A pertinent article on the state of our Youth appeared in a magazine this week. The article entitled Youth Bulge, Youth Bilge draws an almost apocalyptic image of the 706 million of youth we love quoting to one and all as our greatest force. But as the author says in the 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. That’s the largest any nation has ever had to handle in human history. The article makes an interesting read particularly the take on Delhi Police. I leave you to discover it!

I am more worried about the morrows of these 706 million who may just become extremely pissed-off, marginalised, restless young people. And extremely pissed off people may do extremely violent things. We all saw what happened that fateful December night. The recent grudge we have against these extremely pissed off people is the motorcycle rodeos we are subjected to time and again. My home is located next to a Secondary Government School and a well known private school and let me tell you young lads from both these schools perform bike stunts. Even this morning while taking mu husband to the doctor, we were overtaken by five screaming young guys on a motorbike in their school uniform.

Let us just take a little time and see what our society has on offer for these kids. Let us start with those born on the wrong side of the fence as I know them well having been working with them for over a decade now. First of all they are regular kids who have the same dreams as any other child. But they are treated differently right from the word go. First of all in India’s capital city boys go to school in the afternoon. This city has not even been able to provide adequate number of schools for their children, as all children should go to school in the morning and play or pursue sports or creative activities in the afternoon. And school for many of them is an overcrowded classroom, with scant teaching, lack of basic facilities. At the end of it all they get a school leaving certificate with low marks that does not open many doors to them. I still cannot understand why 33% is the pass percentage for our exams when access to a good and affordable university is 99%! This is all too suspect.

The boys born on the wrong side of the fence spend their morning loitering around. The city lads have dreams that are based on what they see around them and on TV which is an asset every home, however poor has. So these kids dream big. One of the most desired object is a motorbike and with the advent of credit, the dream becomes closer. There is no one to temper their dreams and wants with wisdom and values. No teachers to emulate; no parents to counsel. The slum kids live surrounded by violence: corporal punishment in schools and alcohol induced violence at home. Needless to say they too will repeat what they see when they grow up and see that their dreams can never become reality and find themselves condemned to a second class life. Their education is a non starter and thus their employment options bleak. The state has failed them in every which way possible.

Their counterpart on the other side of the fence may look to be in a better place but there too the absence of values, the lack of good parenting and the over abundance of money is turning our so called educated youth into an irresponsible, arrogant and uncaring lot. Their options are so prolific that they know they will succeed in some way or the other. Money power makes a heady cocktail for children who have not been inculcated with the right values and a sense of responsibility. If it is stunts on motorbikes for one lot, the others know that they can drive their father’s expensive machines and get away with murder quite literally.

These 760 million have no role models. How long can a Mahatma Gandhi or an Ambedkar be the ones doled out as role models for a XXIst century kid! The role models these youngsters  chose are Bollywood or sports stars. What they see is corruption as a way of life and crime rarely punished.

There is a bomb ticking. It needs to be defused before it blows in our faces.

An article appeared in a leading magazine this week. I am sure many have or will be reading it at some point of time, if not at home, then while waiting for your turn at the doctor’s or dentist, while travelling in a plane or maybe at your beauty parlour. The article or rather photo essay isn simply entitled: Life below the poverty line! Poverty line is the news ad nauseum recently. What should the base figure be, 27 or 32? And endless and futile debates appear on the box, with people shouting and procrastinating. Anchors as masters at pushing invitees to answer uncomfortable questions with the inane phrase: India wants to know? After the debate everyone, including the anchors will go home, have a large one, eat and waste some food and go to sleep in a cool room.

Please read the article and look at the pictures. If you still have some heart you will be deeply disturbed. Not just by some moving photographs but by the resilience and quiet and dignified endurance of people who just like us are Citizens of this country and thus come under the ambit of our Constitution and its rights. The villages that are subject of this disturbing essay are invisible, even if one of them is in the Constitution once represented by our First Citizen!

Life is a constant struggle and no one ever sleeps with his bellyful. Though there main concern is getting enough to it, some want their children to learn and hence send them school in the hope that an educated child may change things for them. Till then they survive with rare dignity. In the answers they gave the journalist, I could not sense any anger. Just acceptance. And faith. Yes faith which here validates more than ever the marxist view that religion is the opium of the masses. For them 24 or 27 or even 39 are useless statistics. “Allah is looking out for us. There can be no other earthly reason that my children and I are still alive” says a young mother. Fatalism at its best and loudest.

On the other end of the spectrum the rants and raves of debates sound empty and false. No one cares about these people. They are so remote that they seem to belong to another celestial body altogether. The questions and answers that play with regularity the days on which poverty is the flavour of the moment are futile. India does not want to know, India does not care, India has lost its heart.

The Food Security Bill that is now being tabled and pushed by the ruling party is nothing but another election ploy. I would like to ask our First Citizen whether he even knows where Lalkoop and how its inhabitants live. I would also like to know if the MLA or any other elected leader has ever visited them and told them about their rights? I also would like to know how these families will ever get the benefits of this Bill? I know the answer: Never. They have fallen off the map. And yet they are the ones who should benefit from such legislatures? Did the malnourished 14 year old mother who delivered a 600 grams baby get the so called supplements and meals that existing programmes ensure? The answer is another deafening NO!

And the answers will continue to be louder NOs till the (ill)famous: India wants to know becomes a reality,

Am borrowing a modified version of  Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book for the title of this post. My world has been turned topsy turvy by a word it took me a nano second to read, a word preceded by a question mark at the end of a text in a incomprehensible medical jargon:? lymphoma. The word was followed by a full stop. This full stop changed my life if not forever, at least for the days to come. In simpler terms, my husband has cancer and has begun his chemo therapy so I will have to give him all the time he needs. As you know chemo gets worse each session and hence at least for the next 6 months, I will not be able to devote as much time as I did to project why. The flip side is that this may be the right time to write the project why story I started a few months back but had left in the middle when my husband felt sick a year back.

After running from pillar to post the diagnosis has now been confirmed and the road ahead charted and though it is a never travelled, it is at least one that can be ‘imagined’ and charted. What I foresee is having do be in the house, on call and thus not able to visit the project as before. Though I must say that I had withdrawn from day to day activities to give the team I had so lovingly trained a chance to prove themselves. They passed all tests with flying colours and I must admit, at times I almost felt almost redundant. From the bazillion calls I use to get when I first stopped sitting at the project office daily, within a few months at most, it was I had to call to know how things were. At 4pm each day, I would be debriefed and problems, if any discussed.

I would still go every morning for my cup of tea at Mataji’s which has always been my special was to remain grounded and then sped some time in the main centre, where I met the staff, heard my children’s lilting good mornings. It was my daily feel good shot!

I still toiled for project why! Wrote my blogs, updated the site (though I have not been great at that and looks like will have more time to do now), and of course wrote the reports, answered mails and kept up the funding. I still was the face of project why.

My husband’s cancer has been a wake up call in another way too! Someone I always felt was indestructible, for want of a better word, could be hit by a malady in the most unexpected way, then it could happen to me too, any day. So maybe this is the silver lining of the situation I find myself in. A litmus test for my staff. The little things I was still doing are now handled by them: reports etc. I will jealously hold on to my writing as without it I would fade away quicker than imaginable.

For the next 6 to 8 months at least, the time the chemotherapy will take and the rebuilding of a devastated immune system, I will have to give up my regular morning teas and good mornings. There are days when we have to reach the hospital at 7 am!  I will be unable to plan anything that requires my presence at a given time, as the vagaries of chemotherapy are legendary and unexpected. So there will be days when there will be no tea, and no smiles!

My biggest challenge during the forthcoming months is to ensure that all the things I still had a hold on are passed on. My biggest hope is that my incredible staff finds the their own way of meeting these challenges, ways they are comfortable with as I am sure they must have at times not quite liked my ways and followed them because they respected me. My biggest dream would be that they become empowered enough to take on the funding of the project.

So life at Project Why in the time of Cancer is going to be a challenge for everyone. I will have to test my ability to stay away and keep my mouth shut; my staff will have to taken on independently all tasks, however trying and bear full responsibility and project why will have to prove that it can withstand all odds and still soar in the sky.

I have been working in the same slum(s) for over a decade now. In some more than a decade! I have seen the slow yet significant changes in the families I work with and of course in the environment. The story of upward mobility is not quite as we would imagine it to be sitting in the comfort of our homes. When we first began our work in Giri Nagar, the street where we worked consisted mainly of a series of mud houses with tin roofs, like the one you see in the picture and which was one of her classrooms. There only a few ‘homes’ which had a proper brick and mortar construction with roofing. What is now our secondary class was probably the only proper construction barring Rani’s home. Ten years later our secondary class has shrunk in perspective as every single mud hut has become a proper brick and mortar structure of up to 3 stories, with proper roofs and often painted in bright colours: blue, brick, yellow, green even orange! Each Diwali, when houses are repainted the street looks lovely. A few geranium pots on the window sills, the sounds muted and you would think you are in a French village on the Riviera!

On the other side of the road you do not have the erstwhile brick structures that were the toilets. Those have been removed by the authorities and everyone now has a toilet within the home, however basic! In its place there are bikes and more bikes and even cars and vans. This change happened with the arrival of purchase on credit, something that was not there when we began. All this is kosher and well deserved. I agree. But there is one failing in each one of us and that is that we are never satisfied. And this unnecessary greed is copiously fed by the ad campaigns played with obsessive regularity on the idiot box. The other human weakness is our need for more and our propensity to waste  and nothing is more true in the upwards mobility saga.

I would  concede that the first generation migrants still retain some measure of discipline and thrift and often chide their younger ones for their wasteful habits, but they are ageing and the reins are now held by the second and even third generation who consider themselves, and quite rightly so, as city folk! So with the advent of credit purchases offered by shops and credit cards almost thrust down their throats by bank agents who often, for a few rupees, authorise the card even if the paperwork is not complete. This has enabled slum folks to become consumers and fall into the debt trap. I have seen many a cars vanishing after being parked for a few months.

Homes having spruced up, floors added and though all the construction as well as the space itself is illegal, bribes to the police and protection from politicians as these are precious and easily manipulated vote banks have bestowed a sense of legality and continuity to the settlements. And though the Damocles sword of being raze does hand loosely over their heads, slum folks know that there will always be a way out.

Within homes the women fold too have become hardcore consumers: mixers and grinders, juicers, toasters, fridges are seen in many homes. Many even have washing machines. I was surprised to know, and rather impressed when I could not but ask how certain women I know were able to buy new clothes as and when they wanted. The answer was breath taking. There are middle class women who buy clothes and other garments in large quantity, and you can buy them on credit. No card required. It  all works on trust and makes good business sense.

Upward mobility has come to stay. But it also has a flip side and one that can be scary. First of all the fact that these people have recently acquired the right to consume, they are absolutely unwilling and even vexed when you check them on certain matters, often relating to waste. One would think that food is not wasted in slum families. Not at all. Wasting food seems to have become a way to show that you have arrived. Even my staff wastes food! If you try and suggest to them that the packed junk food they give their kids is not good for them, they get ballistic. It is as if we (I mean the ‘rich’) were grudging them their newly acquired rights. If you tell them that the umpteen non degradable pouches they buy (multi national made goods: nescafe, jams, shampoo, shaving cream, you name it) is bad for the environment and dare to suggest that the good old soap bar is much better, it is the same reaction. What they forget is that we have experienced the ills of all these and do not believe that we are saying these things for their own good. You quickly learn to keep shut!

So you watch the lights kept on in empty rooms, the taps running, the 3 TVs blaring in the same home, often the same programme, the chips or gooey candy the two year old has for breakfast, and the sticky 2 minutes noodles that make up the lunch box of our children. It will take at least another generation to see the negative side. At present they are enjoying their newly gained social status. The best you can do is teach the children. Some respond quite well!

You watch them waste their money helplessly. One thing that the new status entails is a abhorrence of state run institutions. A government job is the only thing that is still coveted. Otherwise be it education or health, if you have arrived to have to shun them. This mean sound business for commercial education and hospitals. Even a pathetic private school that boasts of the words English Medium in its name is better than the local state run school. This in many ways, has spelt the doom of state run schools by lowering their social profile and freeing them of any responsibility.

Quacks are better than dispensaries, and private hospitals better than the big hospitals, however modern. Somehow taking your loved to a Government hospital would cast a shadow on your status. Private hospitals then take you for a ride and you land up paying tens of thousands that you often need to borrow.

Social mobility comes at a price!

I do not know how many times Xavier, my greatest supporter and friend has told me to take a ‘few’ days off. This advice often came after the many times I complained of being tired, fed up, annoyed, and close to giving up. I never heeded his advice and for the past 13 years never took a day off. My own family has also tried to coax me to take some time off, but I guess I just did not want to. Maybe it was because I felt comfortable in my ways or because I wanted to feel indispensable. And I liked my life the way it was with my morning trip to Mataji’s home, the proverbial cup of tea and tikka on my forehead that was a blessing as well as a reminder of where it had all begun. I guess it was my way of remaining grounded. Then a quick trip to the main centre to hear the children’s voice and back to my work at home as that is where I operated from. Sometimes I would visit the women centre. I had withdrawn myself to let the team find its feet and they vindicated my decision brilliantly. I really thought this would be in my grandson’s  present favourite idiom: to eternity and beyond!

But that was not to be. The holidays everyone wanted me to take would happen but in a very convoluted way. When my husband was diagnosed with cancer my life stopped for an instant. The to eternity and beyond and acquired a whole new meaning. The few days off everyone gently prodded me to take, days off from pwhy of course, mutated into something else. Cancer was a demanding mistress who not only took over the patient but his entire entourage. My few days off from pwhy would now be months and even longer. It needed getting used to, and I am doing so slowly and will sneak a bit of my past life in the crevices the crab does not find.

Happy holidays!

Almost 40 years ago, as a result one one of my mother’s legendary ‘if your brother was alive’ I sat for the (ill)famed IAS exam and got through. I then decided not to join the services. That was the pact made with mama. There were many reasons for my not wanting to join the first being that I was married with a child and that my husband worked for a PSU and there was no way I wanted to be separated from him. Another reason I can share today was that I did not want any misplaced comments comparing our careers. Some people has already made some snide remarks. But in hindsight I believe that I somehow instinctively knew that I would not last in the service for long as there were some things I could not compromise with and one of them was honesty. So rather than leave in a huff some years down the line or be suspended, I thought it wiser to withdraw and leave the place to the next person on the list. I had kept my promise to my mother and that was where it ended. I embarked on a chequered career that suited my temperament be it teaching in a university, working as an interpreter or managing conferences and events.

I had forgotten about this aspect of my life but the recent treatment of a young and honest officer who was suspended just because she had the b**** to taken on a mafia revived old memories. Seeing this young woman’s face on TV fills me with a mixed bag of emotions. I feel sad, angry, repulsed but also so terribly proud of her. I hope she gets the support she deserves and comes out a winner. But somehow I feel this will not happen. So many whistle blowers have been killed or simply forgotten in some dark corner. The state simply plays lip service, talks about a whistle blower’s bill but it remains that: just talk.

I was horrified to hear a politician brag about how he got this young woman ‘removed’ in 41 minutes. IAS officers are the executive branch of our government and need to be given the space to work independently and consciously. They are not subservient to wily politicians who ridicule and belittle them. The fault of this young braveheart was to taken the sand mafia. She was doing her job. But as e know mafias enjoy political protection so she had to pay the price.

In my mixed career I too has trysts with corruption. It was quite a shock for me as most of the time I could not understand what was happening. In 1982 when I was working as Advisor Protocol for the IX Asian Games – at the fabulous salary of rupee one a month – I first encountered corruption when one of my PAs, a lovely man named Parwana Sahib, honest to the core and with not a mean bone in him, came to my office and told me that most of the staff assigned to me was not willing to stay as they knew they would not be able to ‘make money’ with me at the helm. I told him I understood and asked him how many were willing to stay. He told me 2. Six wanted to leave. I asked him whether he was one of those staying and he smiled his wonderful smile. I functioned with 2 staff and we met all our targets and did a great job.

During those days we were housed at Pragati Maidan and some of the fancy hotels of the time has outlets on the fair grounds. That was where we got our tea or meals. My second encounter with corruption was around the corner. I had ordered tea and some sandwiches and was surprised when i was told that there was no bill. I insisted I wanted one and proudly paid my 13 rupees but was still perplexed as to why there was no bill. Mr Parwana Sahib who would soon become my mentor in these issues explained that as there were contract for big parties that still had to be awarded, and that was the prerogative of our section, this was a way of soliciting. My answer was simple: there were 3 parties and 3 hotels, each one would get one party! Along the way I saw many avatars of corruption and was repelled by each of them.

Things have far from improved and the question is how long are we going to vote back time and time again people who have let us down hook line and sinker. People who make promises but are unwilling to keep them. How long will the honest have to pay and the dishonest thrive. How long will the people of this country have to wait to see their rights restored to them.

I wish I knew. But as long as there are people like this young woman aptly named Durga, there is still hope however bleak.

I salute this young woman.

Apologies for a post that is going to be personal and maybe a tad mushy! But in my defence it is probably the first one of its kind. As some of you may know, my husband was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease, a cancer of the lymph nodes. This after a year of his being ill and every test imaginable giving no indication. The months preceding the diagnosis were difficult ones for me as I saw Ranjan fading slowly. We both kept a brave face through the visits to doctors and more doctors and the innumerable blood tests. scans and MRIs. When finally the diagnosis was confirmed my blood ran cold. Cancer was the one thing I never wanted as it had snatched both my parents from me in the span of not even 2 years, leaving me orphaned at 39! That it should once again strike the one person that was able to fill the terrible void of my parents’ death was terribly unfair. I was angry and terrified at the same time. Why me again.

Being an only child of parents much older than you is not easy. Add to that a nomadic life that takes you from one corner of the world to another every three years makes it that much more difficult. You land in a country with the wrong colour of skin, an unpronounceable name that gives your peers lot of meat to bully you, is not easy. But you soldier on, make your place in the sun and when you think you have finally succeeded, you are told to pack your life again and move on. So you device coping strategies: imaginary friends, chats with yourself in front of a mirror, you master the art of reading so that you can become one of the Famous Five or Marie Curie depending what age you are. You learn to get along with adults much earlier than other kids. You try to keep up with friends through letters but soon lose them. So you learn to accept and love solitude that you manage well.

Recently I was told that not having siblings and having had a tumultuous childhood made me incapable of valuing relationships. The words hurt deeply. But life went on. I knew I had to carry on bearing my cross alone, if need be.

At first I had thought I would keep this news to myself. Ranjan told his two best friends. I had one best friend but she left us last year way before her time.

One of the many sleepless nights I have gone through, it occurred to me almost as an epiphany that I had a family, a huge one, one that I had made over the last 13 years with my soul and heart: the pwhy family. It was time to come out of the closet, in a manner of speech. I first told a few friends, then started a blog – writing is my catharsis. The response was overwhelming and moving. From all over the world came prayers, advise, messages of support, of love, hugs galore and above all words of hope. I realised I was no more alone, that there were so many I could reach out to and who were there for me.

This has made up for all the friends I never had. I feel blessed, humbled and very small.

Hey guys you take my breath away.

I normally never put up large sized pictures on my blog but my pathetic photo talent makes me do so in this one so that you get the picture. The road you see is in front of the DDA market close to our house (Guru Nanak Market) and was tarred beautifully less than a week ago. Of course while they were tarring the road I had two disconnected thoughts. One related to people making money on the run with elections around the corner and the other was about the total disregard for water recycling as rain water had no way to percolate. At least when some bits where left out, some of the water did seep down.

Imagine my shock when two days later I visit the market for some errand and see men happily digging the newly tarred road and bright orange pipes lying along the side. Now why in heaven’s name did the ones who were to place the pipes not stop the ones laying the tar and place their pipes and then tar the road.

But darling this is India. No one talks to no one. Makes better sense for corrupt pockets. One tars and makes money; one digs and places pipes and makes money; then one tars again and so on.

This reminds me of some hilarious moments, hilarious in hindsight, of the IX Asian games in 1982 where I was protocol in charge. We had zillions of committees all headed by luminaries and I always wondered why they never met together as each had plans that could be different from another’s. I was naive then too. Naive and honest. Not a recipe for success. So when we did have a meeting some days before the event we realised that entrances that we as protocol had decided upon for some social events were the very ones the Security committee wanted absolutely sealed. Security had precedence of course and as we never have plan B in our heads it was an absolute nightmare. We excel at crisis management so no one knew what had happened.

But coming back to our road story would it not be better if before taring roads the said department checked with all departments that lay pipes if they were envisaging to do so in the near future. But what am I saying. Darling this is India and public money is meant for spending!

To say that we as a nation are insensitive is as sad as it is true. The latest example of this is an ad placed by the Delhi police to raise funds for its youth training campaign. The bye line used : “Help him learn how to chop an onion. Before someone teaches him how to chop a head.” The child in the picture is between 12 and 14. Child activists are up in arms. The creator of the campaign is trying his best to explain the bigger picture if there is any! It is obvious that the child in the advertisement is not yours or mine, but one from the other side of the fence, the kind everyone gives up on. he child destined to be ‘chop onions’ and the ‘heads’. The soft target for every bad deed that takes place in his immediate environment. The one everybody has decided can have no ambitions or dreams.

There are many aberrations in this ad! I will not delve on them. The ad also goes against the laws of the land be it child labour or Right to Education. Those only look good on paper. If they were properly enacted and implemented then no child would be working in our city. Just one look around and you find them helping their fathers at an eating stall, cleaning dishes at another one or tagging along their mums and learning how to clean houses and utensils. It is for the Delhi Police to ensure that child labour does not persist. Instead they come up with an ad that gives kids the options of chopping onions and should they not accept this then they are bound to be chopping heads. No matter what circumvented explanation anyone tries to put forth, to me it is nothing short of gory and unacceptable. Instead of ensuring that no child works and every kid attends schools, the Police is offering them a strange choice.

Every child has the right to dram and dream big. Even a kid born on the roadside had the right to
become what he wants. When we began classes more than 10 years ago for a bunch of gypsy kids on their roadside camp a young lad, around 14, joined our classes just because we had some foreign volunteers. Like every kid his age, he liked ogling at young girls, more so if they were blonde and pretty. Sanjay, however continued to study with us, unlike some of his pals who left along the way. I often use to tell these nowhere children that they too had a right to dream big, and that dreams did come true. Sanjay finished school and joined pwhy as a teacher. That was a great story in itself!

One day a film maker wanted to make a film on a feel good subject and to me the gypsy lad turned teacher seemed a great one. However that is not what it turned out to be. Sanjay shared his dreams with the film maker. He wanted to go to Bollywood. It did not quite happen but Sanjay became a model and walked the ramp not only in India but in Paris! Gypsy boy to ramp model! And he even starred in a movie aptly called Bollywodd Boulevard! Everything is possible.

Yet for too many, children who are born in underprivileged homes are destined to failure. This is not the way it should be.

The midday meal programme could have been a boon for India’s children just as ICDS should have been. But Alas, though the programme was conceived impeccably the implementation and the monitoring was left in the itchy hands of the corrupt or as maybe, and apologies if it sounds cynical, its failure was seeded in its implementation as is the view of an activist who quips, “Perhaps the government does not want the scheme to function properly. They want problems to be created so that people ask them to stop the scheme altogether. Maybe they want to hand over the scheme to some corporate organisation”. It is tragic that 23 children had to lose their lives for the scheme to be exposed.

I agree with this view as it is one that is evident in many so called social programmes. Let us take education which is now a constitutional right. If every child was truly educated the profile of India would be transformed to the detriment of the political masters. Yet they want to look good to the world so after 6 decades of Independence they finally vote a Right to Education bill that defies all logic. Free education is from 6 to 14. What happens before 6 and post 14. An enigma. The pass percentage is as low as 33%. Looks good as statistics but does not get you anywhere. Then instead of sprucing their schools that stand on prime land but are often dilapidated, they come up with a 25% reservation for ‘poor’ children, setting criteria that allow access to middle class kids whose parents are willing to take some not so honest shortcuts. I state this with responsibility as I have witnessed it. So the idea that the state does not want the midday meal to work makes sense. Just as they rushed privatisation of education, they would be too happy to hand over the midday meal to corporates. Feeding 1. million kids makes good business sense. What one forgets was that when the scheme had been thought of, the idea was to have mothers and the community cook this meal! But surreptitiously things mutated to enable corrupt individuals to get their pound of flesh. Mothers mutated into NGOs often set up by interested parties or private contractors. Quality went for a free fall and nutrition too. Insects and lizards, worms and ultimately pesticides that resulted in the death of children.

The situation is terrible. Portions are insufficient. Conditions unhygienic. Utensils dirty. The list is endless. The reality is that no one cares for the children who are treated like a burden. No one is really interested in their well being and proper nutrition. The monitoring is on existent.

When after the terrible incident of Chappra, teachers were asked to taste the food, they went up in arms and even suggested that it be ‘tasted’ by street dogs. Though this was promptly shot down, it shows the attitude teachers have towards poor children. According to me teachers and students should partake of the midday meal together! Maybe that would change things.

What all this shows is the inability, intended or real, of the State to implement and monitor any social programme. All they excel at is formulating and drafting more and more of the same to gain political support that translate into votes.

The question is who will or rather can bell the cat

One thought one heard it all with the prayers to God to stop rains so that our traffic moves smoothly on Delhi pothole filled roads or that demure dressing protects you form rape (I wonder which diaper the babies that have been raped should have worn!) when a new shocker comes courtesy the ruling party. If we were to believe them than no one should be poor because you can have a meal for 12 rupees a day and if that was not enough another leader stated that you could eat well in Delhi for Rs 5! This after the planning commission has revised the poverty statistics and declared that : every eighth person living in urban areas is below the poverty line, while one in five rural residents is poor, the Planning Commission has estimated, hence the poverty ratio has declined to 21.9 per cent in 2011-12 from 37.2 per cent in 2004-05.

Dear Politician this game of statistics to prove that aal izz welll inIndia makes me want to throw up. You crunch the number and make some inane political statement and hope to get away, and sadly you do as many vote you back in power falling for your skewed and dishonest statements. Who do you want to fool? One does not need to be a rocket scientist to see poverty amidst your glitzy malls and gated communities. have you ever thought who build them? And how they live? And where there go? And what happens to their kids?

You come up with cleverly drafted options to meet your so called goals. You privatise schools and reserve 25% seats for the ‘poor’. I challenge you to do a survey and find out how many really poor kids get these seats. Oh you have taught us well. People know how to make fake certificates and fake rental agreements to beat your system. And it is kids of fairly well to do families who avail of this so called reservation which is meant to give good education to all. But does 25% meet the needs of ALL the children of India.

You say that 12 rs or 5 rs can buy you a meal. For you a daily consumption of 28.65 rs is enough to live in a city. I challenge you to so. And it is not only your 5 bucks meal but there are things like housing, clothing, eduction, health, transport! Or is this only for you.

I am speechless, repulsed, sick and ashamed of being a citizen of a country where no one cares about the poor.

Our politicians never fail to flabbergast me! The one that still has the power to startle me though one has come to expect the most ludicrous and preposterous statement from her is our very own CEO! The latest in her exceptional repertoire was her one line answer to a question posed to her about the water logging this city has to face after a heavy spell on rain. In her true inimitable manner she declared: Pray to God to stop Rains!

New Delhi is not the only city in the world to receive heavy rainfall. Moreover rains are the lifeline of our land. And our lady should be thankful for the climate change over the past decades because I remember Delhi when monsoon rains would hit the city non stop for days. Now we just have hours. Any self respecting city should have a proper drainage system. Ours has clogged drains and in my case we have a  peculiar rain storm drain as it stops tow houses away, where the owners have simply filled the drain and cemented it. Moreover the frenzy we have seen in the last few months where every square inch of a earth on the roads has been cemented makes it impossible for part of the rain water to percolate as should be the case. The cementing frenzy is to unable to fill pockets before the next elections.

The other excuse that is thrown at us for any problem we may encounter is the helplessness due to the multitude of agencies that rule our city. So why not sort this problem once for all. I am sure we as voters will welcome the move. If a girl is raped we are told the police is not under the Delhi administration and anyway women have  no business being out late at night, and even her daughter is scared after 10pm. If roads are flooded it is the responsibility of some other agencies . And this goes ad nauseum.

She is not the only one to come up with wise cracks like these; many of our politicians do be it their comments about the way girls dress to the very latest from the Bihar Education Minister who says:  he cannot guarantee that the disaster will not repeat itself. 

So let us take it from the top: if roads are flooded Pray to God; if you do not want to be raped stay at home and dress demurely and do not have a drink! We have had our share of this nonsense and it is not funny. We keep being told that Delhi is to be transformed into a second Singapore. It is glitzy malls and uber rich constructions that will make it happen. It is cleaning the city, disposing of its garbage, having drains that work and roads without potholes. We need to have an ace rain harvesting system and above all proper habitat by the ‘poor’ who play probably the biggest role in keeping our city going.

Maybe one should move in the other direction, I mean modernise the city from down to up.

Till then we are all praying.

Last week a young 11 year old became one the youngest to undergo bariatric surgery. She was born normal but undue spoiling and the lifestyle of the rich made her morbidly obese. This is the same country where babies on the other side of the fence are born with extremely low weights; where 5000 children die of malnutrition related diseases; where basic clean drinking water is a rarity for many; where millions still go to sleep hungry. On the other side of the fence there are many like this young girl who get overfed the wrong things to the point of becoming seriously damaged.

The lure of the west, the proliferation of fast food outlets in humbler areas, the easy availability of all junk food in smaller and thus cheaper packaging – a great marketing ploy -; the smart TV ads where superstars extol the goodness of packaged food are now making the poor leave their healthy fare and get lured by all these unhealthy products.

In our creche we have mothers giving Instant noodles and small bags of chips to their children in place of the home bead roti or parathas and home cooked vegetables that we saw some years back and that they still cook for their husbands. No matter how much we plead, the TV ad is not a match for us. I wonder how long it will take to see our first obese slum kid!

What would you do if you had to carry the body of your dead child in a plastic bag for miles at an end from the hospital where he was born? I am not joking but dead serious. This happened last year to a tribal couple in a country that boats of luxury hospitals, swanky malls and the world’s richest people: India. A tribal, Ayappan’s wife Valli, near term pregnant with child, had hypertension and anaemia. The nearby tribal mission hospital referred her to the tribal speciality hospital at Kottathara 43 km away. But this hospital was crumbling and many of its facilities, like the ope­ration theatre, were closed down. So Valli was referred to the Palakkad Medical College, over three hours away by jeep. By the time they reached there, it was too late—she gave birth to a still-born male child. The hospital denied the couple an ambulance to take home their dead child. Ayappan and Valli carried their dead child in a plastic bag and took the state transport bus. They had to change four buses before they reached Kalpetti where they buried their first-born in the corner of their field. This is one the heart breaking stories that appeared in a leading magazine this week.

The article is about extreme malnutrition in the tribal belt of Pallakad district, Kerala. I urge you to take time of your busy schedule and read it with your heart. In the last six months scored of children have died in the tribal cluster of Attapady. The villages are in a pitiful state with no drainage or safe drinking water and scant food. Women are severely anemic, and children malnourished. Most of this happened after the land of the tribals was taken over by mafia in the name of setting up windmills. The tribal have no access to the forests that once were their feeding bowls, ensuring them proper nourishment. You can get the details of this horror story in the article. Some tokenism and knee jerk reactions have taken place, but everything will be back to square one. The tribals are not understood and easily marginalised in the name of development. yet with so many infants deaths the tribes are worried they might just be wiped out.

To me what is disturbing is that this is happening within the knowledge of politicians and administrators, and now the media. It supposedly has all the social hand outs that the government sets up but none of them work. The hospital is decrepit, the creches do not work and I am sure no school exists. No one is truly interested in the area as it only returns one MLA!

Is life so cheap in our country? Our these children not ours? Are they not protected by the rights enshrined in our Constitution. Have we lost our consciences forever? Will once again this terrifying story be forgotten as all others that do not concern us directly?

Try to imagine the pain and sense of helplessness and hopelessness of the mothers who see their children dying. Try to imagine the distress and anguish of tow young parents carrying their dead child in a plastic bag for miles and miles because a hospital denied them an ambulance? And if you can then will you remain silent or scream.

Following the terrible tragedy that killed 23 children in Bihar, our city went into reviewing mode with officials taking stock of the situation of midday meals in the capital city. An article published this morning in a leading newspaper details the issue. I was aghast to read that the said officials gave themselves a pat in the back saying that over the past two years no sample had been declared unfit for human consumption. What is this a joke! They were quick to add that 50% of samples collected failed the nutrition test. I am lost. The midday meal is meant to provide nutrition to children. I agree that nutrition levels need to be tested but how does the fit for consumption but come in. Why should meals meant for children be tested for their fitness for human consumption. This in nothing short of mind boggling.

Delhi’s record is abysmal. 80% of the food cooked is substandard. It is time something was done. I shudder to think how all the schemes heralded with such fanfare will perform when implemented. The answer is quite evident. Either there is a lack of will and only political drama or the whole system is so corrupt and poorly conceived that no programme can ever be well implemented. Why should be bother many would think? Well first and foremost it is our money. But that is not all. Under nourishment is something we have to look at seriously. If children are malnourished then their entire development is compromised.

As midday meals seem to be the flavour of the day following the recent death of 23 children, be are hearing a slew of horror stories from insects and lizards, to scorpions, of cooking on sceptic tanks next to stinking loos. And as the story enfolds we get more and more disturbing news about the way the midday meal programme is being implemented. And believe it or not Bihar even returned 500 crores to the centre, money meant to build kitchens and buy utensils for the midday meal scheme. The bottom line is that no one cares for children. And schemes made for children are the easiest to be hijacked.

The midday meal scheme is probably the best solution for dealing with malnutrition in children as it covers children from 0 to 14. Pregnant and lactating mothers are also meant to be covered so the critical nine months and 1000 days of good nutrition and constant monitoring should ensure no under nourished child in India. It is something we all should be proud as it is the largest school feeding programme. But sadly that is not the case. We should be given the Nobel for botching every programme meant for the poor and diverting it to bottomless pockets. How can anyone have gall to divert funds meant for the hungry and the destitute. But we have. Learn from us! You don’t believe me? Here is another proof.

A programme launched 2 days ago in this very cit, the capital of India, and meant to arrest anaemia in children by giving them iron and folic acid landed 20 of them in hospital. No wonder parents are scared!

Wonder how the new Food bill will fare. Midday meals are an intrinsic part of it!!!!

Time we woke up!

The writing is on the wall if anyone, just anyone is willing to see. We know politicians and their cronies and administrators and their lackeys will look away and go an hunt for the most implausible and far fetched explanations that no one, but they, will buy. The likes of us may utter a few concerned exclamations, maybe allot it some space in their next social event and move on. What I am referring to is the horrific death of 23 innocent children whose only fault was to have eaten their midday meal in their school, the very meal meant to provide the very nourishment they need to grow healthy and strong. Instead it too away their lives.

When we began pwhy way back in 2000, I was involved in some networking with the Delhi administration and  one of the things discussed were the midday meal. At that them a proposal was mooted, but of course rejected, of having mothers form cooperatives and cook the midday meal of the school their children go to. Needless to state that the reason it was shot down was that it did not allow space for corruption of any sort. Instead the programme was used to gratify friends and acolytes enabling them to loot abashedly. In some states this approach was selected and needless to say the children get well cooked and nourishing hot food. In some states however the ‘contract’ was awarded to big businesses who dole out supplements of sorts to replace the midday meal of creches and schools. But ‘supplements’ are supplement to something, and these children have nothing to supplement. They often depend on this hot meal to survive and hopefully thrive.

Sadly this is not the case. We are so corrupt that we do not even spare children. The midday meal looks great on paper but this not the case in reality. In the national capital the food is sub standard and barely edible. Our children are fed with grain crawling with worms, flies and even lizards. In one state, the contract was given to a liquor baron. The bottom line is that the amount of money to be made runs into thousands of crores and everyone wants a share of the pie. Nobody gives a hoot about the beneficiaries: voiceless and hapless children.

The midday meal or a clone of it is part of the new Food Security Ordinance. I cannot begin to imagine how it will work better under this new cloak. A quick glance at the series of article on the subject paints a gloomy and disturbing picture.

When we ran a small residential unit for Manu and our boarding school aspirants, we had a tight budget, but the one thing we never compromised on was food. I cannot imagine what kind of being you have to be to want to enrich yourself on food meant for children and starving people.

I do not think that the new avatar will change things for children but know that it will enrich many on the way. And no one will fight for the children. They will continue to die.

How many deaths will it take to clean our Augean stables.

It is a reality that should make us hang our heads in shame. In a country where millions go hungry every day, where 5000 kids under the age of 5 die every day of malnutrition related diseases, we allow food grain to rot every year. The latest report comes at a time when the Government has rushed its Food Security Bill through an ordinance. In Bhogola, the wheat sacks are kept in the open and are completely getting drenched in the rain. The ones that are covered with polythene sheets are also not protected as these sheets are torn at places. Rotting grain is an old issue. Multiple articles and stories have appeared in the media over the years. In spite of Supreme Court orders and a plethora of social programmes that are rammed down our throats time and again, nothing has changed. India remains a poor country with pathetic roads, no electricity, insufficient and poorly run schools and abysmal health care. An interesting article explains in its own manner the reason for this immobility. Now we have all been ‘gifted’ the Food Security Bill, a supposed panacea for all the nutrition problems of the country. Yippee!!! I wonder how a given quantity of grains to 800 million people will solve malnutrition and address the problem of undernutrition.

Breaking News. I interrupt the flow of this post to share some terribly distressing news: 20 children under the age of 10 have died after consuming the midday meal served in their school. It seems the rice had some lethal pesticide in it. It seemed it may not have been properly washed. Whatever the reason, nothing can forgive this criminal Act.

The midday meal is also an important part of the said Bill. If they cannot get their act together now, what miracle will occur to change things. Maybe one should have set one’s house in order before conjuring new plans. Malnourished children die of diseases that are preventable. Maybe we should look at this more closely rather than dole out more suspicious hand outs. It is all in the name of garnering vote banks: the ruling party brings an ordinance, the opposition will not dare oppose it in spite of its flaws as every one needs to woo the poor. There are sufficient schemes in place the intelligent and honest approach would have been to simply ensure every one of these work adequately. But that is not the way things work in our country. You need new programmes to add new avenues for corrupt people.

The new ordinance has flaws. The obvious one is that a certain amount of grain given to a person does not solve malnutrition which is the main bane of the country. This needs preventive medical care, sanitation and safe drinking water. To curb undernutrition the 9 months and 1000 first days of a child are crucial. Early malnutrition cannot be reversed.

This bill is no magic pill. It is just one more political gimmick aimed at retaining power. When will we see politicians truly willing to put their house in order?

The beast gnawing mercilessly my loved one for the past year now has finally been exposed. It has a fancy name meant to scare you and hold you in fear: Hodgkins t cell histiocyte rich large b cell lymphoma. This is the third time it has dared attack my loves ones and won the last two battles. This battle is mine to win. The last two times it kept us in such dread that we were terrorised to called it by its name. The C word was banned in my home, the same home I sit in today in the early morning and write these words. But this time I named it before anyone could give me medical spiel. TO me he is ZOZO. This t cell and b cell saga will not instill the alarm and panic it did last time. If you google it you find a load of scientific mumbo jumbo that means nothing to the layperson and is again meant to terrorise you. Actually the whole C Saga (cancer) seems to have been created to enrich the medical fraternity by giving it a larger than life image. When you patiently crawl and sift through all the information you get, you find that it has a fairly good chance of cure. Sorry I hate the word remission. I will hold on to cure.

However I want the control of the cure to be in my hands and blissfully my family doc will hold my hand and avoid I fall into the traps commercial medicine will lay for me along the way. In addition to what I feel is adequate and humane, I will draw strength from the age old medical traditions that have been so brutally and contemptuously been cast aside by those who think they know all. I will also starve the beast with all the foods it hates. I will go to the end of the world and farther to ferret out all every single option that will help my love one heal.

As I said earlier this is a battle I either win or die fighting.

This is the brave side. The one I have carefully and painstakingly crafted in the past weeks, since the word C entered our personal lexicon again. It is my battle gear: the words and expression to battle greedy men in white; the face to maintain while being buffeted by commiseration that will annoy, advise and questions you have to answer and above all the one to be perfected so that my loved one feels that everything is possible and that cure is just around the corner. Can’t he see it in my face.

This brings back a memory long forgotten. I must have been four and we had a terrible car accident in which my mother had broken many bones: ribs, sternum etc. I was barely hurt as she had protected me – no seat belts then – and looking at her started wailing thinking she would die. She just kept smiling, hiding her pain, and talking to me in reassuring words till help came, last as she had not let out a scream. I am not Kamala. But today Mama I need you to give me that strength and composure. I know you will.

However behind this brave face that is I hope well in place, I am breaking into million pieces. I am angry, scared, hurt, helpless and alone. The tears that are welling inside me threaten to come out and it takes me all my strength to stop them coming. Do tears dry inside you. I hope they do.

The C word can shred you of your dignity, take away your wealth and your life’s effort. I will not let it do so. I will heed good advice and shun the rest. I will draw strength from my nuclear family, my little grandson and the one that came into my life a decade ago and all my pwhy family, that is all of you.

Maybe pwhy came into my life so that I would not be alone in my time of trouble.

A news item this morning brought back memories I had vowed to forget. The item entitled: Rice with insects, clothes with holes took me back to so many instances of shameless beings who feel that anything is good enough for charity. We have had our share of such people and their interpretation of the word ‘charity’. According to many ‘rich’ ladies everything is good enough for charity: broken toys, incomplete games, copy books filled up to the last page, torn and useless clothes. We were even ‘gifted’ an undergarment with a sanitary pas still attached to it!

The article I mentioned above is about the relief being sent to the flood victims of Uttarkhand. Why do people think that poor people or disaster afflicted people have no dignity or self respect. Why do people not put themselves in the place of those they are sending their supposed charity and think how they would feel. Is rice with insects something they would eat?

Donations we receive time and again do not seem to be something that has been done from the heart, clothes carefully chosen, washed and ironed before they are packed. It seems more like someone is emptying cupboards and store rooms and instead of selling it to the kabari wallahs, makes a phone call to a chosen NGO and asks them to come and pick the ‘donation’ up. We have been caught in this too many times. Now if the phone rings and one recognises the number of one of the ‘generous’ ladies, one does not pick the phone up. I am sure the said lady has a list of NGOs and just moves on to the next.

Over the years we have had many such experiences. One of the most upsetting one was when the PR person of a known actor badgered us to cart a child who needed heart surgery to some place to be interviewed! The flip side is a letter I received from a young child asking me whether it was wrong  to help those in need. Thank God for people like her otherwise one would simply give up on life itself rather than be part of this ugly world.

I have been often asked why we sponsor open heart surgeries for the poor who can according to them have more kids! I have given up getting outraged. It is too exhausting. How do you explain to someone that a mother whether poor or uber rich loves her child in the same manner, that parents whether poor or rich will do everything they can, and in the case of the poor sell everything they possess to give their child the best treatment possible. How do you explain to someone that the loss of a child is a painful and traumatic for any mother rich or poor. You just don’t. You simply grit your teeth and walk away. I remember the night when the story of the first open heart surgery had been aired with my number and the strange and disturbing calls I received throughout the night. One caller asked me if I could guarantee that the operation would be successful and the child would live. I felt like telling him that I could not guarantee whether he would see the next day, but rephrased my thought my telling him I could not ‘guarantee’ whether I would be alive. I would like to tell that caller that the boy is alive and kicking and is in class XII. And before I end this tale, I need to tell you that the fact that the story came on air is also worth counting. Actually a journalist friend had written a piece about this boy in a leading newspaper. It was to be front page on the Sunday edition. A late night call informed me that the story had been killed and replaced by the story of a rich lady who had paid 50K to the person who had found her lost dog. This made me so mad that I did what I never do: asked for a favour!

There are many instances that reveal this ugly aspect of our society. One of the most hurtful one was when a lady flew into a rant when I tried to explain to her how our boarding school programme ran. She could not understand how one could spend so much money on just a poor slum kid! It took all my savoir faire not to slap her.

India would be transformed if we accepted the concept of the neighbourhood school. But that would mean accepting that our child share a bench with our driver’s daughter.

Long way to go….

I went on a net search to find the origin of this expression. This metaphor was coined by Stephen Covey and seems to be a way of strengthening family ties. It is definitely worth a read as it could help restoring trust within members of a family. I will however take some liberty and use the same expression in a slightly divergent manner. We all face difficult times and have our own ways of facing them. When faced with a situation when a dear and loved one is facing emotional upheavals and processing facts that are painful and often felt as unmerited, they rely on their partner to draw the strength they do not have and take the decisions that they fear. This is where I stand today. In all the challenges that I have faced during our 40 years together, he has been the one to hold my hand and walk me through. When I have been slighted by one and all, his trust remained unwavering. Be it a personal or a work issue, he has never failed me in any manner whatsoever.

Today he has again put his trust in my hands and I cannot fail him. Starting this week I will have to take life altering decisions and stand by them. I will have to answer questions, will have to face commiserations and listen to a plethora  of advice with a smile on my face and yet firm in my mind that I will only follow my intuition and hart. This is a journey I do not look forward to and yet cannot escape. The roadmap is not in my hands neither is the final destination but whatever it may be, I will be held responsible for every step.

To be able to undertake this journey I need to fill my emotional bank to the brim as I will be drawing on it to simply keep myself afloat and moving ahead. This can only be filled by the love, trust and support of all those who have believed in me in the past years and have become more than family. Without each one of you I will not be able to keep my brave face on and not break. I hope you will be there for me. 

I have always believed that nothing in life is fortuitous. This in reality is a lesson my father gave me quite early in life when he told me that no at single leaves moves without the will of a higher spirit. For the religious I guess it is God in whatever shape, for the non believer it could be a greater force. Anyway the outcome is the same. Every thing happens for a reason. I got a mail this morning from a very spirited young lady I admire immensely. She wrote in French and I reproduce her words and give a translation to the best of my ability.

Mais en même temps, on a de la chance de vivre au moins jusque 50 ans, il y en a en ce moment qui meurent de faim avant l’âge de 2 ans, ou qui meurent entassés dans des bateaux d’immigrés, ou des enfants soldats. Tu sais tout ça mieux que moi. La vie nous donne une chance d’être nés dans des milieux plutôt sécurisés, et on sais que ce sera le cancer ou un arrêt cardiaque qui va sûrement nous surprendre un jour. On a le choix de vivre sa vie comme on le  veut en attendant.

“But at the same time we have the good fortune to live till we are fifty or more whilst there are those who today die of hunger before they are two, or those who die crammed in immigrant boats or child soldiers. You know this better than me. Life has given us the advantage to be born in secure and privileged environments and we know that it will cancer or a heart attack that will catch us unawares one a day. Till then we have the choice to live our lives as we want to.”

In the midst of all the kindness and support that have been coming my way, it is these words from a very young lady that brought me back to hearth and out of the state of self-pity that I was finding myself sinking into. I said it in one of my last post cancer is just another vehicle of death like millions of others some as innocuous as a banana peel! I was about to let myself be ‘seduced’ by the larger than life image many have given this ailment as it’s cure has so many zeroes attached it that it makes it dazzling to our innocent eyes. And we get lured as carefully scripted and delivered spiels are directed our way. We are so overwhelmed by this manufacture hydra headed monster and we allow it to take all the place in our lives. And in doing so, we forget all the wonderful things that have been so generously gifted to us, the first being the enabling environment to make it this far.

Instead of spending all our time and strength and money (we often do not have) in looking for cures proliferate as we are such easy targets, let us take a few moments and look at all that has come our way and feel deeply grateful for not having been born a child who would never see her second birthday after having slept almost a thousand nights hungry. In a country where almost 5000 such innocent and beautiful children die every day robbed of their morrows, we have seen 5 or6 or 7 decades. Isn’t that precious. Have been thankful enough for this wonder or just accepted it as our ‘due’! So of we go the ‘due’ way then the cancer is also our ‘due’; we cannot be selective or dishonest.

We still have time and above all have choices that we can exercise. Think about those who have none, even when attacked by the same beast. We can live our remaining years either in ‘remission’ and abeyance and get lured by this new lexicon that is thrown at us or treat this ailment as we would any other and live each day as if it was the last doing all that is left on that forgotten bucket list of ours.

The Grim Reaper will come at the appointed time. Till then we have the luxury of living life as we want. Are we not blessed?

For the past month or so you may have seen a flurry of posts that sound more personal and often have nothing to do with pwhy or any of the subject I usually rant about. I seek your understanding and extend my apologies. I am a mere mortal with her shares of problems and challenges. Some are too insignificant to be shared  and blow way. Others however have the power to annihilate you totally if you are not careful. I am at such a crosswind at the moment.

Over the past few years I have come to realise that writing has become my catharsis. By laying my soul bare on the a sheet of paper or should I say a bland screen and pressing the key that will make the words fly across the universe I feel a tremendous emotional release. It is almost a sense of freedom, or rather the warm feeling that there are wonderful souls to share my pain with, souls who will understand and lend a helping hand.

I entreat you to be there for me in the difficult days that await me.

A little word from you will make all the difference

 How would you feel if your labour of 13 years was judged in 3 days and dismissed as inadequate and unworthy to be given a second chance? Not good I presume particularly if you have spent 13 years of your time to build it brick by brick from scratch. Sadly this is what happened to me, to us at pwhy a couple of days ago. I will not go into the details. I hold no bad feelings, I gave up those long ago. I simply hope against hope that this unfair dismissal will not cast a slur on the relentless effort of those who have put heart and soul in making pwhy what it is today. However, when such occurrences happen, I feel the need of taking a harsh and candid look at what we have achieved, to assess where we went wrong and could we have done things better. The recent incident made that more imperative than ever.

I feel particularly hurt as it seems that a lack of some creature comforts that could have been sorted out, reflect on the hard work of a wonderful team and the morrows of almost one thousand deprived children. These children depend on the generosity of donors the world over and the slightest slur can put an end to their hopes and smiles.

I chose to put a picture of the wonderful smiles of Umesh and Anurag who are two children of our special section and have been with us for many years. I browsed our old pictures and found these! How big they have grown and how happy they look today! I am not boasting but had we not been there I wonder what would have happened to them. For the past decade, these two lads and many of their companions have been coming to pwhy and every day and spending some hours laughing and learning, something that is the right of every child but is often denied to children with special needs. If just for that I think I can say we at least did something right. I still remember the cold morning when a lady dropped in to our office with four or five kids in tow, Umesh being one of them and asking us if we had a class for children with special needs as the one these children went to had suddenly shut its doors and moved to greener pastures. It did not take me a second to tell her that we did not but would start one.

And our first class for special children was on the

pavement. It was winter and a blissfully a sunny one, so the classes could be held out in the open. They shared their space with a bunch of class X boys who were busy preparing for their Boards. But come the heat and it became impossible for the special class to stay in the open. A quick switch was made and the English classes that were held in a small mud hut became their classroom. Soon primary classes were added and we taught every where and any where: a reclaimed park where we erected a lovely tent, in between buildings
when we were thrown out of the park, in a reclaimed garbage dump. Any space would do, as long as we could continue our work. From a handful of kids, we became hundreds and even touched a thousand! We fought every battle needed: the slum lords, the wily unions, the scheming politicos but survived each battle. We met every challenge thrown at us and found solutions: be it life saving surgeries, destitute women or unfair court cases. We did at times have to lick our wounds but they healed faster than we could imagine as they seemed paltry compared to the smiles that filled our lives.

Our kids have grown. The little girl leading the morning walk of our very first creche is now a stunning young lady in class VII. She studies in a public school as her family has understood the importance of education and has tightened their belt to give her the best education. One of our first students in class I has completed her schooling and is now a teacher at pwhy. A young boy who joined the classes we ran for a gypsy camp because of the young international volunteers who taught there. He completed his education, worked as a teacher with pwhy and is now an international ramp model!

There are so many heart warming stories that make up the 13 years of project why. All of them have been shared in the 1500 posts of this blog. We have also shared our errors, our lapses, our failures as candidly as possible.

Today when I stand at a crossroad, wondering whether it would be wiser to wind up this unwieldy project that has grown because I followed my heart at every single moment, or maybe scale it down by applying some hard logic leaving the heart aside, I just have to take a walk down memory lane to see how absurd the idea is.

I only wish people did not judge 13 years of work in 3 short days!

My very first encounter with the word ‘cancer’ was circa 1957. My grandmother was diagnosed with ‘cancer’. I was five. All I remember is mama’s silent tears as she read a letter that was delivered to her through the weekly diplomatic bag. We were in Rabat where my father was posted. In those times there were no dial up phones or internet. News from India came once a week in the ‘bag’. Sometimes later I was told my Nani had ‘cancer’. I did not know what ‘cancer’ was. I only knew it made my mama sad and sometimes made her cry. cancer was a bad word. That is what the little five year thought and went with her life. On July 13th 1958 a telegram arrived. Telegrams were often bearers of bad news. My Nani had died. ‘Died’ was also a bad word as it made mama cry and papa sad. She had died of cancer. Now the little girl was sure that ‘cancer’ was a very bad word! I did not know then that it would become my greatest enemy with many battles lost!

Life went on. Between postings across the globe, we always spent time in India in Meerut where my grandfather lived. For the little girl it was her Nana and Nani’s house but this time there was no Nani. She had died of cancer. I had memories of her, memories that still linger in my mind today and bring a smile on my face; memories of baths taken together, of mangoes eaten under the mango tree, of delicious food my Nani use to cook sitting on a charpoy under the same mango tree. As I grew up, my mama told me many stories about my Nani and I realised what a special woman she was.

The word cancer would reappear in my life as I grew up from child do adolescent. Mama had a lump, mama needed surgery and a biopsy. But then all would be well when the results came in. Cancer was always a fear that kept cropping in and out of our lives. But mercifully till 1989 it remained just that: a fear quickly allayed.

But things were to change forever. On a sunny afternoon in the summer of 1989 a phone call from my father changed my life forever. We were in Prague on a posting. My parents were in Paris and had promised to visit us. We were all excited at spending some time together in the city where I was born. The call was from papa. Mama had had an opacity in one of her lungs and had had what looked like a stroke as she seemed to have lost her recent memory. I rushed to Paris and was shocked to see a woman who in no way looked like my mama. She was lost in her own world and frightened like a child. In hindsight that was the day I lost my mother. The last year  of her life she had been hijacked by the opacity as we were not allowed to use the word ‘cancer’. I do not know whether it was instinct or vanity but mama never visited a doctor, never wanted any treatment, never agreed to pain management. She bore it all with rare dignity and great courage. She died in my arms living life to its very end.

It was hard on papa and I but we respected her decisions even though her hearts broke each time we saw her smile through the deep lines of a pain she tried to hide. I wish I had known about alternative therapies, about nutrition, about the many ways the beast could be fought. But we were greenhorns papa and I, and only knew about medical treatment that shred every ounce of dignity you had. We had ignored the beast as that was what mama wanted and he took her away.

As papa and I sat licking our wounds and missing her smile, the beast decided to strike again, this time it was papa. Had he somatized the ailment that snatched the love of his life. I do not know. What I know is that one fine morning papa complained of a bleed. It was the beast again, the one who had kept me in fear for half a century. This time we went for the medical ‘protocols’ that translated into a mutilating surgery that robbed my father of his dignity and will to live. It took just 29 days.

I was told that I was high risk, and that I needed to be checked every year. This was unacceptable to me. I would not live my life in fear of the beast but instead of trying to avoid it by nor naming it and letting it run wild, I would learn every thing about it. I read books and more books, survivor stories, alternative therapies, different options. I learnt about nutrition that could prevent it from attaching and put myself on a diet. I began to exercise, meditate, do yoga, gi quong. I had to take the bull by its horns and rid myself of the fear I had nursed far too long. I was ready for it should it attack.

But it had other plans. Surreptitious and insidious ones. It again attacked a loved one in the most unexpected manner. But what it does not know is that I am prepared. First of all I am going to give it a name of my own and address it directly. Zozo is what comes to my mind and Zozo it will be! So Zozo, you want a fight, you will get one and remember David conquered Goliath.

I do not know why you have been given an exalted status. People die of a myriad of illnesses but no one says a malaria survivor, a leprosy survivor or a dengue survivor. Death comes at a given time, and you are just the chosen bearer. Maybe you serve the interest of pharmaceutical businesses and commercialised health care. And too many fall into your trap. I to did once, but not anymore.

 I am ready for you in every which way possible. I will make informed decisions, I will use an arsenal you cannot even begin to imagine. I will chose each and every weapon I have mastered over the years. I will starve you giving you all the things you hate. I will hit you with targeted bullets of all shapes and sizes. I will not leave you a moment of peace. This is a battle where if needed David will die before allowing Goliath to win.

Let the battle begin!

Blissfully till now my trysts with the medical mafia were few, far away and second hand. They were oft recounted by people I knew and sometimes by my project why family for whom private – commercial – modern medicine is a sine qua non to social mobility. Just like for weddings they will be beg, borrow and steal to get their dear ones admitted to one of the top medical five star facilities. I feel appalled and angry when I see people paying tens of thousands of rupees for c

Just like public schools mushroomed a few years back, private hospitals, some obscenely grandiose, are proliferating at every corner of our city. They come as a counterpoint to the avalanche of private health insurance companies that promise the world and more. Somehow the whole symphony sounds extremely false and is the absolute opposite of the spirit of the Hippocratic Oath! You even have a modern version now! I think I am going to write a desi version sometimes in the near future.

I have never been one to plan life with logic and good sense. I am more the one who leaves everything in the hands of the one residing above and take life a day at a time. So I am not the one who took time reading the fine print of a loved one’s insurance cover. A simple query that was answered by a short: everything was enough to satisfy my fleeting need. I must confess that there are moments or rather issues that I deal with hubris.

Someone had other plans as my carefully crafted world got a blow that almost knocked me out. In spite of all my careful orchestrating I forget that life’s symphony is composed by another we have no hold on. I who had clamoured with misplaced confidence that I would never – never say never again- allow myself to be caught in the vortex of private and commercial healthcare suddenly found myself in the midst of it! The never read lines revealed their truth. The everything so easily accepted turned out to be a maze best typified as illogical. It turned out that the post and number of years toiled in a PSU entitled you to a double room. I wanted a single one. Naive as I am I thought that paying the difference would be sufficient! Not at all was what I was about to discover in a well staged and acted play.

Twenty years ago, when my father needed a surgery there were no super speciality hospitals. You either went to a state run one or chose a nursing home. I selected the later. I was given a price list with different items, one of them being rooms. I chose the best. The rest of the items were fixed! But that is not how it goes now. It is the room that defines the price of the rest of the items be it the OT charges or the nursing ones. I wanted a single room for many reasons and tried to dig my heals. I was sent from pillar to post as I kept asking why this could not be. I was met by a series of people whose nomenclatures seemed more appropriate in a corporate house than in a home of healing. I got the whole enchilada from the kind and polite PRO, to the less kind and polite god knows who; from the seemingly understanding secretary of the Doctor to the most supposedly humane Doc who sent me back to another set of people whose kindness and politeness differed. After having been swung from here to there I was ready for the kill: a meeting with the head of finances, Cerberus herself, devoid of kindness and politeness who barked at me that there was no way I could get that single room, and if I did want it my bill would grow at an exponential rate. And that any way there were no single rooms available. And anyway you are a book judged by its cover and I was not wearing the right shoes, carrying the right bag and dripping with the right jewels.

I came back licking my wounds and trying to rearrange my head in accepting that my poor partner will be subjected to the snores of another. Trying to come to terms with the fact that we would not be able to be with him as a family. So alternate plans were drafted and it was decided that we would admit him as late in the day as possible and get him out as soon as possible. I did not know then that the ‘protocol’ – a word with a whole new meaning for a diplomat’s daughter – was to keep a patient in ICU one whole night even if the surgery is minor. Actually in state run hospitals they would send you back in a few hours. We got our open heart surgery kids back in three days! But we are now in the realm of commercial health and the meter has to keep running for as long as possible. Makes me sick when I see the millions who cannot and do not get access to any form of humane treatment.

So as per plan we shipped the husband to the hospital late in the night! Imagine my surprise when I was told that he had been given a single room! Was it an answer to my entreaties or to my prayers. I do not know. But I feel a little better knowing I beat the system.

Popples a.k.a. Utpal left yesterday morning. It was heart wrenching as for the very first time after many comings and goings he was sobbing. Normally I got a Bye Maam’ji as he hopped into the car and most of the times did not look back. This time however there were tears an hour before leaving and then in the car. I was deprived of my hug and smile. I would have liked to see him go with a big smile as this is a time when my emotional bank needs to be filled to the brim as I am going through tough times and will need all  the support I can muster. A weeping child was not  what I wanted to see. It almost felt ominous and I quickly brushed the idea aside. I could not afford to go that way.

Later when I was a little calmer I tried to analyse young fellow’s behaviour and it all came to my in a flash. Utpal had spent the whole summer holidays at home and had a great time. But that was not all. I guess for the first time he felt part of the family, a new experience for this little lad whose life till recent times yo-yoed between sordid homes, midway rehab homes, boarding school, our women centre, and many others including mine. But this time he had savoured the comfort and security of a home though he is still battling with relationships, something we need to help him with. Agastya being there made the  departure harder as the last month had been filled with fun and laughter. I guess anyone would have cried his heart out. I could make peace with the tears that were far from being ominous were a sign that we were all hoping for.

Today I went to GK M Block market a favourite haunt of my two little fellows. The reason: the toy shops of course.  But I just needed to purchase some inane need. As I walked into the market I suddenly felt terribly alone. There was no one tagging along, no little hand in mine and no one calling me Nani or Maam’ji! No one dragging me to the ‘toy shop’ and no visit to the the famed toy shop(s) with demands fired at me from both end of the proverbial ‘gun’. Today I could go where I wanted, browse every shop in the market. Today I did not have to halt at the Pizza vendor and order three slices of pizza for my ever hungry big boy, or look for the missing ice cream vendor for my tiny vanilla ice cream lover. Yes I could do what I wanted except rewind the clock and savour one more of those delightful moments.

I miss you!

Don’t lose faith in her were my pa’s final dying words. ‘Her’ in this occurrence is India. That was 21  years ago. I must admit it has been no easy task to keep the faith, specially as for the past 13 years I have seen its underbelly in more ways than one. One often plays the game of comparing persons to animals. In India’s case it would be loads of hyenas and vultures who feed on the helplessness, hopelessness, vulnerability and despair of others. To keep faith is not easy task and yet when you are about to give up, a cameo appears unexpectedly and brings back to your senses. This has happened to me over and over again and perhaps that is why in the midst of corruption, scandals, gimmickry and aberrations one holds on to that little glimmer of hope.

For the past month I have been going to the Temple every morning as I have taken a pledge to do so for the well being of my loved one. Every morning I get a red thread tied on my wrist by a so called priest sitting outside the sanctum sanctorum. Like all Hindu mores, this too has a series of rites prescribed for the last day when you cut all the threads. One of them is of course giving alms to the priest. Imagine my shock this morning when the said priest asked me for a mobile phone as his ‘fee’. I was surprised and outrage. Even religion had its share of hyenas and vultures. I almost swore to myself that I would stop visiting temples once for all.

But someone had other plans. As I walked back the long alley that leads to the temple I saw a mother combing the hair of her elder daughter while her two younger daughters stood by. What was striking was that all three were in their school uniforms. I could not resists asking if they went to school and the mother proudly said that they did. A simple glance at the two large plastic bags stuffed with things confirmed that I had suspected. They were beggars who lived in the Temple and slept on the long covered interspersed with a few fans. That is in fact the 5* sleeping place for beggars. The woman and her husband begged during the day but sent their three daughters to school. I asked the little girl if she went to tuition as without tuition there is scant learning in our schools. The mother proudly said that her elder one did and she paid 600 rs a month! I told them about project why and will ensure that the girls get admission as soon as possible. Just for this one could not give up on India!

But India – as represented by its rulers and administrators as well as by the likes of us – has given up on these children who have the same rights as any other child. Who will be their voice? Makes one hang our heads in shame.

But what is really striking to me about India, much more than most other countries I have been to, is the indifference of privileged sectors to the misery of others. These words are an excerpt of a recent interview Noam Chomsky gave to a leading magazine. If one[ could do a word or rather thought search of the almost 1500 blogs I have written over the least 7 years, one would find this thought echoed a zillion times!

In the very same issue of the magazine there is another interview of an eminent sociologist. The book in question is Dipankar Gupta’ s Revolution from Above. In his opinion the much needed social change can only come from above, from what he calls the ‘citizen elite’. I guess people like you and me. And empathy is the condition of social change. I can but agree. I have just purchased the book and may share further thoughts when I finish reading it.

Turning Indifference to Empathy seems to be the way to change India. But the question is how do you do this. In the Chomsky interview there is a very telling incident that I would like to quote here. It speaks volumes about how indifferent we have become. But what is really striking to me about India, much more than most other countries I have been to, is the indifference of privileged sectors to the misery of others. You walk through Delhi and cannot miss it, but people just don’t seem to see it. Everyone is talking about ‘Shining India’ and yet people are starving. I had an interesting experience with this once. I was in a car in Delhi and with me was (activist) Aruna Roy, and we were driving towards a demonstration. And I noticed that she wasn’t looking outside the window of the car. I asked her why. She said, “If you live in India, you just can’t look outside the window. Because if you do, you’d rather commit suicide. It’s too horrible. So you just don’t look.” So people don’t look, they put themselves in a bubble and then don’t see it. And those words are from somebody who has devoted her life to the lives of the poor, and you can see why she said that — the misery and the oppression are so striking, much worse than in any country I have ever seen. And it is so dramatic.

When will we garner the courage to look outside the window and not feel like committing suicide, but feel like screaming, feel like getting out of comfort zone and do something, however small. I presume that will be the day when the ‘citizen elite’ Dipankar Gupta talks about will be born. As long as we hide inside gated communities, as long as we refuse to look outside the window as we zip towards our favourite mall, as long as we continue to ‘shield’ our children from children from the other side of the divide, as long as we waste food with impunity, as long as we continue believing that India is ‘shining’ or ‘incredible’ nothing will change in this country. Children will continue to die of malnutrition @ 3 per minute. Rights like the one to education, or health or dignity will only reach the chosen few. And the divide between rich and poor will deepen by the second.

Some time back a relative conveyed to me trough the convenient  sms medium that I was  incapable of valuing relationships because I had no siblings. I blogged my hurt as writing out in the open is the best form of catharsis I know. The truth is I had a sibling, an older one. He lived for barely 48 hours and then gently flew away. And yet he was and remains an integral part of my life. He would have been 63 tomorrow. Last year, for the very first time, I felt the need to acknowledge his existence and wrote a letter to him! That letter made me realise that his little life of barely a few hours had made a huge difference to mine, and had he not died there would have been project why!Project why was started with the my parents bequeathed me; had he been around then things would have been different. I am sure he would have head a better head for finances and invested wisely. His bird brained sister simply used the capital. What came out of it is for all to see is a 13 year old project why and lots of happy smiles. So because a little life was truncated thousands of lives were bettered. Somehow I believe he is the little Angel who watches us from the Heavens. No life, however short or however wretched is in vain.

Take Manu. He lived almost 3 decades before we met on one scorching day 13 summers ago. Who would have thought that a pathetic and godforsaken soul like him could play such a huge role in making an ageing woman see her calling. Yet he did. If not for him project why may not have existed!

No life is too short, or too miserable. Every life has to be celebrated.

Today I celebrate a tiny life that made all the difference. Happy Birthday Ramesh Goburdhun!

One of the first ‘demands’ of parents of the slum where we began our work way back in 2000 was to teach their children English! Somehow these illiterate parents knew intuitively that knowing English would give their children a better start in life. We heeded to their request and as you well know by now the first ‘centre’ that we opened was a spoken English class that catered to about 40 students of all ages. I must say with some amount of pride that a large chunk of our first band speak good English and are gainfully employed. In those days classes were taken by a group of volunteers from the other side of the fence and thus their English was to say the least spot on!

Over the years Project Why mutated into a after school support operation and a well thought model was evolved that was based on employing local talent, thus people from the other side of the fence. Our mission was to ensure good results in school and contain drop outs. The space for English was thus restricted. International volunteers were assigned that task it was quasi impossible to find people who spoke good English willing to work at salaries we offered and in the conditions we worked in. In spite of this, our children are quite proficient in the language.

That English gives you a better start in life is a reality we are all aware of. However today’s blog is about how little knowledge of the language can land you in big trouble. There was a news item is yesterday’s paper that illustrates perfectly what I am trying to say. Here is an abridged version of the tale. Two young girls were carrying raw meat in their bag, probably their dinner. They were stopped by the officer in charge of the scanner. A journo decided to intervene and ask why meat that was neatly packed could not be carried in the metro. The man said it was a banned item and showed him a list of banned items pointing at the item: meat cleaver. The journo tried to explain that meat and meat cleaver were two different things but the man would not hear anything. The matter was taken to a superior and the girls were allowed in. However the man was still insisting he was right and the matter got out of hand with the poor journo being roughed up!

My first reaction was how come a meat cleaver appeared on the list of banned items. I guess it must be a lost borrowed from another country. And I agree that meat cleavers should not be allowed. But what this incident shows is that little knowledge is dangerous. The person manning the scanner did know the word ‘meat’ but had no idea of what a cleaver was. I do agree that ‘cleaver’ is not a word that appears in school books frequently but then I think the staff has to be trained and shown what the banned items are, or maybe one should add a picture of the items to overcome language inadequacies.

I felt sorry for the poor journo who was being gallant and a good Samaritan, but the incident brought a smile on my face and the inevitable reaction on the stupidity of the administration.

The very first day I started visiting the Kalka temple every morning at 7am, my attention was drawn to a woman many would called a beggar as that is how she supports herself. But I was drawn to her as to me she seemed regal and beautiful in a haunting way. On days when I did not see her,I would look for her and if I did not find her, I would leave a tad disappointed. Each time I saw her, sitting and sipping tea, talking to someone or just standing I would wish her with a loud: Jai Mai Ki! I was sort of mesmerised by her. She was always impeccably dressed in the brightest of colours, squeaky clean – not and easy task in this environment – and smiling. Sometimes I would slip her a few rupees which she accepted with extreme dignity, making me feel grateful. As days went by we used to exchange a few pleasantries. I must confess I looked forward to these small trysts. I was dying to hear her story but never asked anything for fear of offending her.

A few days back she stopped me. She wanted to ‘introduce’ me to her niece. She told me the little girl was orphaned and was being badly treated by the relatives she was living with. Bhavna is nine and a lovely child. She asked me if I could give the child some clothes as she only had the one she was wearing. She also told me that the child would be leaving soon. The nest day I gave her some money to buy the girl some clothes. I also asked her what her name was and how come she had landed in the temple. She did not tell me much but told me her name: Rani. Rani means queen in hindi, what else could she have been named.

Two days ago she told me she had decided not send Bhavna back but to keep her with her as she wanted her to get an educations. She asked me to help her do so. While we were talking a few of the regular beggars gathered around supporting her decision to ‘adopt’ Bhavna and offering to help in every way they could.

I could barely hold my tears. Of course we would help this child. But what moved me was how the very people we reject and sneer at, the ones that live on her so called ‘charity’  had a heart far larger than those who live behind gates or in impregnable mansions.

It was the biggest lesson in compassion I have received. Bless Rani to have allowed me to tiptoe into their world. I am humbled.

PS: this is not the best picture of my friend Rani. Will get a better one some day!

Utpal won two medals in a skating event held by a  local skating club. It was a national (!) event as there were participants from other states. Utpal life on skates is a long saga. In the summer of 2011, when he was very disturbed and almost unmanageable, Radhey his all time pal and my auto rickshaw driver suggested he take skating lessons that were held every evening at a nearby park. After much cajoling and coaxing he agreed. The rest is history. he took to skates like a fish to water and graduated to professional skates in no time. Somehow he felt empowered while skating. At that time his school had skating as an extra curricular activity and Utpal spent all the time he could on his skates. Sadly, for reasons I am unaware of, skating stopped in his school. It was heartbreaking when he brought his precious skates back on a short break. I then decided to make sure he continues skating when home on long breaks.

This summer, it was his pal Radhey who discovered a skating club in the area and Utpal joined it and began skating again. He was soon into figure skating and complex manoeuvres and one fine morning I was told about the competition and the need for dishing out 200 rs to register. I did.  A few days before the event, Utpal got the jitters and started making excuses for not wanting to participate. He did not want not to win! It was time to talk about winning and losing and the importance of participating regardless. It worked and Utpal participated in the event and won two medals. We were all thrilled and so was he as he proudly strutted around the house showing his medals to every one!

It has been a difficult year for me on the home front and moments of joy have been far and few. The two medals were much needed balm to a hurting soul. But more than that, they were the gentle reminders I needed to find the strength and the courage to carry on as I must admit there have been times during the last 12 months when I have been on the brink of looking at winding up pwhy, as I have been unable to give it the time it deserves. My team has been ace and has kept the project alive and kicking but the Damocles sword of funds still hangs and the sustainability plan is still just that a plan!

Sometimes one wonders how things should end. (apologies but thoughts of the Dark Angel have been up most on my mind). Life is replete with endings and new beginnings. The wise know that. Many early civilisations and even our own gave the choice of deciding when to proceed to the forests or the mountains. I have always wished for an exit with dignity for those I love. I realise that I want the same for project why. But the two little medals were a gentle reminder that there was still more to be done before the last hurrah

We have come a long way Popples and I. When I first saw him, I could have never imagines that the little bonny chap being bathed every morning in front of what used to be my office would one day become an integral part of my life. He had to suffer excruciating physical pain and tormenting mental hurt before he did become part of us but the way is still long and before my last hurrah, his life has to be secured. If I am to be worthy of being Maam’ji, then there is a long way to go. But what is important is to start planning for all eventualities now. Yes I am a proud Maam’ji with all it entails.

As always Nani was on ride duty yesterday evening! Rides at the Kalka Temple which are my grandson’s preferred ones. And the all time is the ‘jump jump’ which is a big inflatable copy of a  Disney character. It is also Utpal’s all time comfort    place as it has been a constant in his tumultuous life since he was a baby. So it is a place I cannot escape as both my boys love it. The strange thing is that it grows on you once you get past the initial shock as it is a place that aggresses all your senses    with a indescribable violence, leaving you gasping for breath. If you are brave enough survive the initial shock and set your apprehensions aside, you are in for an unforgettable experience. The place is magic and grows on you as the squalor you first see surreptitiously gets replaced by the intensity and fervour of the faith of everyone around.

A visit to the Temple can be a family outing. Women dressed in glittering attire, bedecked with jewels, children in their Sunday clothes coming to pay hommage to the Goddess who is not easy to access. Sometimes the wait in the queue can be for hours at end, but no one minds. Strewn along the way are shops selling ritual offerings, but also drink and food and of course toys! After paying obeisance to the Goddess it is time to relax and enjoy: a stop at one of the many eateries offering a varied fare, shopping for religious ware of all kind, from idols to incense; succumbing to the constant tug at your clothes and whining demand and purchasing a toy or stopping at the rides, the options are varied and numerous. Certain days are busier than others.

Amidst all, the visitors are the ‘residents’ of the Temple. I do not mean the priests but those that have made the temple their home. The ones that society has marginalised and forgotten. There are the very old and  the disabled but also younger men and women as well as children. The temple premisses gives them not only shelter but allows them to live with the dignity they lots for no fault of theirs. They live their life on terms they may not have chosen but have adapted with grace. In the early mornings when I go to the temple to complete my chalisa (40 days), I have never been asked for money but for a cup of tea, a fruit, a meal, clothes..!

Yesterday, when I was ‘on duty’ at the rides two little girls approached me. They must have been 9 or 10. It is always difficult to guess the right age of One was wearing a worn out municipal school dress. I do not know if she does go to any school. I do not think so. The other girl was wearing a washed out dress of indeterminable colour. Both were bare feet and seemed to belong to the ‘resident’ community and must have left their posts and gone for a stroll. They stood besides me for a long time. Then one of them mustered up the courage to ask the question they had been dying to: buy us a ride! Those three little words brought to fore in an instant the terrible reality we are all guilty of: letting down the children of India born on the wrong side of the invisible fence, in spite of all the highfalutin  schemes and laws that are so eagerly shoved down our throats by wily politicians. We pay the cesses and levies that are dumped on us in the name of education, health, and what not, never wondering why any child should be begging on the streets, or working in a home or in a tea shop!

All children are children and have the same desires and dreams. Be they rich or poor. Buy us a ride is a poignant proof of this sad reality.

I did buy them a ride, or rather many rides! I hope that for those few moments they forgot all their woes and laughed their hearts out the way only children can!

Everybody Loves a Good Drought is a disturbing and thought provoking book written way back in 1996 by P. Sainath. One could substitute drought with flood or any other cataclysmic event. Just like the telling book about hunger, Ash in the Belly, that makes you ashamed of your very existence, Everybody Loves a Drought throws light on the idiocy of what has been termed as development. In a review of the book a reviewer writes Sainath has captured an entire landscape of people for whom everyone from global agencies downwards to the mohalla politician and bureaucrat has a concern. Often this concern either gets diverted to the pockets of the local strongmen or lands up for the wrong cause. Things have not changed

17 years later the floods that have devastated Uttarkhand must be ‘welcomed’ by many as they will once again be able to feed on disaster like vultures. It is noteworthy that the CEO of the State rushed to the capital to secure as much funds as possible. One would have thought that he would have remained on his turf overseeing rescue operations. The tragedy was waiting to strike. For years the fragile eco system of the region has been violated in as many ways as possible. The efforts of environmentalist to get the zone declared has eco fragile was shot down by politicians. Not heeding warnings and driven by greed, the policy makers and their acolytes went on a development frenzy that blocked the natural flow of the rivers. This is something that seems to be the rule rather than the exception as we have seen in Delhi where the flood plain is brimming with construction. Another view is that the cloudburst was a natural calamity. The author writes : Humans haven’t yet perfected the art of bringing rain, forget about a cloudburst! What he suggests are concrete measures that would ensure proper emergency measures should and when a natural disaster happens. Natural disasters will happen no matter what.

Believe it or not we have a  national disaster management agency headed by our PM and replete with ‘specialists’, experts and bureaucrats and a swanky website! A interesting and revealing post on FB gives a bird’s eye view (pun intended) of the true functioning of the NDMA with a rather grand office in SDA providing sinecures to retired generals, bureaucrats and politicians. One has not heard from them at least not as one should have! However as it is pointed out in the post the members have been on junkets across the globe to ‘study’ disaster management! Yet when ‘they’ are needed one does not hear a squeak from them. As always it the Armed Forces that come to the rescue. The local administration simply crumbles.

Everyone loves a good flood and the writing is on the wall, some of it quite shameful and which shows how defunct we as a nation are of values such as compassion, empathy, kindness, humanity and all the synonyms one can think of. I was horrified and ashamed to hear of the looting pilgrims had to suffer. How can anyone take advantage of suffering and loot unabashedly and with impunity! Women have even been molested and dead bodies looted. But that is the beginning of the loot game. Like in all disasters funds will be diverted and misused as it was after the 2004 tsunami!

And that is not all. As we are in pre elections time, everyone is rearing to get as much political mileage as possible. One senior politician decided to rescue people of his state only! Absolutely unacceptable. Others are seeking as many brownie points as they can accrue. The floods did come at the right time.

Money will pour in. I hope it is not squandered or diverted as some of it is more precious than anything you can imagine like the 20 000 Rs donated by the rag pickers of four states!

Some compassion still exists, albeit in the heart of the poorest. Maybe it is time we learnt from them.

It was hot and humid and I had survived a rough morning. The mood was definitely not the best. Things were not getting better as no one was answering the door bell. Someone finally did. But before I could vent my annoyance my eyes fell on a packet lying in on the table near the entrance door. I picked up and tried to look for the addressee as the rains had done their job of smudging the writing. It was indeed for me and came from way down under from a lovely person who I so loved. She and her darling man had come twice as volunteers and spread love and joy across pwhy an had somehow crept  into my heart in a place that lay empty till then. The more than half a century was well worth the waiting.Each time they came, they had bags full of surprises for the children and I somehow thought that they were sending something for the pwhy kids. But I was in for huge surprise: this time the kid was me.

The last months have not been the best for me personally. The pain of a loved one is by far the worst ache in your heart, and not being able to heal it is agony. Trying to keep a brave and happy face in the wake of all odds is undoubtedly a piece of acting worthy of an Oscar! Anyway I went to the kitchen to get a knife to cut the parcel open and imagine my surprise when I realised that it was for me! Well not quite me, as there were things for others in the family, but I would like to believe it was just for me. The box had a book for me, one I had been longing to read, and one for my golf mad partner. There were other things: a soft toy, a key chain, and trick moustaches as well as two beautiful cards and lots of little stars. One card was from people one had never seen but felt one had always known.

That was the visible elements, but that was in no way what that box contained. Like the Little Prince you had to look with your heart and out came truck loads of love, joy and happiness; countless prayers that could in no way go unheard and the feeling that the miracle I have been seeking would materialise. It was just a matter of time.

I was moved, speechless, transfixed. Then from I do not know where the smile I had lost for so many months reappeared and joy filled my heart.

It is always the unspoken words, the unseen things and the invisible articles that say more than any perceptible ones. Long after the box was emptied of its contents, it is still radiating joy all over the house.

I have another confession to make. From the time people who love me know I am going through a rough phase, another loving soul has been sending me boxes of chocolates that I greedily eat alone, to ashamed to let the world know my peche mignon. Each mouthful is again another burst of joy!

That my two guardian Angels share the same name cannot be mere serendipity.

[Saturday is the day I visit the Shani Temple in Govindpuri. I have been doing so for quite some time now. It is a quick ritual as one lights a lamp and bows one’ head and scoots off. Last Saturday as I was wearing my shoes, an man entered the Temple. He must have been in his late 40s but a life of want and strife made him look much older. He simply told the priest: I am hungry give me something to eat. I was holding a ladoo and simply gave it to him. An array of feelings caught choked me sending me into an almost catatonic state. I who normally do not take any time to dip in my ‘pocket’ and hand out everything I have just stood frozen. It would take me some time to process what I had witnessed and why I had reacted so violently.]

For the past 19 days I have been going to the Kalka Temple every morning at 6. I have to do the same for 40 days. Prior to this, my forays into this teeming temple were for other reasons: take Utpal to the rides that are almost akin to a pilgrimage for him as he has been there since we was a tiny tot. For me it was at best a moment with Popples. I never ventured to the holy side of the Temple as somehow the long queues and crowds were anathema to my version of the spiritual. I always look for peace and calm. The hustling and bustling seem to put me off. And I am a little agoraphobic and claustrophobic! I guess that is the fashionable way of defending your inequities. But never say never! I far too often forget this wise maxim though I have experienced it more times than I would like to believe. Let us get on with the story, if one can call it that.

This tale has many elements that need to be recalled.

When I decided to enter the world of what is again fashionably or cynically called NGOs, I was at a loss. I knew I had to repay a debt for all that I had been given since the minute I saw the light of day, I did not the way. So when you do not know the way, your best bet is to latch on to something visible and disturbing. To me it was the beggar child that tapped at your car window at ever red light. So, quite naively I came up with my nutritive biscuits idea that of course was doomed to fail. And though project why thrived in its new avatar, the issue of beggars and children made to beg never failed to disturb me. And the callous attitude of those in power and with power always enraged me. I also fell for the ‘mafia’ theory too well portrayed in Slumdog Millionaire. The situation seemed hopeless.

Those were early days, when one was naive and credulous. Times when one believed almost blindly in the multitude of programmes and legislation that were passed to benefit the poor and undiscerningly  voted swayed by the pro poor slogans so cleverly crafted. With such legislation India would or should be ‘shining’! It is when I ‘dirtied’ my hands and experienced the reality on the ground that I saw how we  had been had and  fooled by politicians time and again.

Today we are again being seduced by yet another pro poor Bill: the food security bill and  politicians  of all shades and hues want their share of the pie as elections are looming large. The proposed bill will ensure 5kg of food grains per person to 800 million Indians. The model is faulty as it seems to perpetrate the saga of the generous donor and the poor recipient without addressing the large issues of hunger and solving them.  An interesting article points that rather than give them means to build their lives, we give the poor ‘food’. This is the condescending attitude of an inherently ossified system which considers doles and grants a matter of great benefaction and magnanimity, and expects the ill-fated recipients of such a transaction to be eternally grateful and genuflect before the ruling classes and meekly vote them back into Lutyen’s Delhi. I think one does not need to be a rocket scientist to know that the Bill will not eradicate hunger in our country.

The biggest problem is that with the complex and administratively heavy formula of identifying the ‘beneficiaries’, I wonder whether the man I saw in the temple would ever ‘qualify’ for his 5 kilos of grain!

As I said earlier, I too ‘fell’ for the mafia image of beggary. However this is far too simplistic and there are several categories of beggars in India and some are truly quite horrific. But there also extended families who are compelled to leave their villages and come to big cities to beg or those who have been brought by greedy contractors who are not willing to pay proper daily wages and thus get labour from faraway states. When the contracted work is finished, many families stay on and eventually turn to begging. This is probably the story of the families living under the bridge on my way to pwhy. But for the last 3 weeks or so I have seen another side of mendacity up close and personal. My walk from the road where you alight from your vehicle to the shrine is rather long at the Kalka Mandir. At the time I go, the ‘beggars’ I encountered on the few occasions I visited this temple in the past or the many occasions when I accompanied Utpal to his favourite rides, it was normally ‘working hours’ and one saw the beggars in their begging mode: sitting in a line with their array of working tools: a bowl, a pan, a visible injury (real or fake) and the well rehearsed script aimed at getting your attention and pity. Some of the beggars have some stuffed plastic or cloth bags that they guard with their life! It is true that in their working avatar they look quite wretched but and one often walks past them without a look except if it is the  day when you are in alms giving mode and have your coins in hand and drop them in the proffered begging bowl, often without looking at the beggar!

But for the past three weeks I have seen a different side of these souls some of whom have even become ‘friends’ as we greet each other every morning. The before working hours scenario is quite something else. As I walk past, I come across touching and moving scenes. The walkway has a tin shed and some fans placed I presume as a gesture of devotion to make the waiting (sometimes for hours) of the devotees a tad easier. The walkway has an iron barrier and the fans are place just on top of these barriers. This becomes the five* sleeping space for beggars. As I pass by at the same time everyday, some are still fast asleep: a father and a young son with their legs entwined, an old woman in foetal position her sari covering her face to keep away the flies; a mother with her children. But the biggest eye opener for me was to discover the ‘treasures’ contained in the bags that one sees next to many beggars. They contain their entire possessions and are often practically empty when I pass by in the morning. The bags have sheets and blankets, empty plastic bottles for water I presume, a half cake of soap, a used and overused tooth brush, some utensils, an umbrella, some clothes, a plastic sheet, bits of cardboard that are judiciously aligned to make a ‘bed’ at night; some half eaten biscuits packets and toys if there are children, a broken mug, a broom to clean the space they sit in. The contents differ according to the age of the beggar or whether they are alone or a family. The older women seem to have a stick I guess to chase dogs.

The ones who are awake when I walk by are busy with their morning chores, just like any body else. There are no begging scripts being spouted but normal conversations: a mother talking to her child while she bathes him – yes bathing is very important – women gossiping away while their hair is drying, men sipping their cup of tea while chatting. Many of the beggars who now recognise me say a bright Jai Mati di, Jai Mata more as a greeting than soliciting, often accompanied by a huge smile. It is surprising that I have not been once asked for any money! This morning one very old woman was busy eating her ‘breakfast’. It consisted of a tiny quantity of one day old rice and half a fiery red chili! This reminded me of an article on malnutrition and starvation where mothers gave very hot food to their children as this would make them drink a lot of water and hence quell their hunger. Maybe this old woman did not know how long she would have to wait for enough coins to buy a meal. There are days when devotees organise feeding sessions and food is plenty. The Temple also runs some kind of a soup kitchen but I am not sure if it is every day and more than once a day. I presume the innumerable eateries must also give their leftovers if any. The fruit vendor certainly does as I have sometimes seen bruised and over ripe fruits being eaten by the old and the children.

It is a motley crew making you wonder what made them come to this place. There are some very old men and women who one guesses may have been thrown out of their homes, there are some younger women with children one would like to believe are theirs. In some case it is very obvious. There are some disabled people. One sadhu who seems ancient has settled down on the side under a largish bamboo and plastic contraption which hold a bed, an alter, a grouchy old wife. The old sadhu, also grumpy is always busy cleaning the outside of his ‘home’ with water and a wiper! I would so like to hear their stories, but am still hesitant. Maybe I will pluck the courage to do so before my 40 days are over. There is one lady who I think may share her life  story. I call her a lady because she is regal and beautiful in a haunting sort of way.

Somehow I cannot anymore club  these people under the word ‘beggars’. For me they are people, each with their story, each with their dignity, each with their life. They are worthy of our respect, if anything.   My daily tryst with these people has once again outraged and incensed me. Many questions come to mind and once again I wonder if these people will ‘receive’ any of the benefits of the zillions of projects, programmes, bills, laws, ordinances that are promulgated, enacted, passed amidst great fanfare by political parties who all want appear as the Saviour of the Poor. One just has to think of the innumerable slogans invoking the poor as a sound election plank. Over the past decades all parties have  tom tommed about eradicating poverty. If they were a tad sincere then we would have looked different as a country.

I have said this time and again, almost as nauseum in various blogs but to no avail. Yet I repeat it once again hoping this time will be the right one. There is a question we all need to ask ourselves when we see aberrations like children dying of hunger in the thousands, or families begging, or children roaming the streets: who do they belong to. The simple answer is us! Yes each one of us who has allowed things to come to this. Our apathy, our indifference, our refusal to step out of our comfort zones are the real reasons why we have come to this. When will our collective conscience awaken? Never seems the answer!