.

Never in my wildest and worst nightmare would have I thought that the opening lines of my personal list would be: see Ranjan survive his cancer! Cancer was banned for those I loved, it had claimed too many and I would have only accepted it if it were to hit me! So though all the other items on my personal list remain intact, they are now overshadowed by the arrival of Mr H and by the battle to boot him out. Everything becomes dependent on my victory.

But there is the other list. The one that concerns my extended family: my precious and adored team (even the ones that may have been troublesome or even hurtful) and my children present and future as God has given me the blessing of adding on kids by the day. No nine months here! All that is needed is a big heart and that is something I have. Here again I will make sure that hubris does not blind me. Planet Why will not be the fancy structure that would have raised funds and empowered communities. But planet why in its new avatar will certainly continue the dream, truncated, diminished but still very much alive.

This is probably, after resettling Utpal ( and the process has begun), the item number one on my project why bucket list. My thoughts are still hazy and vague but the idea is to find a small piece of land close to the women centre and near a legal resettlement colony and build a small centre. This will be made possible when we sell the land we had bought for Planet Why avatar 1! The appreciation and size of that land would make it possible to buy and build a smaller project. Of course it will built in the model Laurie Baker had created for slums! We will build as much as we can and later the succession can raise money to extend the building room by room!

The next item is more tricky as the funding model we have is fragile and dependent on one person. The miracle would be an Angel willing to place a certain sum of money in a trust fund. The capital would remain theirs and we would run with the interest. This is wishful thinking but I know the God of small things is listening. I also know he will test me before deciding to send me an Angel or not! In case of the later, I will just have to believe in the maxim: The King is dead; long live the King. At lest the new kind will inherit a building and the goodwill I have garnered over the years.

This is where I stand today with a small petition to all those who have helped, trusted and believed in me: please send a little prayer up in the sky to see that my bucket list is completed in time.

I will again end this post with George Bernard Shaw is poem which says it all:

There are many definitions to the word honour:  high respect; great esteem; the quality of knowing and doing what is morally right and so on. The juxtaposition of the words honour and killing is an aberration as to my mind, there is no honour in killing whatever the circumstances. However honour killing has also a dictionary definition: the killing of a relative, who is perceived to have brought dishonour on the family. The reality is that the relative is always a girl or a woman. This is patriarchy at its best. I do not know who or why someone decided that the honour of the family lay on the fragile shoulders of women and should she deviate then her won blood and flesh had the right to kill her.

A gruesome incident occurred some days ago just 80 km from the glitz and glamour of our capital city. A young girl who fell in love with the boy ‘next door’ was lynched and murdered and her friend beheaded by her own parents. Their crime was falling in love within the clan, a social taboo for people from this part of the planet. And clan is so largely defined that one would lose one’s way trying to find the blood line. The young couple had fallen in love something that is natural and often unforeseen. They knew that their families would not approve so they eloped to Delhi hoping I presume to get married. However the girl’s family called them back under false pretences and killed them in the most barbaric way. This was no on the spur killing in a fit of anger, this was premeditated. The punishment and execution were meted in public and the boy’s headless body left for all to see! This happened in 2013 and not in some medieval time. The sad reality is that this happens more often than we can imagine. The power of village kangaroo courts is higher than the highest court of law. The father, mother and uncle of the girl have been arrested but they show no remorse. In their book honour is greater than the life of the child you brought into this world.

I think that of all the ills of a patriarchal system the one that has to be denounced and condemned is the one that makes a girl the repository of a family’s honour. Maybe it is because God gave us the child bearing burden thus making us most vulnerable. I guess a man can sow many seeds and get away with it. If a son strays, it is taken as he being macho or just a boy. And any way is it not us women that are supposed to entice poor innocent lads by the way we dress, look, walk etc. How does a one year old do that is hard to imagine. Maybe diapers are sexy!

In a country where women are worshipped by the very men who kill their daughters and where people a campaign against violence against women shows bruised Goddesses, I am at a loss to comprehend what goes into the minds of parents when they commit such brutal acts against their own blood and flesh. And what makes it worse is that these are not committed in fits of rage but planned and executed with precision in public. What honour there is in killing your own child.

What is scary is that this practice is accepted by society in these areas where kangaroo courts hold such power and the law of the land comes a poor second. True some have been arrested, but those in their clan they are heroes who had the guts to murder their own in the name of misplaced honour. Local politicians are against having a different and harsher punishment for honour killings.

Local politicians who want to retain their seats defend such crimes. The Chief Minister of the state in question even went on to say that the (in)famous khap panchayats had no role in this gruesome killings. In India capital punishment is meted out to what is called ‘rarest of the rare’ crimes. Beating your won child to death and decapitating the one she loved is in my book the rarest of the rare. But justice has many loopholes and protracted trials before justice is meted out. It is far from being the deterrent needed for such barbaric acts.

Laws against social aberrations, or efforts to change mores and tradition, will be slow to take off. Education is the only way out and that will take time. If a belief that you can kill your child if she dares to marry in the same clan, is so deeply ingrained that murdering your own child is acceptable, then this is a long battle that cannot be won with a few reactions or shouting matches in TV debates. This is the pinnacle of a patriarchal society where women have no voice. Remember these are people who come up with ludicrous explanations for these deviations: eating chowmein, or banning porn sites.

To be able to kill your own child needs very strong beliefs. So what we are up against is something deeply rooted in the minds and psyche of these parents. When our children fall in love with someone we do not find ‘acceptable’, we reason with the child or just give in as to us our child’s happiness is far more important than traditions that seem obsolete and jaded. For us it is happiness against social acceptability and happiness wins hands down.

Many more young couples are going to face the wrath of their families if they ‘dare’ to love someone from their clan before we can find a way to prove the inanity of such customs. The clan or gotra issue is passé. Brahman are also supposed not to marry within their clan, but descendants we owe alliance to are the 12 rishis who lived eons of years ago. Their is no real bloodline, just some social diktats made by priests for reasons they know best. I think an AIDS blood test before marriage is a more sensible idea!

Today one of the front page headline in a leading newspaper is: Rivals allege ‘dirty tricks’ as Delhi Gymkhana polls turn ugly. I am aghast and perturbed. In our country as vast as ours with manifold issues that need urgent solutions, the elections of a la-di-da club I personally boycott though I am a member (will tell the tale later in the post) is in no way, in my non page 3 mind, national news. I am sure there is a lot happening in our city and country that warrants space on the first page after of course the larger than life ads. I must confess I have had to relearn reading my newspaper and am still not comfortable with these new advertorial front pages. That two candidates were seen dancing together is of no interest to me. The only thing that caught my eye was that there is a woman candidate and probably this is the best opening for my insignificant, and yet empowering to me, story.

The husband applied for membership of the club just after we got married. Then it was oblivion for 20 years. I had forgotten about the issue as I am not a club going person. One day a letter arrived. It was an interview letter that would decide if we were ‘worthy’ to be member of this hallowed space. I read the letter and one sentence jumped at me. It said: your spouse is expected to attend! The dormant feminist was up in arms and I told the husband there was no way I would go as I was not an object to be paraded, nor did any one have the right to expect me to do anything.

The interview was a few days later and I guess my better sense prevailed as I did not want Ranjan to miss the boat because of my high handedness. I however swore to never visit the club and have more or less stuck to my decision. The fateful day dawned. The get together as it was called was at 5pm. I would have liked to go in my frayed jeans and t shirt, but again I did not want my behaviour to spoil his chances so I wrapped myself in a sari and even painted my face and sprayed expensive perfume. Had go play the role. We were taken into what seemed an open enclosure. There must have been a dozen couples all in their Sunday best. We stood there like cattle at a fair waiting to be appraised. There was no tea or even water to drink and of course not a single chair. After some time a posse of men arrived and began the assessment process. Each wife dutifully stood by her husband. The forbidding looking posse would stop at every man and exchange a few words while we stood in silence. I guess they looked us up and down but we were neither introduced nor acknowledged. One felt like cattle at a cattle fair. Blissfully Ranjan got his coveted membership and I have rarely set my feet in that place.

But let us come back to the front page article. I am really astounded that such petty news should make front page. I know the club members read like a who’s who of Delhi, but honestly is is front page news. I know spicy and gory news increase readership, but who do the on goings of a vestige of the Raj which concerns a minuscule speck of our population, interest. But Darling this is India and nothing should shock you.

Newspapers have a role to play and it should be a responsible one. They can increase awareness and make people answerable. When in was elected citizen one by a leading media group way back in 2005, I had suggested to the editor of the news paper to run a column every week whereby they would follow the work of the one that had been honoured and make sure that they walked the talk. You guessed right, my mail was never answered.

There is a role that newspaper can play and that would be very positive. In a country where children still die of hunger everyday, where social programmes remain on paper, where promises made to the highest Courts of the land, responsible papers should not stop at reporting the horror stories, but go a step ahead and follow the story. I may not be clear so here is an example. If an aberration occurs in a midday meal programme then it would be nice to have an audit of all the midday meals in the city and those running well should also be highlighted and applauded. So many ‘stories’ make the India wants to know prime time show. India does want to know but is never told. So India wants to know many things but certainly not the on goings of a club election!

B and B. In this case it is not Bold and Beautiful or Button and Bows. I am talking of Beating and  Bullying: two ills found in most schools in India and accepted as a norm rather than an exception. Beating is also the norm in many homes, particularly in the lower and middle strata of our society. I cannot begin to count the number of parents who have come to project why and asked us to ‘beat’ their children if they did not study. And how can I forget the secondary school principal I met way back in 2001 who told me with great pride that: beating was his birth right! In that school all teachers carried sticks all the time. What adults do not understand is that these apparently innocuous occurrences leave life long scars on children.

Popples revealed to his counsellor almost a year after the sessions began that he was bullied at school and that made him aggressive and angry. Not knowing how to handle the situation he has even auto mutilated himself by trying to cut his wrists with a metal ruler. Thank God nothing happened, or actually did is I was informed of the same. Popples is physically scarred with scars on his head, upper body and both his arms. He is ‘different’ and anyone who is different easily becomes a target for bullies. More so he is also emotionally scarred as his early childhood was marred with violence both physical and emotional. To day his emotional immunity is very low and it will take time for this repeatedly uprooted child to find roots. The place he has lived in longest is his school that he entered 7 years ago. Imagine my sadness when I found that even after 7 years the child had not been understood by both adults and peers. I was shocked and angry when I was told that he was consistently called : burned banana skin or charred KFC leg! The few attempts we made to try and explain the magnitude of the problem to the school authorities were futile as child abuse seems to be accepted and even necessary to fulfil the mission of schools: good marks in examinations! No one wanted to even understand that bullying and beating can leave life long scars and that both the ones who bullies and the one who is beaten have long lasting effects.

As I was no heard and it seemed no one is prepared to hear me, I decided to take recourse to my writing and hope that someone will read this and at least ponder over it. I do not blame anyone. This is perhaps the only way they know. It is for law makers and those who design curricula for education courses and teacher training to rethink their approach.

A child who is bullied can become depressive, feel lonely, and lose interest in activities they enjoy. This may persist when they become adults. Their academic performance may decline, they may drop out of school and become violent adults. A frightening statistic: In 12 of 15 school shooting cases in the 1990s, the shooters had a history of being bullied.

The one who bullies fares no better. They are the ones who may abuse alcohol or drugs, engage in early sexual activity, be abusive in their relationships. The net is replete with articles on the ills of bullying. It also gives a list of early signs which caretakers and teachers should be sensitive to. There are many things parents and schools can do: from classroom activities to encouraging peer support but for that they must accept the fact that bullying is a serious problem that can scar a child for life. The problem is that schools do not accept this reality and have a tendency to play down bullying. Bullying has to be taken seriously, very seriously.

Beating in schools and boarding schools  is also prevalent. Here again beating can have a detrimental effect on the child receiving corporal punishment. First it is against the law and in violation of children’s rights. Corporal punishment interferes with the learning process and with children’s cognitive, sensory, and social emotional development.  Studies in Europe have shown that corporal punishment was the strongest predictor of current depression among children. This practice needs to be stopped and the reasons are multiple. Some of them are highlighted in this article. In India, 2 out of 3 school going children are physically abused

Adults often forget that children have self esteem and are individuals, even if they are tiny. Talking negatively of a child in front of his class is prevalent as I have sadly experienced and is according to me one of the worst things you can do to a child. What is needed is positive discipline. Much has been written about this approach and it should be included in every teacher training curricula.

In a country like ours were power seems to be an undeniable right change will be slow in coming. Yet it is incumbent upon each one of us to raise our voices against these B and B!