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!

This is my darling Popples! And this is the way I would always like to see him: happy and safe! This is also what I had endeavoured to achieve from the first time I saw him scalded and in pain. That was when, I looked into his beautiful eyes and I pledged to myself in silence. That was in 2003. The last 10 years did not go as I had planned in my hubris. Heal his wounds, help his mother give up the bottle and settle the family as best I could whilst giving him a sound education. It that was not the big picture God had planned for the both of us.

A series of unforeseen circumstances, some truly terrible, landed me and him in front of a children’s court where he decided to live with me. He was 8.  He was in boarding school since the age of 4 years and 4 months, and seemed happy! Within months his mother vanished never to be heard of again till date and he found himself deprived of his natural family, however dysfunctional  it may have been. And then the questions that needed answers but had none, started disturbing him but the child was unable to mouth them, let alone find answers. He grew aggressive and impossible to manage. I needed professional help and once again the Gods were kind and we found the right intervention team. He was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder and severe mood dysregulation and put on medication and long term counselling. It was a nightmare at the beginning as he would resist any form of counselling but as time passed he settled into a pattern and started feeling better. I heaved a huge sight of relief. But it was to be short lived.

As the disturbing questions that had remained in his mind were slowly voiced, he shared with his counsellor the pain of being bullied at school. His scars were the butt of hurtful comments that this child with little or no emotional immunity was unable to handle. His grades dropped and his usual smile became rarer and rarer. We intervened with the school authorities who promised to take care of the situation. We thought things would improve but they did not.

I requested  his counsellor to visit the school and talk to the concerned teachers and authority as I thought that it was important that they understand that this child was going through real psychological problems and was challenged in many ways and needed understanding and help. The experience was traumatic for the both of us: the counsellor and I. For me it was going back 13 years in time when I sat in the dim and forbidding Dickensian office of a Government school Principal trying to find out why my class X boys were beaten with almost obsessive regularity. The answers in both the cases were the same. Notwithstanding high court and supreme court judgements against corporal punishment, it seemed that beating was the only way teachers and school heads believed brought results. I froze as I remembered how pwhy kids were targeted in their respective schools after my intervention, almost as a retaliation. How could I not remember what the horrid and obnoxious Government School principal told me 13 years ago: You run your NGO and I will run my school the way I like. Seeing how my kids were treated, I beat a quick retreat. Was it going to be a repeat scenario in Utpal’s case?

Bullying is not considered a problem though we all know the extreme trauma that can ensue. Just last week a 12 year succumbed to the trauma of being bullied by her seniors in school. Imagine the trauma Utpal must be feeling when he is time and again called: a burnt banana peel or a charred Kentucky chicken leg! But to the school this just seemed par to the course, a way of toughening the child up. I guess that is the logic used to justify beating.

We were terribly disturbed when his class teacher decided to state in the loudest of voices the fact that Utpal had developed a new bad habit: he apparently ‘lied’ when he had not completed his task. This was said in front of Popples and his class. The counsellor was horrified and asked to talk to the teacher alone while I decided to practice French with the class. Variations on the same theme were experienced as we moved from teacher to teacher towards the grand finale in the hallowed room of the head of the school.

The counsellor tried her best to explain Utpal’s case and how this child was suffering in silence that was broken only when he met his counsellor. None of this was ever shared with me. My little Popples knew that I wanted him to study in school and be happy there. How could he break my dream! But for the past months his grades started falling and in hindsight I see that there were lots of cries for help that I did not decipher. When he left for school after this summer holiday he wept is heart out something he had not done for years. Anyway we did understand his pain and that is why we had made this visit. But somehow, even the head of the institution was closed to accepting that traumas and mood disorders were not serious enough to harm a child forever. He recounted an incident whereby he had to resort to two tight slaps – his words – to get a child to admit his fault. I think that was when the penny dropped for me and I knew it was time to find another place for Utpal.

The problem had gone beyond Utpal. Bullying is not just the problem of the one bullied, but also that of the one who bullies. The same goes for beating a child. These are power games played by individuals with low self esteem and their own demons. It is the reflection of the society we live in.

When we began pwhy, the on thing that shocked me was the amount of physical abuse children had to bear: at home because of their mothers frustrations or their father’s drunkenness; in schools because their teachers had come from homes where child abuse was considered ‘normal’. I cannot tell you how many parents have told us to ‘beat’ their kids if they do not study or obey. The adult-child relationship is one of power where kids are the favourite whipping boy. And when you look at things in this light then you are tempted to put up your hands and surrender. That is not the way to go. Many teachers in pwhy have lost their jobs when we came to know that they had ‘beaten’ a child. I could be just a little tap on the head, but the consequences are the same. Many years ago I asked a little girl who was walking bach home and crying what had happened. She told me her teacher had beaten her. When I asked her why, she simply said she did not know. My blood ran cold. Something was not right. Sometime later when we asked a group of Class X students what is the one change they would make in school if they were given a chance todo so, I would have bet my bottom dollar that they would say: stop the beating! But that was not the answer we got. They felt that the one change that would make things better was that they be told the reason for the beating they were to get. This was nothing short of frightening. Children accept violence as something normal. That means they accept power games and God forbid many of them would replicate the same when they become adults. Some may simply restrict their power game to the confines of their homes but others may walk a step further that could end in something as nightmarish as a gang rape.

I am told time and again that beating is necessary. Some of staff were quite aghast when I told them that they would lose their job if they ever lifted a hand on a child, and by child I mean 0 to 18! There are million of other ways to make a child understand her fault. Yes they are time consuming and not easy to implement compared to a ‘tight slap’, but you can get your way without lifting or your voice. We have been doing so for 14 years with success. We have also dealt with bullying and inclusion. Our children respect each other because we respect them as individual human beings.

I was frankly disturbed and saddened to see that this approach exists in what is known as ‘good’ schools. I would have thought otherwise. I guess the curriculum for education degrees do not give sufficient space to the adult-child equation. That is where things need to begin. Wishful thinking in a land where 99% teachers failed to clear the Central Teacher Eligibility Test (CTET) 2012. And it is in the hands of these teachers that we entrust our most precious possession: our children. Need I say more.

The past few days, weeks, months and year have been difficult, stressing and very trying. One year to figure out what was making my husband wane in front of my eyes, and the last 2 months or so dealing with an unwanted guest who has surreptitiously taken my life over, or almost over as I struggle to find the almost invisible cracks and try to fit in vestiges of life as I knew it. My moments of sanity have been in my writing as many of you may have realised. But today it was time out day!

Today was PTM day and an important one at that as I was also taking Utpal’s counsellor with me to meet his teachers but you will have to wait for another post to know what happened as I do not want this one to have even a tinge of negativity.

As some of you may remember from earlier posts, PTM day has always been by never fail feel good shot, and though I could not spend as much time as I would have wanted with the children, just hugging them made the dark clouds vanish. It was as if the moment I entered the gates of the school, I had stepped out the world of Sir Hodgkin and his retinue of injections, tests, and chemos and entered a place where hope and joy were the only guest allowed!

I have put two almost alike pictures as in each them the six kids (two were missing) have different expressions and each one is a masterpiece. I could look at these snaps for long and still find something new that hides behind what is seen. What a wonderful feeling.

When I think of the traumas each of these kids have suffered for not fault of theirs before they came to this place I guess goose bumps. Two of them, Utpal and Meher had to go through a baptism by fire before life smiled at them, one never knew if her rag picker mum would have earned enough so that she and her three siblings would not sleep hungry; one was almost adopted by a page 3 family and then dropped like a hot potato. Each one of them with a story that would wrench your heart.

But then miracles happen! I have seen so many over the past 10 years. So here they are: a bunch of kids many would have given up on, forging a new morrow filled with hope and love of course. And looking at them smile makes your worst fears vanish, at least as long as you are in their hallowed space.

Time out it was!

Here is a picture of the fab four that are running project why at present. You may recognise the three musketeers standing, but the fourth, sitting on a chair is someone I have not talked about much. And yet he has been keeping the project afloat and cruising since its very inception. Every one knows him as Mamaji. Mamaji means mother’s brother in Hindi, and Satish has been like a brother to me more since I lost my parents. I could not have survived the myriad of formalities that follow the death of an individual and it was only because of his help that I could overcome all that was needed to be done. When project why was a bare thought in mind, the first name that came to me was his. I felt a little shamefaced when I realised that I had never written about him in the numerous blogs that trace the project why story. And it is not just his role in pwhy but his life story which needs to be told.

I first met Mamaji almost 30 years ago when he started looking after my father’s financial issues: insurance, investments etc. My father’s bank manager had introduced Satish to him and somehow Papa liked him from day one. Papa was very intuitive about people and rarely warmed up to anyone at the first sight, but he did with Satish. In those days Mamaji use to come on a bicycle from the boonies and he later confided in me that he owned one shirt and had to wash it every night. Those were the days of terylene drip dry shirts. Many of those reading this blog would not even know what they looked like. Anyway Mamaji use to to pedal across the city and I must say was a far cry form the rotund man he is now. He looked after Papa’s affairs meticulously though he had one huge defect that made Papa very cross. That huge defect is still very much there but it is part of who he is, his unique identification number. That defect is that he is never on time, and by on time I do not mean a few minutes or more but it could be hours. Papa on the other hand was a true diplomat who always reached on time. I cannot recall the number of times we have circled around houses where we were invited before ringing the bell at the given time. This is something I inherited and totally out of sync with a city called Delhi where the expression ‘fashionably late’ acquires a new dimension.

I also cannot recall the number of times Papa delayed his afternoon tea as Satish was supposed to come at let us say 5pm. The pakora (fritter) batter was ready, the vegetables cut and the oil on low heat. 5 would become 5.30 and mama would urge him to have his tea. remember there were no mobile phones in those days! But the gentleman that he was would not. Mamaji would arrive at  6 or even 6.30 and Papa, who would have spent the previous hour cursing  and pacing as he was a man who could not bear hunger would not, as one would expect get angry at the young man who was all sweat, apologies and smile, but would welcome him with a big smile and a loud ‘get the tea’ meant for the kitchen staff. It must have taken mama and I a few more waiting sessions to convince Papa that he should have his tea and snack at 5 and we would make some for Satish when he came. I think Papa admired this young man who was honest, hard working and sincere. I also think the Heavens do stand by such souls as Mamaji graduated from bicycle, to two wheelers, to car and then cars! What is remarkable is that he never compromised on the values he respected.

I think Papa did have a talk with Satish just before he died and asked him to stand by me. He did and the reason why I could walk effortlessly into Papa’s shoes, was because of him. And he was the person I felt I could trust to stand by me when I decided to start Project Why. I could never have handled or handle the complex paper work administrative and financial, one has to comply with to run a charity in India.

Mamaji still comes late but we all have got used to it. When he tells me he is five minutes away, he could be miles away, I sternly ask him his exact location and get a truthful answer.  One of the reasons for this annoying habit of his, is that he cannot say no to anyone. And spite of being late he always delivers what he has promised. To me, he has been God sent as I could not have run pwhy without his presence and help.

True he can be brusque at times and lacks  savoir faire and such social graces, but his other qualities make up for his lack of tact. What he does is always for the good of any situation and one cannot ask him to sugar coat the bitter pill.

I have great admiration for this man as I know how much he struggled in his life and the price he paid to get where he is. He could be an inspiration for many, but today’s young want to get everything and get it fast.

For the past two months, he has stood like a rock next to me and handled all the ludicrous paperwork needed to get Ranjan his treatment. I do not know how many trips he has made to the airport to get the credit notes that are needed to benefit from Ranjan’s Air India insurance! I would have given up, but not he and the nicest thing is that he never looses his smile.

 True he can be infuriating at times, but which younger brother isn’t! 

In the latest issue of a popular weekly is an article about gang rape. I waited patiently for the said article to come on line before writing this post. I urge you to read this article as it differentiates between a gang rape and rape by a lone individual. The boys you see smiling in this picture are project why students from Okhla. They are great kids and yet if things went wrong they could turn into gang rapists. Why? Simply because children in India have been let down in every which way possible, all their rights usurped by one and all. The December gang rape got us out on the streets; we did get out of your stupor and broke our usual silence, just for the time we thought would be adequate before returning to our lives. I guess it was because the Delhi rape was too close for comfort and we seemed to pretended to be satisfied with a Commission, the efforts of which we must salute and the watered down ordinance that was promulgated in haste. We crawled back into our comfort zones completely oblivious to the innumerable rapes and gang rapes that happened with as much alacrity and impunity. Then some days back we woke up again or should I say paid attention without leaving our comfort zones to the gang rape of the young photo journalist in Mumbai. The death penalty we had so vehemently demanded for the Delhi gang rape was again heard.

In the nine months between the two gang rapes, the perpetrators of the first one are on the verge of receiving their sentence. One died in jail in. The other, a minor received the maximum sentence possible under the prevailing law of the land. The question of lowering the age of a minor for heinous crimes should certainly be debated and reviewed, but as it stand today, he has got the maximum punishment.

This blog is not meant to defend any one or any law. It is just meant to share my views on these issues given the fact that I have been working for the past 13 years with children who can, if not helped, turn into law breakers and even brutal rapist.

The article I quoted, and provide the link again, should be read carefully to understand why young people can turn to brutal predators in the social environment that they are forced to live in. According to a sociologist: One must separate rape from gang rape, a single person raping a single woman with a knife at her throat is one thing. But groups of boys getting together, for a ‘boys’ night out’, and having fun at the expense of a lone wounded woman is something else. The phenomena exists world wide. These gang rapes are power games meant to display their manhood. The leader is often the most insecure but being in a pack, like wolves or dogs, makes him brave and fool hardy and often the most violent of the lot. The article also gives a wide range of other scientific reasons for such terrible cases and unless these reasons are not addressed, gang rapes will continue.

India is sitting on a huge tinder box that will blow at hour faces if we do not something, and do it quick.  Soon we will have over 706 million marginalised, restless young people on our hands as is aptly pointed out in an incisive article by Anuja Chauhan. I know there millions who are very angry at the fact that the juvenile rapist has ‘got away’ with three years in a remand home. I would just like to draw your attention on what his life  was and it should have been if things worked right. I am surprised at the fact that even educated people are reacting in this manner. I would want the boy hanged if someone told me it would put and end to rapes in India. But sadly it is not so. His is the story of thousands of young boys who flee or are sent to the ‘big’ city to earn a living as there was no hope left in their village. He had dropped out of school, his father was mentally ill and his mother earned barely enough to feed her 5 kids. Like many others he got a job in a eatery always on the look out for such children who are cheap labour. He sent money home and then silence. His mother thought he was dead. She only heard of him after the rape. In the past 7 years nothing has changed in his home. It is still as hopeless as when he left it. Like many other boys he got involved in a pack, and that was his downfall. On that fateful night he emerged as the most violent as he was probably the one with the lowest self esteem, the one who had to prove himself.

True he will be out in less than three years because he was a ‘minor’ on the day he ran with the wolves. Will the three years be able to reform him. Keeping in mind the state of our reform homes, I wonder if anything will change. A reform home cannot make up for the lost childhood and the years this boy had to survive in a big city.

So where have we gone wrong and who is responsible. In spite of the innumerable schemes and rights that exist on paper or at best are poorly implemented, children from poor homes do not get what is their due. Schools do not run or are not enabling spaces, but spaces where brutality and abuse are the order of the day. The quality of education is abysmal, the child goes from class to class without learning anything and if he does not drop out then he often gets a certificate with 33%. This does not give him access to any employment at all. I work with children from such homes. Our Okhla centre was opened in a garbage dump simply because we found out children from the slums tucked away in between factories were being used by local mafias to push drugs and steal from the goods trains that often stopped on the tracks behind the dump. Today 300 children study at our centre. They are all mainstreamed and doing very well. They also learn computers and love it. A few years ago, I was told that the leader of the local gang was looking for me and wanted to ‘kill’ me. His name was Aiyya. I was amused and said I wanted to meet him. Someone went looking for him and found him. My would be murdered was a young man with a broad smile. He looked gentle. When I asked him if he really wanted to kill me, he fell at my feet.

I spent a long time talking to this young lad who I know was and addict, a drug pusher and probably indulged in many more crimes, I saw a child whose dreams had been crushed by circumstances. I could not hold my tears when he said: I wish you were here when I was growing up. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him now and his reply was heartbreaking. he simply said: we are now used to easy money and the life that goes with it. We will not be able to earn an honest living but please make sure these children do! Aiyya may one night be part of a boys night out and run with wolves and land himself in trouble, or he may just continue his life of crime till he is caught. There is no hope for him. I just pray he remains safe.

What can be done you may ask. There is a solution or many, but does our Government have the will to do so. Schools have to be run properly, but we cannot even manage to do that in our capital city. And most of all skills need to be taught from class VII itself so that a child that graduates or even fails knows a skill that will give him a start. I am not a Narendra Modi fan but I cannot but agree with him when he says: “The nation’s priority is skill development. We have 65 per cent youth in our country. They are hard working but they lack skills. They have certificates. The Central government thinks that a certificate by itself grants a person skills for employment, just like they believe that the Food Security legislation by itself can feed the nation“. The question is whether these words are just political drama or whether he will walk the talk if need be.

Between 1971 and 2011 rape has grown by 873%! What has changed is the environment.Today the advent of contract workers has deprived migrants of any security. As Dipankar Gupta says:  They have no security, no roof over their head, no family support and as they are thrown together with each other by circumstance, they indulge in reckless behaviour and do not think about repercussions. They have no one to answer to and no one to go back to. It’s an inflammable lot.”

So will the kids in this picture grow up to be good citizens or will they run with the wolves. Only time will tell.

There are many side effects to my husband’s cancer and chemotherapy. I am not talking of the medical ones listed on every site possible. I am talking about the good side effects, those that are unique to each case of Mr Hodgkin and his ilk. These are the unexpected side effects, the ones that are serendipitous and happen without warning and warm the cockles of one’s heart.

For the past as many years as project why has been in existence, I have never failed to go each day and spend time at the different sites. I do admit that the time spent became shorter as the project became bigger and the team stronger, but still being the control freak I am, I could not resist going or if I did, resist I mean, then I would call I do not know how many times and then grill the girls when they came home. Even when I left the city for a few days, and it must not be more than 10 spread over 10 years, I never missed calling. In hindsight I must admire my team for their patience and forbearance. They must love me immensely! And though I did trust my team implicitly. It just that me control freak who could not give up ‘my control trip and limit myself to my duties: raising funds and writing! I guess there was a bit of an ego trip too as project why was/is what I have done best in my life, or so I would like to believe.

But a man who died almost 200 years ago changed everything when he decided to come visiting! I mean Mt Hodgkin of course! His arrival meant a change of priorities, at least till things got better and he was booted up. But he is a tough customer and here to stay for some time at least. Unlike others of his kind, who get pacified with a few pills or pokes, this guy is erratic and unpredictable and demands all your attention. So its is one control freak pitted against the other. But I am digressing, this post is not about the flights of fancy of Mr H, but about the good side effects of his unsolicited presence.

The past two months have seen me withdraw and ultimately take leave of absence from project why. A case of force majeure! My time table is so hectic and erratic that there is no may I can plan fixed time for project why. Not even the phone calls! Yet project why had been running perfectly thanks to three incredible persons who not only carry on the day-to-day activities, but handle all challenges and problems with flair and aplomb. Rani who was just a kid when she first came to us, has bloomed into a manager even the Gods would recruit. From a shy and slightly withdrawn teenager, she has grown into a mature and poised woman who handles a large part of project why and ensures that all runs well. You could not fine a better option. Shamika, who also happens to be my daughter, seconds Rani in the daily running of the project and looks after our most cherished class: the special one! Mr H has made me see my own child in a new light: as a mature and capable young woman. If Rani is the perfect administrator,  Shamika is her mother’s daughter as she sees with her heart. The two of them make a better me!

The girls run Govindputi, Giri Nagar and Okhla. But a few kilometers away is our women centre with over 300 children and women. One may think it is headed by a woman. Not at all. This centre is run by Dharmendra, an incredibly humane person and a social activist at heart. I am amazed at how much we have in common as his views are completely in sync with mine. So over and above our basic mission, he finds time to deal with social and environmental issues that are close to my heart. A true gem!

These three musketeers have taken over the running of Project Why and I must confess they do a better job than I ever could. They are supported by an exceptional team. So a huge and wonderful side effect of Mr H has been the  realisation that project why is in the best hands I could have wished for and I can rest in peace and carry one my one point mission of kicking out Mr H as soon as possible.

Today as we celebrate teacher’s day, I salute these three gems humbly. They are the ones who gave wings to my impossible dreams. It is time I let them fly free.

Chapeau Bas guys!

Who said they could not do it. I am talking about my very special kids and their exceptional teachers. This is how the story goes: Shamika the leader of the crew came to me one morning asking for 2000 rupees to paint her class. Need to be noted that her class is a three room flat! I told her I would tell our administrator to get the painting done as soon as we had some extra funds. She can be very stubborn and more so because I am not just Ma’am but also Mom. She told me she and her kids were capable of painting the class and anyway they also wanted to decorate it so no painter would do. I know my Shamika, when she gets in this kind of mode, then even God would not be able to change her mind. I meekly gave her the money.

Now her crew is three teachers and a bunch of differently abled children and when I imagined them trying to get to the top of the wall or the roof, my heart stopped. Would they use ladders? And what if they fall? Did it really need painting? But I dared not ask as Shamika would never accept any advice or suggestion that could in anyway show her kids in a bad light. But the thought of Umesh on a table with a paint brush or a roller made my blood run cold. Umesh has cerebral palsy. Anyway I prayed to all the Gods for their safety. The following days I asked if all was well and was told that everything was fine. Then one day, Shamika sent me some pictures and asked me to print them as they wanted to draw them on the walls. I did as I was told.

Yesterday I was shown some pictures and I could not believe my eyes. What a wonderful and perfect job these kids and their caretakers had done. But then have not always believed in the ability of those people call ‘disabled’. What an ugly word. These children have taught me so much and have always been my feelgood shot! I really miss them and must make time in my new life for them.

I leave you to decide the worth of their work. And btw they did it all in 2000 Rs! It would have cost us 10 times more had we got painters in.

For the first time in our life, we are sure we have enough to eat. So instead of spending 15 hours a day trying to find money to buy roti and salt, we have started a cooperative and are running a dairy. These are the words that end an incisive and eye opening article on the Food Security Bill. Like too many of us I fell for the damaging hysteria and misinformation campaign, till I kicked myself for having doubted even for an instant the validity of a legislation that aimed at eradicating hunger. Never mind the flaws, never mind the abysmal past records of poor implementation of social projects, never mind the fear of possible corruption such a bill needs to be lauded. As is rightly said article, none of us have ever experienced what hunger is! None of us have experienced the total bewilderment of one family wondering why another family exactly like theirs hold a magic card that gives them access to food! None of us has had to rock a toddler wailing with hunger to sleep. None of us seems to process the terrifying statistics that we read or hear about. Be it the 5000+ children who die every day of malnutrition related problems or the fact that one out of very two children in India is malnourished. None of us seems to fathom the fact that these malnourished kids will grow stunted both physically and mentally. None of us seems to realise that these stunted kids will be tomorrow’s frustrated youth, 706 million of them! Unless we address shortcomings now, God help us later!

Let us come back to the Food Security Bill and our apprehensions. True a few kilos of grain cannot make hunger disappear in a jiffy. But there are two important elements in this Bill that we seem to overlook. These address the crucial 9 months and 1000 days which are the most important in the growth of any child: the 1000 rupees a month to pregnant and lactating mothers for a duration of six months, and the (in)famous midday meal. It is sad that these have been in place for over 3 decades and not run the way they should have. Without these we cannot hope to solve the spectre of malnutrition. May be now that Food Security will become a right, things may improve provided there are people with a heart and a conscience who take up the cudgels on behalf of these voiceless and vote less children and make it happen.

The follower of Antisthenes, I mean the cynics, will find many flaws and shortcomings to this Bill. And yes there are many. They will crib about the cost, about making society dependent and hence lazy, about pilferage and rotting grains. But we need to look beyond all this, or rather change our perception and look at this Right as an investment in India’s growth story. And it is not only food that we need to give them but clean water, toilets, housing and a good education that will allow them to become assets rather than liabilities.

I have often wondered why our educationists have not an education system where children after class VIII are taught vocational skills along with basic education. Skills that will allow them to enter the work force in better conditions. As a growing economy we need skilled people and many of these could be imparted along with the three Rs. Carpentry, electrical work, tailoring, the list is endless. Today kids are taught practically nothing that can make them earn a decent living. In France there is an option called Bac en alternance. After clearing the equivalent of our class X, students can opt for a class XII (Baccalaureate) where they learn a trade while studying. For instance if a kid wants to be baker he spends 2 days in school and three days working in a bakery. These options are for the less academically inclined kids who then do not need any further education. This should be adopted in India as soon as possible, before we produce too many frustrated and angry youngsters. But that will not be as our rulers and policy makers are content with churning out innumerable youngsters with 33% pass percentages as they make potential easily manipulated vote banks.

I am not an economist. I have no head for figures but many argue that the financial burden is not as large as some would like us to believe. It is sound economics. Of course the problem of identifying the beneficiaries is a big challenge. But a state like Chhattisgarh seems to have solved the problem by widening the net and giving this security to 90% of its population through a well reformed distribution system. Instead of taking the route of complex and illogical parameters to identify the needy, maybe the intelligent way would be to give it to a larger chunk rather then survey whether you have a cow or not.

It is time we looked ahead and not got lost in nitty gritty . It is time we looked at the child begging at a red light as a citizen of tomorrow and ask ourselves what he/she will become.

Our future is linked to theirs!

How many of us who were outraged by the Delhi rape case a few months ago remember all the knee jerk promises ‘promised’ by a somewhat panicked  Government. There was of course the new law and fast track courts. Need I remind you that the said case is still in court and no judgement has been pronounced as yet. Then we have the high court, the supreme court and review petitions. I wonder when the perpetrators will get their due. However this post is not about fast track courts and their protracted hearings. No, it is about something most of us and certainly me had forgotten till a magazine remind us of it. I am talking about the Nirbhaya fund, 1000 crore Rs which has been lost in bureaucratic mazes and of course not spent! The Nirbhaya fund was meant in our Finance Minister words to support initiatives by the government and NGOs working towards protecting the dignity and ensuring safety of women in India. The number of rapes and sexual assaults perpetrated on women across the board since is proof of the fact that nothing has been done to ensure safety of women.

The article I refer to is aptly entitled: the still born Nirbhaya fund! The fund is just that: still born. It has gone in the multifarious loops of what the called the Government of India! The Finance Ministry asked for proposals from other ministries and till date have got just three: one about strengthening police stations, the other for repairing women’s hostels and the third one for creating a red panic button on all cell phones. All this if cleared accounts for a mere 150 crores. If my maths are correct there are still 850 in the kitty.

As a citizen, I have no qualms about paying an extra cess for the safety of women. But after reading this article I would not part with a penny if I was given the choice. One ministry is still planning what to do.This is the Women and Child Development Ministry and one would things they are the ones who should come up with a proper plan, yet the proposal they are yet to send is about prevention, by changing mindsets. Wow. Would love to know how that is to be done.

In short the fund lies unused and the few ‘ideas’ mooted make not much sense. The funds will soon be released. As the author of the article says: Released into what is a question that is still, terrifyingly, blowing in the wind.

There is a panic button that needs to be pressed, pressed by people like you and me! We all know that the (in)famous food security is almost through. Will its funds also wait for proposals and mechanisms to be worked out while the poor, just like the women will have to wait for Godot while we remain frozen in silence.

I have always despised self professed God Men who play on emotions of gullible people who then follow them blindly. The latest case against one such self styled God Man is a shocker in every which way possible. A young girl, a minor, has alleged that she was molested for 90 minutes by this old man. She gave a detailed account of the incident, something that is not easy for anyone, let alone a young girl and a case was registered as there was prima face evidence. Before anyone alleges that there was no rape, penetration, I would like to remind you that sexual assault in any form is reprehensible and has to be condemned in the harshest way. And if there is sufficient evidence, then the perpetrator, whoever it is, has to be apprehended and arrested. This is what the law of the land says. Many of us may not be aware of it but a law was promulgated last year with the acronym POSCO ( The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences). In this act, sexual assault does not mean penetration alone. That is the law. But in our country, many are above the law in particular these so called God Men as they attract large congregations of people that are easy vote banks.

This commercialisation of religion is probably one of the worst thing to have hit our society. It is a true example of Marx’s assertion on religion being the opium of the masses. We in India are gullible and superstitious to a fault and are willing to accept all aberrations that come our way. Are we not the ones who will drown deities with milk, believe that a God is drinking milk, perform absurd and costly rituals and fall for anything that a priest or a God Man says. I guess that in a religion that was meant to remain oral , the priest or sage had a great social role to play. One would admire these self professed God Men who such large real and virtual audiences to preach sensible things like gender equality, having fewer children, respecting the environment, giving up corrupt ways and so on. But that is not the case at all. These frauds, as that is what they are, are in the God business to enrich themselves, acquire unchallenged power and perform disgusting acts like molesting a child! The person in the news today came under the scanner many times for all the wrong reasons: murder of children, wasting water, advising rape victims to fall of the feet of their rapist and so on. Now if the law applied to him in the same manner as it applies to the ordinary citizen, then one would have no problem. But these God Men have political protection across the board as no one would want to be seen casting aspersions on them lest they loose a large vote bank.

So the case of a child being assaulted is being made into a political conspiracy. I cannot quite understand how a child being assaulted is a conspiracy. Was the poor girl made to say all those horrible things? Some would like us to believe so. What is terribly sad is that the assault of this child has turned into a political slug fest! The perpetrator in robes has still to be arrested. Why has he been given time? Maybe because he wants to threaten the victim and her family to withdraw their case. And by the way what is this absurd nonsense that a summons cannot be served on someone who is meditating?

The question that comes to mind is whether the young girl will get justice? I do not think so.

(to be continued)

The food bill has been passed! Who could have stalled or voted against a bill for the poor! No political party that aspires to win the upcoming elections. So there was a sort of a debate and sort of assurances and then the bill was passed! I wish bills for women or children got the same treatment.

India is a POOR country and our leaders like to keep it that way! 75% of our village population and 50% of our urban population is officially POOR! Where do we fall I wonder. I guess we are the ones who will have to pay for this in some way or the other. I feel ashamed of the way such figures are brandished after 66 years of Independence. What every one is tom tomming about is that no one will sleep hungry now. 5 kilos of uncooked grain is enough to fill your stomach. The ruling party has fulfilled its promise of eradicating hunger and malnutrition. Why was this done just before elections is far too suspect. This party has been in power for a decade. Was it fair to leave poor hungry for so many years.

But I  feel a little lost in all this. I am no economist but simply a citizen of India and I cannot understand how we are sometimes told that to be classified as poor you have to be spending less then 32 rs in a city, which makes no one really poor and then you are told almost 70% of us are poor and need subsidised food grain. It all looks Orwellian to me. On the one hand we want to be a ‘super’ power, but on the other hand we are quite happy passing a bill that actually qualifies 3/4 of India as poor.

The question that arises is that keeping in mind our track record in implementing any of the pro poor programmes, one is justified in thinking and even believing that this Bill will go the same way. Many will profit from it, many will misuse it and the really poor will never get anything as they will fall out of the net of complex administrative procedures. If everything was kosher then the ICDS programme launched more than three decades ago should have ensured that every baby born post 1975 should have been healthy! Where the ICDS stopped that is at the age of 6, the midday meal was to take over. We all know the reality. So if we could not run those programmes why should we think that the new bill will eradicate malnutrition. What we need is running something like open soup kitchens for the destitute and providing employment and dignity to the ones we love calling POOR!

The same government passed the Right to Education Bill. What should have ensued is the upgrading of all state run schools to Central school level – also run by the state – and thus having children of all social profiles walk to their school.  Instead, the state decided to ‘reserve’ – how we love that verb – 25% seats in all public and private schools. I work with slum kids and let me tell you none of the kids we know have availed of this reservation as their parents are illiterate, do not have the wherewithal to fulfil all the paper work needed. It is the middle class who can afford to pay for their children who have usurped this reservation for their kids as they know how to make false income certificates, false rent agreement and false everything else that is needed. It would be interesting to do an audit of the social profile of the children who are registered under this category.

So be prepared for surprises when the food security bill is implemented! When will our politicians become pro India

What is wrong with us, as a nation, as individuals, as a society? Everything I think. Yesterday’s brutal gang rape in Mumbai has such a sad and pathetic sense of deja vu! Nine months or so ago a ‘nation’ was ‘enraged’ at another brutal rape, the Delhi one. And excuse my cynicism but nine months hence the ‘nation’ will again be enraged against another brutal rape in another city. If we as a ‘nation’ a really enraged at brutal rapes, then we should be in a state of perpetual rape as every day women, girls and even babies get raped somewhere in this vast land of ours. But that is not so. I guess we only get enraged when the victim resembles us. A physiotherapist, a photo journalist. Someone we are in sync with. Our ‘rage’ is short lived. Some of us take to the streets, others consigned it to words – me -, yet others go a step further and ask for new laws, new training programmes. The powers that be make empty promises that are never kept but no one is there to ask them why. For instance CCTV were promised, they are yet to be sourced. Fast track courts were set but who defines fast! An old repugnant self professed God man assaults a minor but he will never be caught.

We will write, make some noise and then go back into the safe little boxes we live in. As long as it is not my child, my daughter, my friend we are not willing to see what is happening around us to children, to women to co citizens. Our rulers get away with impunity. They can loot, rape, abuse, threaten and murder, they not only get away but we vote them back to power!

I forgot these rapes make good material for heated debates where we hear the ‘country wants to know’. Which country and above all why do they want to know if they are not going to leave the comfort of their box and dirty their hands.

After 66 years of Independence we are still trying to address and legislate food laws. I would feel embarrassed if I were in a position of power. That 5000 children die every day of malnutrition should be enough to make a whole government resign in shame. But no they are busy debating a law that will give a few kilo of cereals to the ‘poor’.

Schemes to help the door have been voted time and again and never properly implemented. Implement them for God’s sake. Do we really need new ones?

And let us talk of education. It has taken our legislators decades to address the situation. After 66 years we cannot even provide a bench to every school going child in the capital even by running 2 shifts. Can’t our leaders and politicians see this. No they are busy fighting on petty issues. Parliament does not function though its costs lakhs for it run every minute. Grains rot because you cannot store it. Quacks kill as we do not have a proper health programme for the poor.

What do we look like to others. I do not even want to think of it. Let me just share one image that I see regularly these days as I take my husband for treatment to one of the super speciality hospital. Just in front of the super speciality hospital that charges the earth and the moon to treat you is a huge open garbage dump that stinks. If I were administrating that hospital that mints money, I would have done something. But that is who we are: a nation that would keep its home clean and dump the filth in front. We have no civic sense. We are aware of our rights but forget our duties. We have erected walls between the haves and have nots and forget that the two are inter dependent.

We want to show case ourselves as a young nation with immense potential youth power and true in a couple of years we will have 760 million young people, but as was said in a recent article unless we provide this youth bulge with education, employment, health, safety and liberty, we will soon have 706 million extremely pissed-off, marginalised, restless young people on our hands. But unless we get off our back sides, forget petty politics to take brownie points and give these 760 million a good educations and sufficient employment, the frustration of these young souls will translate into crime of all kinds. And when those happen, we will again step out of our homes to join some vigils or the other and get our conversation subject for our next kitty party or page 3 do or a chance to appear on a TV show debate where India wants to know! But 760 million is a tinder box waiting to explode. It is time we did something.

Can’t read, Can’t write, Can’t count. The Empty promise of Primary Education in India is the topic selected by a leading weekly to mark the 66th Independence Day of India. Haven’t read all of it yet as I want to do so slowly and with responsibility but I am grateful to this weekly with a conscience to have chosen this not so TRP worthy subject to mark an important day! After 66 years we as nation have not understood that is education and EDUCATION alone that can change India. Just ask yourself what makes the real difference between you and the woman who cleans your house. The answer is simple: your ability to read and write and speak good English and count of course!  Your savoir faire, your manners, your behaviour are all bye products of your education. The first article poses the question that begs to be asked: in spite of ‘adequate’ funding, statistics are frightening. The Education imparted is state run schools is so bad that five years from now over half the children in rural India will be in private schools. Enrolling children is not enough it is what and how they are taught that matters. It is time posits the article to stop patting ourselves on the back for statistics that mean nothing, and admit that there are systemic failures that need to be addressed with honesty.

I remember telling a bunch of Lohar (gypsy blacksmith) kids  that they had to dream big, and if they did they would be able to fulfil their dream. In those days we taught them on an empty piece of land behind their roadside camp and amongst the kids was Sanjay (wearing a yellow shirt in the pic). I do not know what his dream was that day but let me tell you he made it big. After a stint as a project why teacher he found his wings (with a little help) and now walks the ramp for high fashion designers in India and Paris. What he got from us is education of course, but also the chance to meet people from other countries, to gain confidence, speak English and dream! This memory came back to me when I read a line of the article.  What do we tell a child who dreams of being a pilot and knows that school is the only way to achieve that dream but hates school because she is violently punished whenever she makes a mistake by her overworked, overstressed teacher? The answer is simply I do not know! And the author goes on to say, and I second him fully:  We are creating generations of children aching with aspiration but left unequipped by their schooling to realise that aspiration. Imagine the frustration. There is a time bomb ticking and God help us when it explodes! It is time we all woke up to the reality and did something. maybe the first thing would be to read the articles in this issue.

For the past 13 years we have been working in the field, trying to reach out to as many children as possible and ensuring that their years in school are not wasted. Let me tell you you do not need large amounts of money or super skills or even infrastructure to make a difference. In the past 13 years we have taught in a pig park, in a reclaimed garbage dump (we still do), between two houses as you can see in the picture and in every space possible. Our teachers do not have teaching degrees. Some are even drop outs not because they lacked capacity but often because of early marriages. Some of our teachers are pwhy alumni. What they lack in certificates they make up in large measure in motivation, understanding and passion for their work. All that needs to be said is that in the past 12 years no child has failed any examination and many pwhy children top their respective classes. What is sad is that my own peers do not reach out and help us with the funds we so need to carry on and if possible widen our outreach.

Let us be real. Children cannot wait for things to fall in place and be perfect. Children are growing by the minute and for them time is of the essence. The magazine is replete with articles about people doing a great job, but that is not the answer. I too could claim doing a great job but is a drop in the ocean. The response of the powers that me is wishy washy as usual. You can judge for yourself. You can also judge for yourself how behind our children are:  50 percent of kids between the age of 6 and 14 in government schools couldn’t read, write or do arithmetic at any reasonable level. Frightening isn’t it? One of the solutions proposed is to define small concrete goals and meet them. Others feel it is important to use the money sensibly and according to the needs. I laughed and cried at the same time when I read these lines: My favourite is a school without a building that was asked to buy fire safety equipment with grant money. But, of course, there was no building, so they bought the equipment and asked the shopkeeper to keep it until such time they were able to erect one. I am particularly in sync with this view as I have always asked my donors to trust me and leave it to us to decide how the money is best spent.

All the above sounds logical, but absurd when we realise that we are debating this after 66 years of Independence. The magazine has a series of articles on what philanthropists are doing, or what individuals are organisations are doing. Every one is worth a read. But the problem is huge and such voices and deeds are drops in the ocean. There are also articles highlighting the problems faced by one and all: children, parents and teachers. Each one of them are valid and show that our whole education system needs to be re-looked at.

There are some issues that I have often highlighted and that I would like to reiterate. One is that we must stop the farce of retaining 33% as a pass percentage for any examination. This sets the course of mediocrity and shuts many doors for children who would have spend or should I say wasted 12 years in school. The next one is to change the approach the State seems to have taken. Instead of privatising education and ‘reserving’ some seats for ‘poor’ child, seats often hijacked by the middle class as the poor do not have the knowledge and often documents required to secure a place for their children, the State should take on its constitutional responsibility and make every state run school a centre for excellence so that it attracts a mix of social profiles. And last but not the least, we should not only accept but encourage that our driver’s kid shares a bench with ours!

I almost did not go! The sky was laden with dark grey clouds threatening to rain and if I were to catch a sniffle it would spell disaster as Ranjan’s immune system is close to nought with the darned chemo. But then even though large drops started falling I decided to take a chance. It had been too long since I had seen my kids at the women centre and as they were celebrating Independence day with their usual fervour. I thought it would be a nice outing for my grandson too. So off we went and the rain Gods were on our side. They had played spoil sport earlier and that had compelled the women centre team to reorganise the sitting arrangement and the stage had to be in the open so that all kids could be seated under the tin roof.

The show was lovely. The flag hoisting, the National Anthem sung loud and with great zeal even if some were faster than the others, and some out of key. That is what made it that much more touching to me. It was not a well rehearsed performance but an anthem sung from the heart. Then the children presented a show with dances and songs and speeches. I was impressed by the quality of the performance. Some of the solo dances were I was told self taught, courtesy TV reality shows, and quite impressive. A robot dance was particularly well executed and loved by my grandson who delighted us all evening with his version it.

As I watched these little and not so little faces, I saw so much hope in the eyes of every child that my blood ran cold. I had just finished writing a blog on Independence day and what it meant to me and my parents and how disillusioned those who fought and lay down their lives for this day would be if they saw India as she is today. It was easy to rant and rave and write words that would remain just that: words – that may or not be read – soon to be forgotten. Looking at these children, all three hundred and more of them, I realised that they had set their hopes in what we could give them and do for them and thus the responsibility that someone – let us call him/her god with a small g – had given us was far larger than what we could imagine. It was OK to rant and rave about things that were not as they should be, but we had been ‘chosen’ to right a wrong for children born half a century after India became independent and still stuck in a rut of promised not fulfilled, deprived of all the rights that were theirs just because they were born in this land.

So though I am going through a bad patch, I cannot and will not give up the pledge I made to myself many moons ago. I have to make that little difference so that the hope in the little eyes I saw becomes the reality these kids deserve. A reality that became theirs on August 15th 1947 but never reached them.